Try to Remember, It's Only Fiction…

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Try to remember, it’s only fiction…

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ISBN-13: 978-1-4951-0756-6

Email: [email protected] Website: www.dreammaker-series.com

Printed in U.S.A

Dedication–

To my amazing parents, I was lucky at birth and life only got better.

PROLOGUE

It was the final morning of Chance’s spring break. With just over 2-hours before her flight, there wasn’t enough time to venture out, but too much time to sit around or scroll through her cell phone. Instinctively she began her stroll from breakfast on the west veranda through the villa’s long marble corridors to the library, and the perfect place to spend her final few hours in paradise. Entering the library was inspirational. No matter how many times Chance visited its expansive Great Hall, her attention was always drawn to the six large stained-glass windows in its towering ceiling. Then she would always play the same game. Closing her eyes, Chance spun-around, stopped, pointed, opened her eyes then went to the book she was pointing at. With more than 170 million items, she never selected the same book twice. But that day’s selection was different. Rather than a shelf, it brought her to a table with a glass top, a fine display cabinet more suited for a museum than a library. Looking through the glass, Chance saw a book, or perhaps a diary. At first, there appeared to be no way of getting to the manuscript. As Chance moved-in for a closer look, she heard a soft hissing-sound as a vacuum seal allowed air to rush back into the case, then the sounds of tumblers from locks followed by the protective glass cover opening, surprising Chance for a brief moment before she commented, “Thank you, Uncle Carlos.” Chance’s insight and appreciation for her uncle were born out of years of experience. Carlos Bottega is a man of incalculable wealth and power. And though Bottega wasn’t in his library at that moment, Chance knew he was ever present. Reaching into the case, Chance ran her fingers over the exquisitely embossed leather cover with its gold leaf and diamond pavé title-

THE BEGINNING

After another moment of curiosity, Chance lifted the book from its case then made her way to an overstuffed seating area for a proper investigation of that day’s treasure.

Despite its splendor and high degree of security, it was clear that Chance wasn’t the first person to have read the manuscript. Its well-worn spine and slightly stained pages bore witness to decades, if not centuries of enlightenment, making Chance all the more interested to learn its secrets as she started to read.

Spring is that time when Nature celebrates her majesty over all things, including humanity. Regardless of the hoodlums that terrorize cities, politicians that lay waste to countries and religions that enslave entire continents, every Spring the snows melt, the sun shines and the Earth is renewed with the glorious scents of Nature and the chance for a new beginning.

Since time immemorial, this had been the order of things— until twenty extraordinary individuals came together to take control...of EVERYTHING.

“Oh yeah!” Very pleased with her selection, Chance settled-in for a serious read.

Have you ever wondered why you don’t know how it all began?

This was turning out to be much more exciting than she had expected. Looking up, as if speaking to God, Chance said, “Uncle Carlos, is this what I think it is?”

Clearly not expecting an answer, Chance dove into what was certain to be an exciting read.

Because the answer to that question was carefully hidden-away almost 500 years ago, as much by accident as intent. 1530 was the most important year in the history of mankind. It was a time when three seemingly unrelated events; population, exploration and the Catholic Church’s insatiable lust for power and wealth came together to create the Perfect Storm- and the reason for the secret. By 1500, populations throughout Europe were increasing for the first-time after two centuries of decline due to the Black Death, a plague that decimated over 50% of the Eurasian population. The increased population ushered-in a renewal of the great cities of Europe, Asia and Russia along with an unprecedented growth in demand for goods and services. Exploration of the New World began in 1487, which greatly increased commerce and wealth, helping to satisfy the growing consumer demand. Yet despite the significant increases in global population and commerce, revenues to The Church were not keeping pace with The Vatican’s veracious appetite for extravagance and expansion. To further compound the problem, the Holy See’s teachings were under attack. And one man, Martin Luther, was particularly vexing. In response to the Vatican’s financial and theological problems, Pope Clement VII created La Confraternita in 1530. The Pontiff’s secret organization consisted of the 20-most powerful nobles throughout Eurasia.

La Confraternita’s mission was to rid the Catholic Church of its Lutheran blight while increasing its members’ wealth and that of the Catholic Church- substantially. The aging feudal system that had governed humanity for over 600-years had run its course. It was time for change. And 1530 was the fateful year in which one man’s vision created the New World Order that has governed to this day.

By 1530, the demand for goods and services was increasing at a frantic pace. Exploration of the New World provided the abundance to satisfy that demand in return for newfound wealth. And the ambitious leaders of that period’s emerging Nation States were eager to control both. What was lacking and desperately needed was overarching order and balance. This required extraordinary leadership. With superstition and tradition being the 2-most powerful forms of social control at that time, no one was in a better position to take leadership than The Roman Catholic Church. La Confraternita’s secret fraternity of global leaders provided The Church an unprecedented level of order and balance- albeit short lived. Though the Pope’s untimely death in 1534 from a poisoned mushroom ended La Confraternita’s assault on Lutheranism, the Papal plan to increase La Confraternita’s power, control and wealth exceeded the Pope’s greatest expectation. Without the oversight of the Vatican, La Confraternita’s ambitions and reach went unchecked. In 21-short-years, Pope Clement’s vision of a New World Order was established, giving La

Confraternita dominion over everything and everyone through the world- literally. At the same time, other ambitious individuals capitalized on growing consumer demands, providing unprecedented levels of freedom, opportunity and wealth to the common man for the first-time, ever. From 1530 to 1551, La Confraternita went from a curious gathering of strangers to becoming the most powerful consortium to have ever existed by capitalizing on the newly created entrepreneurial spirit of its subjects. It was a win-win.

Pope Clement’s timing could not have been better. Despite his death, it was the Pope’s secret society that created the order and balance that the immerging Nation States so desperately needed, while providing the opportunity for our ancestors to leave the fields and take charge of at least a portion of their own destinies.

* * *

1555 - the first Saturday in May-

The palace grounds were a tapestry of lush green hues from England, highlighted by delicate pink spring blossoms from the Orient. Even the mercilessly hot, dry air had been sweetened with the scent of Himalayan jasmine and freshly cut grass. Nothing had been left to chance.

“We’ll see about that.” After enjoying her own sarcasm, Chance returned to her read.

Were it not for the intense heat, it would have been hard to imagine the royal estate was situated on the edge of one of the largest, most barren deserts on Earth. Inside a large, magnificently embellished tented structure, the delicate amber glow from thousands of candles softly illuminated that evening’s banquet, glistening off the supple skin of hundreds of Venice’s most desirable courtesans in every color and flavor. The stunning vixens had traveled 1,200-miles east to the Mughal king’s desert oasis to enjoy his generosity, satisfy his appetite and hope that they would be the chosen one. Massive ebony banquet tables were as exciting to the eye as the palate. Hundreds of large hammered-gold serving platters and matching urns were brimming with the finest foods, spices, entheogens and wines from every corner of the Earth, while large colorfully woven silk cornucopias overflowed with sweets and other fine delicacies, fresh from the emperor’s private bakeries, scenting the air as the warm, inviting confections were set out and instantly devoured. Exquisite, erotic performances and the luxurious décor complemented Emperor Humayun’s celebratory week of casual diplomacy and extreme debauchery, which proved to be an extraordinary experience by any standard. And though the festivities had gone on for 7- straight days and nights, not a single one of the emperor’s 19-guests or the hundreds in their entourages were willing to leave.

It was the final evening of the event that defined decadence. And with it came an unspoken sadness that their time for play was coming to an end. An awkward hush fell over the celebration as Humayun stood. The 40-dancers who had been vying for the emperor’s attention stopped. And for that brief moment, something, somewhere within the ballet caught Humayun’s attention. But before the emperor could identify the distraction, the dancers fell prone on the floor of the banquet tent, lying still like delicate folds of silk. The emperor looked out across the Faithful in guarded silence from his head table, with clear intent. Humayun was a tall, ruggedly handsome man in his royal scarlet cape and golden sash, the very essence of authority. The stillness that gripped the banquet intensified as the emperor’s head slowly turned, while he surveyed the sea of privilege that stretched out before him. Humayun smiled, causing the emperor’s pearl- white teeth to contrast handsomely with the dark, chiseled features of his powerful face, lighting up the massive space as he took control of his guests. With a swagger more befitting a Casanova than royalty, Humayun swept up one of the dancers into his arm, slicing through the fragile calm with startling gusto. She was a sleek, olive-skinned beauty. Humayun stared into her piercing green eyes for a brief, haunting moment then kissed the young woman deeply, riveting

everyone’s attention in wide-eyed wonder at the lustful exchange. After feasting on her full wet lips, it took all of the emperor’s will to tear his eyes away from the temptress, wearing only a crimson silk sarong. Laying her half naked body on the table in front of him, Humayun raised his gold chalice to the heavens as his deep voice shattered the silence, “A toast! “May our enemies fear us, our subjects revere us, our children respect us and our women admire us. And may we live long and delight in our good fortune.” As the emperor tipped his chalice from high above his head, a stream of deep purple wine spilled downward into the open mouth of the beauty lying on the polished black table in front of him. It was an exhilarating moment, inspiring all in attendance to break out in cheer as they raised their gold, silver and crystal goblets in toast and drank. Setting his chalice aside, the emperor drew his long, magnificent jewel-encrusted sword. This unexpected act of aggression had the desired effect, imposing an instant silence while jolting the emperor’s hundreds of guests to attention. As Humayun held his brilliant silver and gold saber high above the delicate creature lying beneath him, a sense of urgency, if not desperation overwhelmed the Faithful as they feared for the young lady’s life. But rather than trembling before his might, the alluring nymph stared up at Humayun with an insolent

smile, barely noticeable from the corner of her lush lips to anyone but the emperor. Humayun was furious. After a deliberate pause that had the crowd on the verge of silent hysteria, he slammed the back of his saber’s heavy golden handle down with great force, deeply marring the surface of the black table. The fist-clenched handle came to rest right between the lady’s opened legs, softly brushing her treasure while sending a gasp through everyone except his adoring subject. Without so much as a flinch, she slid forward, pressing her delicate wet fold onto Humayun’s knuckles as she purred. “You missed.” The emperor’s expression softened. Then his temper calmed as her pheromone wafted across his face and he commented. “And you’re ready.” The emperor’s warm tone was captivating, her scent intoxicating. Then an intense gaze from her deep green eyes cut through to Humayun’s very soul. He found himself enchanted and unable to look away as she deepened their connection. “I know how we can fix both problems,” she said, provocatively. Moving her lovely, sculpted hips softly up and down, her fold opened, moistening the back of the emperor’s clenched fist, sending an uncontrollable urge through his entire body. Fighting to regain control, Humayun acknowledged the temptress’s amazing skills as well as his interest.

“I have no doubt.” In one fluid motion, the emperor pulled away from her emotional grip, turned to the crowd while running the back of his moistened hand and fingers across his lips to savor her essence, then projected an air of absolute authority that demanded their attention. “We have eaten well and enjoyed the celebration of our reunion. Now it is time for all but The Twenty to leave us.” The inevitable drone of disappointment from the hundreds in attendance had been anticipated by the emperor, as evidenced by his preparations and response. “In return for your kind indulgence, tents have been erected across the water. In them, awaiting your pleasure, are any number of distractions which I trust will excite and satisfy while you forgive this inconvenience.” Though the emperor’s reputation for extravagance was legendary, no one was prepared for what followed. With the wave of his hand, one of the tent’s huge walls of canvas folded back, revealing a beautiful oasis surrounded by seven massive tents, each capable of accommodating a hundred or more people. The tents were colorfully adorned in themes, each labeled with one of the seven vices: Wrath, Greed, Sloth, Pride, Lust, Envy, and Gluttony. Roman candles lit the 7- pathways as jesters and jugglers coaxed the emperor’s guests along. The mere sight of the wondrous spectacle transformed the crowd’s collective disappointment into elation, hastening them in a wave of anticipation

toward the magnificent display of depravity. Except for one. The emperor considered his possession, still lying in front of him like an exquisite delicacy. The warm amber glow of a 1,000-candles caressed the curves of her young full breasts. But it was her firm erect nipples and piercing cat-like emerald eyes that commanded his attention. Touched by the disappointment on her young face, Humayun commanded: “Go. What are you waiting for?” She sat up and turned with her long legs dangling off the edge of the banquet table, so she could face him. “There’s nothing out there…” After spreading her perfectly sculpted legs and pulling the emperor close to her, she slid her hand up his royal robe, taking hold of the prize. “…that could compare to what I have here.” The emperor found himself pleasantly surprised as she began her firm rhythmic strokes while continuing her thought. “What are my options?” she purred. There is a point when even royalty meets its match, and that point was in hand. “Ah, Leila. You are a rare and wonderful creature.” Leila mused at the emperor’s surprise at saying her name that she had planted in this mind. Then she savored the glee and utter distraction in Humayun’s eyes as he desperately tried to overcome the pleasure in order to continue his thought.

“You can either join the others in a marvelous evening of indulgence. Or…” Delightfully lost in the moment, the emperor hesitated as he struggled to focus on their conversation. “Or?” Leila purred back, more to prolong her control than to inquire. The emperor breathed in deeply as Leila brought him to the brink- then suddenly stopped. Humayun required a moment before continuing his explanation. “Or you can stay, listen to an amazing story, then spend the night with me. In the morning you will be killed, to protect the secrets you will have learned from both.” Leila resumed her stroking as she inquired in wide- eyed wonder. “Are they both truly that amazing?” “Yes.” Having brought the emperor back to the edge, Leila paused once again, masterfully. “Killed?” Her tone was soft, almost matter-of-fact. “Killed.” The emperor was abrupt, and for good reason. As Leila considered her options, she began imaging the possibilities. “Can I have the night on my terms?” Humayun was as intrigued as he was frustrated. Uncertain whether the young minx was serious or

merely toying with his mind the same way she had been toying with his body, he tested her. “Your terms.” “Then I’ll stay.” The emperor was shocked at the absolute certainty in her voice, having had expected a much longer conversation. But with her sweet scent and piercing green eyes clouding his judgment and nothing left to say, Humayun waved his hand, casing the giant wall of canvas to close and the royal meeting chamber to be sealed- along with Leila’s fate. Massive guards in full battle armor were stationed an arm’s length apart around the entire outer perimeter of the enormous tent to ensure absolute security. With the 20-most powerful men on Earth reunited, the members of La Confraternita settled into their annual gathering, to take stock of and manage the world that had become theirs- literally.

* * *

For the next 6-hours, Leila witnessed entire continents traded and nations marked for destruction as though they were mere toys in a child’s game. Each mesmerizing discussion was so full of suspense and wonderment that for Leila the hours seemed to melt into moments. Within the evening’s web of political intrigue, power struggles and religious secrets that could have toppled the entire civilized world, Humayun made good on the first half his promise. The secrets she heard were truly that amazing. And within that short

period, Leila learned the true meaning of absolute power and control, expanding the limits of both her mind and her soul. The second half of the emperor’s promise was even more astonishing. Though Leila was an elite courtesan, highly skillful in the art of pleasure, Humayun was incomparable. To her amazement, the emperor was the fulfillment of all her bodily desires as she allowed the tide of his passion, the length and girth of his manhood and the depth of his experience to consume her. The evening had been extraordinary for Leila in ways she could never have imagined, resulting in her complete transformation. And along her short but profound journey, she became captivated by the emperor and he with her. Then there were the 20-opulent golden rings and the unimaginable power they held over all of mankind. The images of those 20-extraordinary, jeweled encrusted rings and the remarkable story of how they came to be were emblazoned in Leila’s soul.

* * *

The next morning Leila awoke to the first light, pleased for a number of reasons, not the least of which was that she was still alive. As she stretched and her eyes adjusted to the brightness, she enjoyed an unexpected view over a private oasis. Lying back in the comfort of the royal bed and Humayun’s embrace, Leila rested her

head against the emperor’s chest, gently toying with him as she asked her first question. “How often do The Twenty meet?” “Once a year. Always on the first Saturday in May.” “Here?” “No. The meetings are at a different member’s location each year.” “Am I invited back in 20-years?” Humayun raised a brow. “Reincarnated? Certainly.” If only he knew. Leila ignored the emperor’s reference to her impending execution, preferring to continue their conversation without that burden for the moment. “I don’t understand. Since you are the most powerful men on Earth, why subject yourselves to each other’s scrutiny?” “It’s complicated.” “So am I.” As Leila lay waiting for her answer, the emperor’s intrigue and respect for her deepened, enough for him to answer her as he would an equal. “The problem is mankind.” “How so?” “They are addicted to the notion of freedom, without the tools to protect themselves from it. Like the moth that flies into the beautiful flame, left to their own devices, humanity would spiral out of control into a helpless cycle of anarchy. Violence and chaos would eventually extinguish most if not all of them, and us in the process. To prevent that, we have created the order

that has staved-off their self-destruction and our demise.” “While profiting handsomely along the way,” Leila quipped. A smile came over Humayun as he began stroking Leila’s long flowing raven hair while he mused at the accuracy of her assessment. A few moments passed before this man of unimaginable importance answered the angel lying in his bed as he recalled his father’s words. “You should always do well while you are doing good.” A smile came over Leila as the emperor’s meaning became clear. “Now I understand.” They were both smiling at that point, extremely content with one another’s company as the emperor leaned in to kiss Leila softly before beginning his inquiry. “Now tell me. Why are you willing to give up your life for a single night?” “Because I would rather have truly lived for a single night than merely existed for a lifetime.” Far beyond her beauty, Leila’s strength of character in that moment made her a true equal in Humayun’s eyes. There was a profound clarity in her reply, one of utter control that the emperor found irresistible, if not intoxicating. Leila not only satisfied his curiosity and physical desires, but she also ended a quest that the emperor had pursued for the past 21-years. Since the day Humayun first took possession of his ring from

Pope Clement VII, he had searched for its successor, for decades to no avail. Having been unable to find a fitting heir within his inner circle, his consort, his 8-wives, his 6-sons and daughters, or even his countless advisors, Humayun had all but given up hope, until that first weekend in May. Content in his decision, the emperor continued to stroke Leila’s hair as he quietly affirmed. “Now I understand.”

* * *

Pope Clement’s fraternity of global titans continued their rule over all of humanity in secrecy and absolute autonomy, with no end in sight or anyone to stand in its way- simply because they were at the right place, at the right time.

And with those final words came Chance’s expletive, “OH - MY - GOD!” “Not quite…” No sooner had Chance closed the manuscript and leaned back to consider what she had read than she felt the familiar hand of authority rest on her shoulder. “…But your plane is waiting.” “It can wait a little longer.” Chance turned slightly to share her smile then patted the cushion alongside her as she invited her Uncle to sit. “Please, I have a couple of questions.” Carlos Bottega was a fit, handsome man in his signature white linen suite and contrasting shirt and leather shoe. He was also a man whose instructions were never questioned. But Chance was his only weaknesses. Walking around to the front of

the sofa, Bottega sat, took both of Chance’s hands in his then said, “Ask away.” “What ever happened to Leila?” “Ask her when you meet her.” The silence and its reason were obvious. So to was the look on Bottega’s face which signaled the end to that question. “Fine- who are the Twenty?” “The most powerful consortium to have even existed.” “Do they still exist?” “Next question.” “Why can you be such a pain in the…” Bottega raised a knowing finger, stopping Chance just short of profanity. Then he reached over, took the manuscript from Chance and set the balance of the morning in motion. “Let’s get you on that plane before your parents start to worry.”

* * *

Now you know when, why and how it all began. This is the story about what you still don’t know, the answers to Chance’s questions and why we should all be worried.

CARBON COPY CHAPTER 1

This year- the first Saturday in May-

500-years after Humayun and Leila shared their fateful night, the wisdom in the emperor’s assessment of humanity’s penchant for self-destruction was more evident than ever, having increased exponentially. Overpopulation, political corruption and religious fervor continued to be a never-ending source of global conflict. In La Confraternita’s collective minds, its 20-members were the only option standing between humanity and the abyss by guiding, controlling and preserving the destiny of mankind. And though there had been challenges along the way, there had never been anything The Group couldn’t control or crush- until now…

* * *

“MIERDA!” It was less than 10-seconds into the Monaco Grand Prix, motorsports’ most important race. The starting pack had tightened down to a blur as the cluster of 20-screaming F1s vied for position. In the midst of the controlled chaos, none of the judges noticed the second place Mercedes intentionally clip the left rear tire of #33, the first place Red Bull, jolting it hard. Though the Red Bull’s wheel assembly held, severe vibration demanded an early pit stop, which could cost that day’s favorite the race. While the illegal clip may have gone unnoticed by the officials, it was clear to the millions riveted to their televisions around the world that Manrique was struggling to keep the crippled car under control. After tearing off the track, the Red Bull flew down pit lane as the silver Mercedes streaked by, its driver; Gunther Schuler, flipping the Red Bull a forcefully extended middle finger. The Red Bull’s brakes locked as it skidded into the pit in a cloud of burning rubber and ceramic. Its 19-man pit crew and 3-managers surrounded the stricken racecar as Manrique jumped out and tore-off her brightly logoed helmet.

21 AVC “Fix it! Fast!” Enraged, Manrique ripped the fire hood off her head, allowing her thick mane of long, dark hair to cascade onto her jumpsuit. Throwing back her hair, she revealed a pair of high cheekbones and luscious full lips. Streaks of grime dripped down her face in beads of sweat, making her olive complexion even more alluring. She was Mitra Manrique, racing’s sexiest attraction. And she was pissed. Pacing back-and-forth in front of her partially disassembled car, Mitra agonized over that last 2-minutes, “That son of a bitch!” ‘And he got away with it!’ “NO!” ‘He’s not getting away with shit!’ Frustrated, and with nothing else within arm’s reach to maul, Manrique hurled her helmet high into the crowd opposite the pit fence. The Red Bull’s team manager was livid as the crowd fought over the $10,000 zylon souvenir. After wiping the sweat from her face and neck, Mitra tucked her hair back into her fire hood, grabbed another helmet then wedged her body back into her F1. The moment her pit crew manager signaled the damage was repaired, she shot out of her pit with a vengeance. “My turn!” Mitra rocketed back into the game, passing the backmarker like it was standing still, on her way to settling the score.

* * *

Geneva

Earlier that same morning, after a restless night and a few bites of breakfast, David Stone III completed his morning ritual by placing his custom Patek onto his left wrist and a matching ring on his right hand. Stone was in his mid-forties, very handsome and perfectly groomed. His chiseled features were highlighted by a healthy tan, thick sandy blond hair and haunting blue eyes reminiscent of Hollywood’s leading men.

22 CARBON COPY As he stood there in a crisp blue pinstripe shirt with a bright white collar and cuffs, handmade shoes and grand hotel suite, everything about Stone spoke of a man accustomed to the very best. Even so, that morning his eyes were heavy with concern. Stone was deep in thought, oblivious to the grandeur of his life or his surroundings. Instead, he stared out a wall of glass from his penthouse suite atop the Wilson Hotel, gazing across the cold blue water of Lake Geneva. Even the images of Monaco on the large flat screen across the room, its preparations for that year’s Grand Prix, previews of the world’s newest and most expensive superyachts arriving in her harbor, and the very best people watching imaginable as the world waited impatiently for the start of that day’s spectacular event were of no consequence to Stone, because he was preoccupied with much more important matters. As was the case every first Saturday in May, Stone was about to spend time, his most valued possession, in a windowless chamber, far below the Earth’s surface, with a group of extraordinarily difficult individuals. Like Stone, they were Captains of Industry and world leaders of great importance, accustomed to having things exactly their way, causing the annual ritual to rarely be enjoyable. But this year’s gathering promised to be particularly challenging because Stone was planning on disappointing some of them at great personal risk to himself. “Good morning, Sir.” It was Carson, Stone’s butler. Carson was a proper English gentleman. He was also a study in eccentricity. Having attended Stone since birth, afforded Carson a great deal of latitude in the manner in which he executed his duties, often seeming more like a prefect than staff. Then there was Carson’s penchant for theatrical attire as evidenced by the frilly white tuxedo shirt, plaid vest with matching bowtie and pointy black patent leather shoes that he wore that day. Always amusingly bizarre, Carson’s attire was a constant source of entertainment, if not wonderment for Stone. Stone turned from the window, and in that split second his face transformed from apprehension into a mask of absolute confidence, completely void of its earlier concerns. It was Stone’s game face, and it fit him like a Savile Row suit. Even Carson was convinced.

23 AVC “You look refreshed, Sir.” “And you look like you’re about to audition for the lead in The Bird Cage.” “Do tell.” Carson cleared his throat as a sign of indifference before completing his thought. “Your car is waiting.” Ah, yes, one of his cars. Now that was something Stone knew he would enjoy. He had requested one of his custom Bugatti, top down. Tearing through the Swiss countryside was one of Stone’s favorite distractions. Not even a day with Gaston Zulle could spoil that. “Thank you, Carson. And please straighten things up while I am gone.” That was Stone’s way of instructing Carson to conclude the financial arrangements then dismiss the attractive young lady who was still asleep in Stone’s bed from the night before. No sooner had Carson left the room to complete his appointed task than a smile came over Stone as he thought about his anonymous companion’s performance last evening and called out. “Be generous.” Turning to a painting hanging in the study, a minor Matisse but lovely, Stone pulled it away from the wall to reveal a small black safe. He held his palm just in front of its sensor, causing the safe to open with the reassuring sounds of precision Swiss engineering. Inside sat a black leather box. Stone considered the box for a moment before removing then opening it. There, sparkling in the bright morning sun, was an extremely large, magnificent golden ring. The ring seemed very ancient, like something one might see in a grand museum. Adorned with complex lattice of golden thread, it was so heavy and encrusted with diamonds and sapphires that it was hard to imagine it was ever intended for a human finger. It was surely not a ring that would be worn in this century other than by a Pope. A triumphant eagle spanned the ring’s face with its wings outstretched and a diamond glimmering from its left eye. Stone studied the coveted gift that was originally given to Emperor Humayun by Pope Clement VII, 500-years ago. The ring had survived centuries of wars, coups, the ravages of time and even The Group’s most recent culling, so far at least. It had been almost 18-years since the ring was

24 CARBON COPY entrusted to Stone by his father. Now, in the privacy of that moment, Stone slowly turned the large golden artifact to enjoy every angle. After a brief but intense reflection, Stone brought the jeweled treasure closer as he whispered to it, as if to an old friend. “So, are we ready for today?” With one finger, he gently pressed the eagle’s head. The top of the ring clicked then spun open, revealing a small compartment filled with dull gray powder, like finely ground bone. Stone smiled, a little wistfully. “Of course, we are. We’re always ready.” Stone closed the ring, placing it in the inner zippered-pocket of his exquisitely tailored cashmere jacket. Then he started on his way to one of the very few obligations he had in life.

* * *

South America

The incomparable 100-square mile private estate stretched along a magnificent expanse of pristine, sandy white shoreline on the west coast of South America. Despite it being a particularly beautiful day in paradise, Carlos Bottega was sitting comfortably in the dark theater of his 150-room villa watching the race at Monaco. Though the driver he sponsored had a shaky start, which concerned the racing world, it was of no consequence to Bottega whatsoever. It was still early in the race as Bottega watched his driver shoot past car-after-car, finally overtaking the fourth place Lotus. “Good girl.” While drafting behind the third place Ferrari, Mitra’s Red Bull flashed into the rear-view mirror of the first place Mercedes, causing Schuler to up his speed and the pace of the race.

* * *

25 AVC With a Gurkha Black Dragon cigar in one hand and a glass of Henri IV Dudognon Heritage cognac in the other, Bottega looked forward to the next few minutes as he mused confidently to himself. “Now, take them both out.” Bottega had invested a great deal to see his car fly across the finish line ahead of the two bright red Ferraris, and he had no intention of being disappointed. For Bottega it wasn’t about winning a car race. Bottega’s obsession ran much deeper than that. He wanted to beat Team Ferrari, or- more precisely, beat Enzo Ferrari. Of course, winning always made Bottega’s revenge that much sweeter. “I only wish you were still alive to see this, you pompous...” Bottega stopped short of profanity as he reflected on the past. After enjoying another deep drag off his cigar and long sip of cognac, he corrected himself. “Actually, dead is better.”

* * *

As a young man, Bottega and his best friend had traveled to Italy in hopes of working for Ferrari. They had gambled their entire life savings on one- way tickets from Santiago to Modena. When the two strapping 20-year-old dreamers arrived at the Scuderia Ferrari-Alfa Romeo plant, they were told Enzo Ferrari was a busy and important man, far too busy and important to meet with the likes of Bottega and his friend. Almost out of money and pride, the two young Latinos hitched a ride to Venice. It was the last days of Carnival and they reasoned that if they were going to run out of the little money they had left, they were going to enjoy it. Two things came out of Bottega’s first visit to Italy, a lasting disdain for Enzo Ferrari and the most incredible good fortune imaginable. Decades later, there was still the hint of that youthful dreamer beneath Bottega’s distinguished façade. Today, Bottega is a man of incalculable wealth and power as a result of his Italian adventure. And though he was now able to buy Ferrari’s entire global operation and close

26 CARBON COPY it down without so much as blemishing his net worth, he never chose that option. Instead, Bottega’s greatest satisfaction had always came from beating Enzo Ferrari whenever possible, since Bottega knew how deeply it pained Ferrari to lose a race. To that end, Bottega poured tens-of-millions of dollars into Formula 1 racing every year to sponsor the cars that stood the best chance of beating his Italian nemesis, even in death. And winning at Monaco was each year’s crowning glory.

* * * Chicago

Chance Catel was a very special young lady, by any measure. Not since Cleopatra had the stars, or Gods, aligned to create such a gifted life. Breathtakingly beautiful, Chance was born into two powerful, world-class families with a sense of self that caused even the media to take note at a very early age. Now, at 22, she was in the Master’s program of her college career. Having graduated at the top of her undergraduate class, today was to be one of the most important days of her life. Though even Chance had no idea just how important. It was about 8:00 in the morning when Chance walked-out onto the balcony of her penthouse apartment, 58-stories atop Shoreline Drive. She was deep in thought as she sipped her morning latte and stared blindly at the magnificent view over Lake Michigan. It was a perfect spring morning, and desperately needed. Having lived through another brutal winter, even by Chicago standards, made that first warm day of spring all the more exciting for her. But everything, even Nature paled in comparison to the challenge that lay ahead, the oral portion of her Master’s study. Chance was eager to prove herself, to accomplish the first significant goal in her life without her family’s help or influence. Quite the contrary, considering how opposed her family was to her even attending college. Confident in both her abilities and preparations, Chance grabbed her custom Birkin bag and headed for the front door. Greeting her on one of

27 AVC the marble side tables in the foyer of her private elevator lobby was her

morning newspaper. It was the first time Chance had seen the headline, but it wasn’t news to her. For the past 6-months, her grandfather’s trial had the press coverage of a presidential assassination. Public attention was nothing new to Chance. She had been living that circus her entire life. And while she deeply appreciated the extraordinary life she had been born into, there was also no escaping being a Catel. Had it been anyone else’s grandfather, the news of acquittal would have been a wonderful surprise, but not for Chance. It wasn’t that she didn’t love her grandfather. She loved him unconditionally. But she knew the outcome of the trial before it ever started. And then there were the years of whispered secrets and innuendos that had taken their toll. After 22-years of exaggerated misinformation, Chance had grown weary of the charade and numb to its effects. That morning’s newspaper headlines being just another example. Most viewed Arturo Catel as the ruthless, iron-fisted capo of the a ruthless Colombian drug cartel, the most brutal syndicate in the world, eclipsing even the Chinese and Russian mafias’ former underworld strangleholds- which Catel ripped away from them. Catel’s alleged criminal enterprises spanned the globe, profiting heavily from everything from technology to human trafficking. With the press linking him to thousands

28 CARBON COPY of killings and countless families destroyed by his organization’s alleged production of every form of street narcotics, Arturo Catel was purportedly to be the most notorious crime lord on Earth. Then there were those who believed Arturo Catel was a successful businessman and a kind, loving grandfather who took great care to ensure a good life for his family and their safety. Chance preferred the latter version of her grandfather though Catel’s public persona wasn’t lost on Chance. So, she was careful to never concern herself with just how deep reality ran. To further soften the perception, Chance’s grandfather and mother did everything they could to shield her and her brother from the truth. A truth that went much deeper than Chance’s self-imposed delusions. While the mid-level ranks of the FBI and Interpol were hell-bent on bringing her grandfather to justice, they were oblivious to the fact that those at the helm of their flawed governmental system had grown wealthy protecting Catel, insuring his demise would only come at the hand of God. But this was Chance’s day. She was focused and not about to let anything ruin it for her, certainly not a newspaper. Chance had pushed hard to go to college. Initially it was more an attempt to be normal than an academic pursuit. But normal had always been an uphill battle for Chance. Physically- she was a sleek, chestnut-haired, world-class beauty with a cocoa complexion and caramel eyes that sent chills through admirers- not even close to normal. Personally- her 147 IQ and pension for ultra-high-end fashion and extreme adventure were more eccentric than normal. Publicly- one of her the granddaughters was the most notorious figure in the underworld, the other media’s wealthiest most influential tycoon. Again, anything but normal. Yet, despite it all, Chance’s biggest hurdle in her quest for normalcy was her grandfather’s low opinion of higher education. Catel was adamantly against the idea, and especially a public-school hundreds of miles away from the security of their Star Island sanctuary. Catel controlled colleges, governments and anything else he set his mind to. And; as such, he felt college was an utter waste of time. And time was the most precious commodity in Catel’s life.

29 AVC Since the loss of Catel’s only son, Remy, Chance’s father, Catel had been more than overly protective of his two grandchildren. Still, even someone as powerful as Catel had difficulty saying no to Chance. And when her mother Alyse gave her support to Chance’s college ambitions, Catel finally buckled. It was hard at first, leaving her family behind, especially her twin brother Ricky, whom she had spent her entire life looking after. But Chance saw college as a rite of passage, her opportunity to be more like other teenagers and time to discover what she really wanted out of life and who she really was. After college, graduate school seemed the logical next step. For Chance, it was a way out of the sheltered darkness of her private world. Her portal into the hallowed and enlightened halls of academia. And today marked the end of that very long and successful journey.

30 CARBON COPY CHAPTER 2

Geneva

There is something about the smell of hand-tooled leather, the feel of 1500- horsepower at the tip of the right foot, and a custom wood-grain steering wheel in hand, all wrapped in a $6-million+ dollar carbon-fiber shell that gets a man’s blood flowing, even a global titan like Stone. After decades of acquiring four or more of each year’s most coveted cars, plus the occasional impulse-buy, Stone had amassed a formidable collection. And though he seldom had time to enjoy his stable of fine motorcars, today was one of those rare opportunities. The highly custom black/silver Bugatti convertible had been delivered from his Hamptons estate, expertly tuned for Stone’s arrival, and he was eager to put it through its paces. Once Stone entered the Swiss countryside above Nyon, he let the Bugatti soar to over 250 kmh. He felt exhilarated as he enjoyed the crisp bize in his hair, the sun on his face, and his custom carbon fiber toy responding like a rocket. For a few brief moments, the possibility of dying caused the excitement of living to rush back into Stone. But his euphoria was short lived. No sooner had he settled into his reckless high-speed cruise than the Bugatti’s NAV forced his rapid deceleration. “Prepare to turn right in one kilometer.” While reducing his speed, Stone noticed something in the distance, something distracting. It was a jogger. Stone could see her auburn ponytail bouncing as she ran. And there was no mistaking her figure. A smile came over Stone as he fantasized her having a perfect face, causing him to momentarily lose track of his driving, as his NAV attested. “Please make a U-turn.” As Stone passed the jogger during his braking, he was taken aback. He certainly wasn’t expecting her face to live up to her body, which made those precious few moments as he flew by her all the more exciting. Stone rarely

31 AVC enjoyed being wrong, which made it all that much more special. She was magnificent. Though the entrance to Gaston Zulle’s 3000-hectare estate was the only turnoff along that entire stretch of country roadway, Stone always managed to sail by. At least this time it was for a good reason. After making a quick U-turn, Stone passed the jogger for a second time on his way back to Zulle’s turn-off. This time he was struck by her outfit, which appeared to be two very small patches of royal blue painted onto her perfectly toned body. In that moment, testosterone reduced Stone from a world leader to just another guy with only one thing on his mind. Stone turned into a driveway that led-up to the massive front gates to Zulle’s estate, just ahead of the jogger. With the Bugatti blocking her path, the jogger stopped, placing both her hands on the passenger side door, dropped her head down between her arms then leaned forward. As she rested a moment to catch her breath, Stone began the introductions. “We have to keep meeting like this.” The young lady looked up with piercing green eyes that sent a chill through Stone’s entire body. Instinctively, Stone ran his fingers through his full mane, as much to regain his composure as to move his sun-bleached, windblown hair off his brow. It was a common reaction, one that most men would have done without notice. But when Stone did it, it was sexy. An unmistakable look washed over her face that let Stone know she was enjoying him. “I was thinking of someplace with a little less clothing and a lot more Champagne.” “What a pleasant thought,” he bantered. All the cool in the world couldn’t kept Stone from staring at what her two small pieces of Spandex were barely covering as a thought flashed through his mind. ‘A gorgeous face, killer body and sharp wit.’ He was hooked, but at the wrong place and the wrong time. As frustrated as Stone was at that moment, there was nothing he could do about it. And she felt his frustration. “Which means you aren’t available for either.”

32 CARBON COPY Her expression went blank. Like Stone, she was clearly someone accustomed to getting her way. Stone’s involuntary sigh annoyed the jogger as she stood upright with the poise and grace of a goddess. After a moment to reflect, she took a step back and waved him on as if to say, ‘Your loss.’ Which, of course, it was. With nothing left to him, Stone motioned to the guards attending the massive gilded bronze gates. As they opened, Stone smiled softly one last time to the jogger before pressing lightly on the gas pedal. As the Bugatti purred through the gates toward the curving drive, Stone glanced in his rearview mirror, only to see her beautiful form jogging away toward Geneva. Stone shook his head ruefully. “The things I do for world domination.”

* * *

Zulle’s driveway meandered through 6-kilometers of flat, widely sweeping curves over the bucolic parkland portion of his 3,000-hector wooded lakefront estate, making it an absolutely gorgeous speedway. It was one of the things Stone appreciated most about Zulle’s estate. And that day was no exception as Stone let the Bugatti eat it all up, while blowing- off some of his frustration at having missed his opportunity to get to know the jogger. As he drifted through the final corner, breaking his previous best time of 2-minutes 43-seconds, Zulle’s compound swung into view before him. It was a magnificent estate, as was its castle. Framed by stands of blooming chestnut trees and alongside a lake so blue and still that it reflected the few clouds in the morning sky, the massive stone structure was an imposing, stunning tribute to gothic architecture. Scattered around the grounds was an impressive collection of jet-black armored Rolls-Royces, Maybachs and similar marques, a sleek Sikorsky, two Bell executive helicopters and a Harrier jump jet that had brought the other members to the meeting. Stone pulled his car to a stop among the menagerie of bespoke transports then switched off the ignition. As soon as the Bugatti’s highly- tuned growl went silent, Stone became aware of the peaceful allure of the countryside, a few songbirds, and the gentle breeze from the lake. He

33 AVC wished he could sit there for a very, very long time. Unfortunately, he knew the tranquility was merely the calm before the storm, a storm he wasn’t looking forward to, and he was already late. After those brief few moments of solitude, Stone was drawn back to the reality of where and why he was there. Seeing one of Zulle’s extremely attractive staffers waiting patiently about thirty feet away, Stone shifted into game mode, musing to himself, ‘Zulle is starting his sucking-up a bit early.’ While everyone in The Group that Stone was about to spend his day with had a great deal in common, they also had their own distinct personalities, each with their own proclivities. Stone’s being anything that went extremely fast, especially beautiful women. And his comrades knew it, as did he know each of their Achilles heels. Though having a gorgeous woman posted to greet Stone was calculated to the point of insulting, he wasn’t going to let that interfere with his enjoyment as he gave her a slight nod to set her in motion. “Good morning, Mr. Stone. Welcome to Fästning.” The name of Zulle’s estate sent a slight chill through Stone, dampening her appeal, but only slightly. Stone returned the greeting with a polite smile, serving as both a courtesy and permission for her to approach. She opened Stone’s door then hesitated, it was strategic. Between her shapely, parted legs, extremely short skirt and the low-slung profile of the Bugatti, Stone’s first impressions of that day had been choreographed to be so much more than a simple greeting. “I trust you had a pleasant journey?” “Not nearly as pleasant as my arrival.” An unexpected blush came over Zulle’s vixen as she turned to escort Stone. As they approached the castle, its two massive bronze entry doors seemed to open on their own, leaving a second stunning escort framed in the large opening like a runway model awaiting her entrance. After Stone was handed-off, it was more of the same. This second exceptionally attractive escort walking just ahead of Stone, her perfectly undulating form- fitted mini-dress providing a wonderful distraction as she ushered him through a vast ballroom, a banquet hall with seating for fifty, then a living

34 CARBON COPY room framed at each end by matte-black Bosendorfer concert grand pianos. Stone always found this impeccably appointed area of the castle amusing since Zulle didn’t play the piano or even appreciate music for that matter. Finally, Stone and his lovely escort entered a temperature-controlled wine cellar the size of a public library. The cellar was filled with rack-upon- rack of perfectly dust-free bottles. It was an exquisite collection. This was something Zulle did appreciate, and not in moderation. Stone knew Zulle would have chosen a special bottle for that day’s opening ceremony. Under normal circumstances it would have been Zulle’s favorite, a full-bodied Bordeaux. However, whenever Zulle needed Stone’s vote, it would be a chilled Condrieu. The selection of the wine, of course, was always the host’s prerogative. As Stone and his lovely escort approached the back of the cellar, facial recognition caused a section of millwork to swing aside. Hidden behind a rack of ports was an open elevator door awaiting Stone’s arrival. “Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Stone?” Her voice was intentionally seductive, which gave Stone pause. Still reeling from his lost opportunity with the jogger and the wonderfully obvious effect the chilled cellar was having on his escort’s form-fitted braless dress, a second almost undetectable sigh accompanied his response. “Nothing that you wouldn’t get in trouble for.” “My loss. Enjoy your day, Mr. Stone.” Stone savored the thought of what could have been while their eyes held onto each other for those precious final moments as the elevator door closed, the hidden panel swung shut, and Stone mused. “If only.” Stone knew it was going to be a difficult day. Even so, inside the elevator he felt oddly at peace, if not at home. And in a way, he was, since each of the attending members had an exact replica of the elevator and meeting complex under their primary residence. Each year since 1530, as their ancient bylaws required, a different member hosted The Group’s annual meeting. In the past, the changing venues provided a strategic advantage. Having a number of different

35 AVC possible locations made it less likely for an outsider to know where their meeting would be held, enhancing The Group’s security. Now, with technology assuring their security, the rotating venue merely provided a change of scenery. With its occupant contained, the elevator’s facial/voice-recognition system began its authentication process through a pleasant but firm male voice. “Greetings.” Stone answered, matching the tone of the automated inquiry. “Stone, David. The first week in May.” The recognition system was quick to acknowledge him. “Thank you.” Then Stone placed his palm close to a small crystal cube mounted in the wall of the elevator cab to biometrically authenticate himself through the blood flow and vein pattern in his palm. “Welcome, Mr. Stone.” Having verified Stone’s face, voice, blood flow, and intent, the elevator was transformed from a lethal gas chamber to a safe haven, rapidly descending 300 feet deep into the earth. Stone felt the pressure in his ears adjust as he sped downward, 30- stories into one of the most advanced protective lairs of its kind. It was a vast, magnificently fortified 60-room complex, far beyond the reach of any existing armament, a place where eavesdropping and forced entry were out of the question. But should the unthinkable occur and some unwelcomed- force disrupt The Group’s security, 3-vertical escape trams, jettisoning through collapsing tunnels, would whisk the members to 3-separate safe houses many, many miles away from the lair and each other. This ensured the survival of all or, worse case, a core group to carry on. Identical in every respect, the only distinction in the members’ protected lairs were their names and decor, Zulle’s being Fästning and gothic. The elevator eased to a stop. Then its door slid open. After taking a deep breath, Stone stepped out into a magnificent soaring hall. It was a vast circular space surrounding a windowless chamber in the middle. On the curved outer walls of the hall were 500 beautifully lit alcoves. Many were

36 CARBON COPY filled with portraits of regal-looking men and women while hundreds remained empty, as if awaiting their day. The exquisite space struck the perfect balance between form and function, and its appointments made it clear that the lair had been built without regard to budget. As Stone started toward the meeting chamber, he heard a familiar voice off to the side. “Hello, old friend!” It was Len Dubois, The Group’s French member and Stone’s closest confidante. Dubois was an interesting man on many levels. His thick full mane of curly salt-and-pepper hair, rugged sunbaked complexion and elegant persona made him easy on the eyes. As The Group’s senior statesman, Dubois had been its voice of reason for as long as Stone could remember. Then there was Dubois’ morality, a textbook study in depravity, which many of the members tried to emulate, but none with Dubois’s finesse. A broad smile came naturally to Stone as he turned to shake Dubois’ hand. “Who are you calling old, old man?” Stone pulled Dubois into an embrace then whispered as he completed his thought. “Oh- and thank you.” Dubois tried to appear confused. “For what?” “Please! Even I’m not that lucky.” Dubois was unable to hold back his grin. “Okay, you found me out. But you have to admit, she is extraordinary.” “The most beautiful you’ve ever sent me. But really, what did you expect me to do with her? Roadside? 5-minutes before the meeting?” Dubois’ smile let Stone know there was something he had missed. “What?” Dubois tipped his head in a way that also let Stone know the conversation was over, at least for now. Then Dubois took Stone’s arm and led him toward the meeting chamber as he began his counsel. “For the moment, we have more important matters to attend to.”

37 AVC As was the custom, the chamber’s massive security doors were opened an hour prior to the start of each May gathering. The 10-ton steel and concrete doors created a passageway in the 3-foot thick steel reinforced concrete walls that was large enough to drive an 18-wheeler semi through. Yet their finely carved mahogany cladding and precise German-engineering transformed the 2-enormous leafs into an inviting portico, if not works of art. Through the opening, Stone and Dubois could hear the muffled voices of the membership in the distance. It was a rich mix of world accents that represented the most successful collaboration in the history of mankind. Together, they brought order and balance to the world that they believed to be theirs. Since 1534, The Group’s primary focus had been financial gain. To that end, each member’s lineage had their own passion and focus. The Group’s British lineage had an appetite for land. And after 450- years of acquisitions, it established its current member as the world’s largest and healthiest landowner. With vast holdings on every continent and island chain throughout the world, her dynasty prompted the phrase "The Empire on which the Sun never sets." Then, through various forms of taxation, she extracts tens-of-billions-of-pounds a year from lessor properties, retaining ultimate ownership while allowing the masses to think they have a stake in her real-estate game, though they never really own anything. Enamored with the novelty of the horseless carriage, The Group’s Austrian lineage began funding Emil Jellinek in 1900, then continued their patronage throughout Jellinek’s 30-year involvement with the Daimler- Benz company. Since that time, the lineage has funded and controls most of the successful marquees in today’s $2-trillion automotive industry. The French and Italian members share the cosmetic and fashion industries which their predecessors established centuries ago. While the Chinese and Portuguese members continue their 400-year old collaboration in their lucrative global logistics empires. Then there was Stone and Dubois, a most interesting friendship if ever there was one. Dubois viewed himself as a hopeless romantic, while most of The Group considered Dubois’ hedonism boarder-line perversion. Stone was also a womanizer, though not nearly to the extend of Dubois. And while

38 CARBON COPY Dubois appeared to have no other interests beyond those of his flesh, Stone was haunted by the events of World War II’s Holocaust and determined to hold-off the other member of The Group from repeating a similar horrific tragedy, and especially not on U.S. soil. Stone’s lineage began in Sparta’s Golden Age, Stone’s patriarchs continued to perfect the art of war, always on the leading-edge of tactics and technology. Through the centuries they created, stole and advanced their stake in weaponry and warfare- always ahead of their enemies. Today Stone controls the U.S. military complex and its many suppliers, a fact not lost on the other members. And on-and-on, each accent and their holdings were unique, but one voice slammed through them all like a jackhammer. It was the voice of Gaston Zulle. Zulle’s personal obsessions and distain for the masses ran through the dark side. Dominating the World’s pharmaceutical industry, Zulle used his incalculable wealth and power to profit from the misery of the masses. Ironically, he accomplished this through mankind’s fear of death by selling them drugs that had no ability to prevent death and often facilitated an expensive, inevitable end to their lives. Hearing Zulle’s shrieking voice caused Dubois to stop and pull Stone in closer to him. “You know, he suspects our side of the worst.” “Correction,” Stone said. “He suspects me of the worst.” Dubois shrugged concurrence. “I have a very strong feeling Zulle may try to force your hand today. Who knows what madness he may propose? Whatever happens, I urge you to follow your father’s example and stay true to yourself.” “Would you expect anything less?” Dubois gave Stone a brief and less than reassuring look as he patted Stone on the shoulder and continued into the meeting chamber alone. Stone took a moment to consider Dubois’ concerns before following.

39 AVC CHAPTER 3

Monaco

Mitra was about to make a move, just before the tunnel on lap 60. But that was cut short as one of the Ferrari’s came up alongside the Red Bull and began swerving in, causing her to suddenly hit her brakes. “Not this time.” The Ferrari missed tapping the #33 Red Bull, dropping in front instead, as they went into the tunnel. Monaco is one of the only races in which drivers have to deal with a tunnel. The sudden change of light conditions is disorienting at best. But when you have a driver like Mitra on your tail, being suddenly blinded is more than just disconcerting. It can be downright frightening. In the two- seconds it took for the Ferrari driver’s eyes to adjust, the Red Bull was right up his ass, forcing him to accelerate recklessly. Immediately after the tunnel was a chicane. Mitra was counting on them not being able to make it around that sharp turn at that speed. As soon as they exited the tunnel the Red Bull’s brakes lit up, just in time for Manrique to see the Ferrari go airborne, flying up and over the chicane, the Armco barrier that lined the streets then the seawall, before settling into the Mediterranean. He was the first driver to get wet since the 1950s.

South America

“Nicely done,” Bottega mused proudly to himself. “Very nicely done.” Bottega couldn’t have been more pleased as he watched his car catch up to the second place Ferrari while the other Ferrari’s driver was being fished out of the water by some good Samaritans in a superyacht.

40 CARBON COPY Chicago

Chance arrived at Professor Stendig’s office in the Cochrane-Woods Art Center a few minutes before her appointed time. This was the oral exam portion of her master’s program. Normally it would have been an enjoyable task. Chance loved graduate school and most of the art history professors, especially her mentor, Dr. Wassermann. But she had drawn Stendig’s panel for her oral presentation and he was a strange bird. Many of the faculty and the better part of the student body were of the opinion that Stendig should have retired a decade ago. No sooner had Chance sat down in Stendig’s waiting room than she heard what sounded like a book slamming onto a desk at the same time that loud footsteps started heading her way. Then Stendig’s door flew open and Marty Bredicker, one of Chance’s fellow students, came running out, through the waiting room then down the hall- weeping. Stendig had a reputation for overcompensating for his failing faculties by taking on an elitist attitude, a kind of academic snobbery. The results were seldom positive, more often than not creating a condition similar to the one that just afflicted Marty. “Next!” There was no mistaking Stendig’s voice as it bellowed through the open door to his office. Chance wasn’t about to give into Stendig’s rude and unprofessional behavior. Instead, she got up, stood still in the doorway, looked past the other two professors on the judging panel, and faced off with Stendig. “Is this a good time, or should I come back later?” What Chance did to a simple white A-line dress and wedges was enough to cause the 3-professors to stop and take note. Add to her stunning appearance a strong dose of attitude, and the 3-person panel of judges seriously considered Chance’s option. Dr. Wassermann, Chance’s advisor, mentor and advocate, always had a kind face. But that morning he couldn’t mask his annoyance with Stendig’s performance. Wassermann was also concerned that his star pupil was about to get more of the same.

41 AVC Mrs. Yost was a tiny, elderly lady with her grey hair pulled into a bun, looking more like a librarian than a tenured professor. She was intimidated by Stendig to the point of distraction and wasn’t about to do anything to draw attention to herself. All she wanted was to get out of there, which of course she couldn’t. Then there was Stendig, rounding out the 3-member panel. Pursed lips, greasy thinning comb-over hair with yellow smoke-stained teeth and fingernails, wrapped in a pear-shaped body that always had a strong odor of wet towel. And as off-putting as Stendig’s appearance was, it was his inability to relate to, interact with or even teach his students that caused such consternation throughout the university. He was a textbook case of everything that’s wrong with the tenure system. And if all of that wasn’t enough, there was Stendig’s overinflated sense of self that made him his own worst enemy, and that morning was no exception. Even though Stendig knew Chance’s family’s reputation, his eyes lingered just a little too long on her cleavage. “Seriously?!” Chance was in no mood for Stendig’s nonsense. Having been caught gawking, Stendig was momentarily flustered. Then he hurriedly pointed to the lone chair in the middle of the room that faced him, Yost and Wassermann, and barked-out his instructions. “Have a seat.” As Chance sat, she fell victim to Stendig’s not-so-subtle attempt to get her to notice something on the desk in front of her. It was that morning’s newspaper:

As Chance thought, ‘You unfortunate little man.’

42 CARBON COPY CHAPTER 4

Geneva

Stone entered the chamber as the annual round of greetings were beginning. These were titans Stone had known for years, many his entire life. Chertkov, the Serbian with his heavy black brows; Elizabeth with her proper RP accent; Yee with a soft, sophisticated veneer that concealed an iron fist; and Ari Constantine, whose propensity for advanced security made the CIA look like a startup organization. In the midst of all the welcomes, Stone took note of the members who remained seated, clearly aligning themselves with Zulle. As the host, Zulle sat in a slightly larger chair at the great round table. This was intended to be a sign of respect. But in Zulle’s case, the scale of the larger chair only served to accentuate his frail, atrophying body. He was a thin old man, red-faced from years of fine wines, with translucent skin that seemed more like cellophane than flesh around his protruding varicose veins. In front of Zulle, also by custom, was the decanter of Ma’at, an ancient, deeply etched crystal vase. Zulle grinned broadly through smoke-stained teeth as Stone approached, but his eyes were steely. “Ah, my dear David!” Zulle said, taking Stone’s hand. “Always the last to arrive!” Since the lines had been clearly drawn, it was all the more important that Stone greet Zulle warmly, regardless of how disingenuous it might be. Even so, Stone wasn’t in the mood for banter, so he took a lighter approach. “Geneva has many wonderful distractions. Delighted to be here, Gaston.” Perfectly on cue, one of Zulle’s attendants cleared his throat and announced in a loud voice, “All members are present or accounted for.” A wave of Zulle’s wrinkled, arthritic hand set his staff in motion. A tall, imposing gentleman, smartly dressed in pure black, stood sentry at the chamber doors as three lovely, stylish young ladies in couture-chic uniforms

43 AVC cleared the chamber of its menagerie of spent cups, cognac glasses and ashtrays before they backed out of the chamber and disappeared. Zulle waited until the members settled into their seats before pressing a button on the side of the table, alerting his sentry to back out just as the massive doors to the chamber slid shut with silent precision. As the room was sealed, a deep, reverent hush fell over the members. This was one of Stone’s favorite moments. No matter how much The Group differed on policy, it was clear that those assembled were in true awe of the vast and secret power they held over all of humanity. And nothing was more exemplary of that power than their protective lairs. By custom it was the host who broke the silence. “Welcome to my home, and our 480th annual meeting. Let us begin?” Zulle pulled a stunning ring from his pocket before setting it on the table in front of him. Zulle’s ring was as large and as extraordinary as Stone’s, but that was where their similarities ended. Zulle’s ring was a scowling griffin encrusted with rubies and black diamonds. He considered his ring for a moment before pressing the griffin’s head, which swung to the side revealing a chamber of white powder. With tremendous care, Zulle tipped his ring, allowing its flour-like contents to drop into the crystal decanter that would soon become their Cup of Ma’at.

* * *

The Cup of Ma’at was created by the Egyptians to safeguard the Pharaohs in their afterlife, under the protection of the Goddess Ma’at whose name meant “truth” in their culture. The Goddess Ma’at was truth, order, balance and justice personified. She was harmony- what things should be. It was believed that if the Goddess did not exist, the universe would spiral downward into a state of utter chaos. Much the same as The Group viewed their role and dominion over humanity. Everyone who worked-on or had knowledge-of the pyramids’ inner chambers entered the elite Order of Ma’at. Entry into this elite fraternity was considered the highest honor attainable on Earth for the common man. The final act of the elaborate induction ceremony was drinking from the Cup of Ma’at. Its potion began to kill its host after one-year of incubation

44 CARBON COPY inside the human body. Death was a slow but inevitable 3-month ordeal. To avoid death, the person only needed to drink the potion again before dying. Every time the potion was consumed, it served as a temporary antidote, restarting the death clock and protecting the person for another year. Each year after drinking the initial potion, the Pharaoh’s architects, engineers, skilled laborers and servants were given the antidote, year- after-year until the Pharaoh’s death. The year the Pharaoh died the antidote was withheld and the pyramid was heavily guarded. Sixteen months after the Pharaoh’s death everyone with knowledge how to access the pyramid’s inner chambers was also dead, insuring the pyramid’s secrets. At that time the size of the protective force guarding the pyramid was reduced to two sentries. But today the Cup serves a very different purpose. Rather than keeping people out of the sacred chamber, it guarantees each member’s annual presence at the chamber, if for no other reason than to drink of the Cup in order to stay alive. After considering the soft white powder that had settled at the bottom of the empty cut crystal decanter, Zulle passed the carafe to Alexandrov, his young Russian ally from Saint Petersburg, seated to his right. Each member opened their own magnificent ring in turn, depositing its contents from their secret chambers into the decanter. The Cup of Ma’at’s antidote was made up of four essential ingredients. Each member was given one of the four ingredients, but were never told what the other three ingredients were. In addition to ensuring each member’s annual attendance, their inability to replicate the antidote on their own created an interdependency among the members, ensuring a semblance of respect and cooperation, even in the worst of times. After the decanter had completed its journey around the great table and the last member emptied the powdery contents of their ring, it arrived at the empty chair of the 13th member. The table’s 13th position had clearly been placed there with intent. And it was just as clear that nobody in the room expected the 13th member to arrive. It had been that way for many years now. The 13th member always sent his regrets, by letter, abstaining from attendance and voting.

45 AVC None of the current membership had belonged to The Group back when the 13th member began his hiatus. And though no one in the chamber that day had ever met their mysterious comrade, there was much about him that they were deeply curious about. Not the least of which was how he managed to survive without drinking the annual antidote. And so, as it had for many years, the decanter passed by the empty chair and returned to the host. Zulle removed a bottle of wine from an ice bucket at his side. A subtle smile came over Stone as he noticed it was a Condrieu, thinking to himself, ‘You are so predictable.’ Zulle poured most of the wine into the decanter, then lightly stirred its contents. After standing with the solemnity of a priest, Zulle made his way around the table, pouring a small amount of the richly colored amber liquid into the crystal chalices that stood just to the side of each member. When all present were served, they lifted their chalices, professing their creed in unison, “It quod erat sapimus it quod est vivimus it quod erit creabimus.” 1 Then they drank, thirstily, almost desperately, as if drinking the nectar of life itself. Which, of course, it was.

Chicago

Despite Stendig’s attempt to throw Chance off her game by his petty use of that morning’s newspaper, Chance proved once again to be an exemplary student. After 30-minutes of intense review and scrutiny it was clear to Yost and Wassermann that she had not only earned her master’s degree, but she was a first-choice for recommendation to their Doctorate program. Unfortunately, Professor Stendig was poised to pounce, like an old rattlesnake. “While I am sure that is all well-and-good, I have a final question.” Comfortable in her abilities and that morning’s performance, Chance never saw it coming.

46 1 “We know the past, control the present and create the future.” CARBON COPY “Certainly. Ask me anything.” “Anything? How wonderful to be so confident. Still, according to your analysis, Andrea Riccio’s statue of Moses is an example of the so-called Christian Renaissance art of that period." “Exactly.” “Why then is the prophet depicted wearing ram horns? Rather than Christian, this statue exemplifies, if not a pagan impulse, at least a neoclassical gesture, don’t you agree?” Chance looked puzzled for a moment. “Oh, you mean because you believe the ram’s horns are referencing Zeus, or perhaps even the Egyptian God Ammon?” “Precisely, Miss Catel,” said Stendig through pursed lips. “I don’t believe a real art historian would have overlooked that most obvious detail, do you?” A hush fell over the room. The 3-professors could not have been more different in their appearance and expressions. Wassermann in his classic tweed jacket looked devastated. His star student was in the process of being filleted and he was allowing it to happen on his watch. Yost looked on in distress, her tiny body attempting to shrink down even smaller in a failed attempt to get as far away from the impending confrontation as possible. But Stendig’s comment appeared legitimate, so there was nothing either of them could do to come to Chance’s aid as Stendig glanced down to the newspaper at Chance’s side and then back up at Chance, looking victorious. Chance was unfazed. “Well, that’s a common misconception, but I don’t ascribe to that view.” Stendig looked like he was about to throw up. “I beg your pardon?” he hissed. “While the horns have been interpreted as a pagan reference,” Chance continued with professorial authority, “a rudimentary knowledge of biblical Latin and Hebrew is all that is needed to dispel that shallow reading.” “Shallow?” Stendig repeated, in disbelief. A smile came to Wasserman as he looked over at Chance, who was just getting started.

47 AVC “Of course. In Exodus 34:29 Moses was described as having rays of light emitting from his head. Heban, in Hebrew, which means light radiating from the face, was mistaken for its other meaning, horned or cornuta when it was translated into the Latin Vulgate. Which is why 1,500 years later Moses might be depicted as wearing ram’s horns. There’s nothing neoclassical or Egyptian about it. The artist was just trying to be true to the Bible. This fascinating mistranslation, by the way, also explains why even today in some rural areas of Appalachia, for instance, there still persists the despicable notion that Jews have horns.” It wasn’t clear if Stendig was going to shit his pants or just die of a heart attack. Fortunately, Professor Wassermann came to his rescue before either occurred. “Well then, thank you for clearing up one of our profession’s older conundrums. Ms. Catel, your presentation was exemplary and the panel will get back to you with our determination Wednesday of next week.” “Thank you for your time and attention.” After picked up her purse Chance took one last glance at the morning paper then smiled, which she knew would haunt Stendig like a bad dream.

Geneva

Dubois was right. Zulle was planning something big, if not unprecedented, even by The Group’s lofty standards. Stone could tell from the way Zulle argued his positions, positions that everyone in the chamber knew by heart. First, The Group’s profits were not as vast as they had been a 100-years ago. Second, the World’s population had soared to almost 8-billion, most of them poor and unproductive. Finally, 6 of those 8-billion needed to be eliminated as soon as possible. Those were 3 of The Group’s 4-prime objectives with the elimination of the 6-billion #2 on their list. Poverty made the 6-billion a burden, unable to contribute to The Group’s enrichment through commerce while consuming valuable natural resources. Resources that The

48 CARBON COPY Group felt were theirs. It was The Group’s collective belief that the best and only solution was to eliminate 6-billion of them, as soon as possible. Stone, along with everyone else in The Group agreed in theory. Where they differed was the solution to the problem. The membership was evenly divided. Stone and his supporters insisted upon natural disasters and conventional warfare as the only means of killing them off, though combined, they had not come close to keeping-up with the global birthrate, not since the Black Death of the 14th century. Zulle and his followers wanted engineered solutions such as manmade pathogens and self-destruction through orchestrated global conflicts. And though Stone had not supported such measures in the past, Zulle’s preference appeared to hold the best chance for success. Unfortunately, the stalemate between the 2-sides had gone-on far too long and had finally reached a critical point. Something had to be done to break the deadlock. Today seemed to be that day. Zulle was determined to tip the scale in favor of self-destruction through a devastating global conflict. Zulle argued with a passion so raw, so demonic, that Stone felt a shiver of apprehension. And though Stone was absolutely opposed to Zulle’s plan, Stone knew what he had to do that day in order to insure his long-term success. Zulle’s eyes were ablaze as he came to the end of his speech. “We have had disagreements in the past. Disagreements that may have even led to the unfortunate demise of 7 of our members.” A few of the members glanced toward Stone and Dubois in response to Zulle’s reference to The Group’s active culling.

The killings had reduced The Group from its original 20-member collective that was established in 1534 and remained through the mid-1900’s. Now, with 7-members assassinated and 1-member estranged, only 12-voting members remained. Stopping the killings was The Group’s 4th and most important prime objective. Stone felt his 6-opponents’ eyes upon him, but he gave-up nothing as Zulle continued. “For over 500 years we have been one, united in purpose and united in rule, with no opposition. But today we are being challenged by 2-

49 AVC formidable problems, an out-of-control population and a psychopath. It is our responsibility to do what we must to bring our World back into balance. For without balance, in the not too distant future, we will all succumb to the prophecies and warnings of their very own philosophers and statesmen. Consider Machiavelli’s prediction 500-years ago. He said, “When every province of the world so teems with inhabitants that they can neither subsist where they are nor remove elsewhere, every region being equally crowded and over-peopled, and when human craft and wickedness have reached their highest pitch, it must needs come about that the world will purge herself in one or another of these three ways: floods, plague and famine.” “I trust none of us would choose any of those options. But choose we must because Machiavelli’s prediction was not been headed for the past 500-years when more humane solutions could have been implemented. “Now we are faced with the inevitable. As Nobel Laureate Dr. Henry W. Kendall and a dear friend so accurately noted, “If we don’t halt population growth with justice and compassion, it will be done for us by nature, brutally and without pity- and will leave a ravaged world.” Zulle lifted his crystal chalice as high as his arthritic arm would allow, then continued. “Removing 6-billion of them along with the Jackal that has been slaughtering us is the only way to bring our World back into balance.” A few members seated close to Zulle muttered quiet, “Here, here.” “So- are we willing to do whatever it takes to restore balance?” That was the heart of it. At last Zulle turned his eyes directly to Stone. “Are you, David?” The room went silent for a tense few moments until Stone answered. “I am willing to do anything,” Stone said. “Anything that truly advances the cause of The Group.” Zulle cocked his head with interest. “That wasn’t your father’s position.” “I believe it was. Regardless, I am not my father.”

50 CARBON COPY “True enough,” Zulle said, nodding in indifference. “So- we all agree that we must do whatever it takes to advance the cause of The Group. David, what if one of the things must be done on your native soil?” “My commitment isn’t to my native soil,” Stone said testily. “As you know, I’ve allowed quite a bit to take place on my native soil.” That was a lie, and everyone at the table knew it. Stone hated every time something happened on U.S. soil. Though he cast a dissenting vote every time Americans or their lands were at risk, with but 1 vote out of 12, there was little Stone could do to stop it. “Perhaps you must allow more,” Zulle goaded. “Thanks to all of us, your native soil still enjoys the richest harvest, the greatest wealth and the most powerful armies. Its advantages and powers may be necessary to bring the World back into balance, the kind of balance our bylaws demand.” Stone knew exactly what Zulle meant by balance. According to The Group’s tenets, a balanced world was a world wealthy enough to consume on a truly vast scale. It was a world capable of waging near-constant war. For it was global consumption that enriched The Group through its countless global holdings, and war was the quickest, most extreme level of consumption. The process had yielded stunning results for 500-years. But the world’s ever-growing population had gotten out of hand, and they were getting poorer and more complacent, not wealthier and more aggressive. To make matters worse, those ever-growing billions were devouring the Earth’s natural resources and, in many of The Group’s opinions, rapidly bringing about mankind’s own demise. Stone and his supporters understood humanity had already over burdening Earth’s resources, consuming 1.6 times its sustainable resources every year. 2 Global aquifers were being pumped 3.5 times faster than rainfall naturally recharged them.3 Topsoil was being lost 10-40 times faster than it was formed.3 Oceans were overfished.5 And, the Earth had lost half the vertebrate species in the air, water, and land since 1970.6 The question was how many more species could be lost and how many more ecosystems destroyed before humanity’s own existence was threatened?

2 Global Footprint Network data shows that humanity uses the equivalent of 1.6 planet Earths to provide the renewable resources we use and absorb our waste. 3Global aquifers are being pumped 3.5 times faster than rainfall can naturally recharge them. 3 Topsoil is being lost 10-40 times faster than it is formed. 5Oceans are being overfished, and a primary protein source for over 2 billion people is in jeopardy. 6Worldwide, we have lost half 51 the vertebrate species in the air, water, and land since 1970. AVC The Earth can only support about 2-billion people living a European lifestyle, which Stone understood was about ½ the resources American’s consume. The entire Group wanted balance. But the only way to achieve balance was to stop their overpopulation and their non-profitable consumption. And the most expedient solution was the elimination of 6-billion of them. Stone understood the science and agreed with its reality. Still, he couldn’t justify global genocide. Stone pushed back his chair and stood, which caused to membership to take note, especially Zulle. Then Stone walked around the table toward Zulle, causing even greater concern. “Something tells me you have a proposal, Gaston.” Dripping with sarcasm, Stone reached down and took the bottle of Condrieu from the chiller alongside Zulle’s chair, pouring the last bit into his glass before replacing the bottle then returning to his chair. This defused the tension, bringing about an almost comical relief. Zulle studied Stone carefully until he was seated. “Your father was a great man and a dear friend.” Zulle’s voice was cold despite the warm words which no one in the room took to be genuine. “And it is clear to me that you are also a greater man and just as dear a friend.” The entire membership recognized the twisted truth in the second half of Zulle’s statement, even Stone as he raised his wine glass in a mocked toast. “In other words, you need my vote.” Stone drank the last of the refreshing amber liquid while the rest of the membership settled-in for what was anticipated to be an extraordinary proposal from Zulle. Unfazed by Stone’s sarcasm, Zulle smiled back and then touched a button, causing monitors to simultaneously rise from within the great table, one in front of each member, as well as the empty 13th chair. “Allow me to show you the technological marvel that will be the catalyst that will help to finally eliminate more than ½ the world’s population, and in a relatively short period of time.”

52 CARBON COPY CHAPTER 5

Monaco

Seeing his teammate airborne and heading for the harbor rattled the driver of the second place Ferrari just long enough for Mitra to outmaneuver the bright red F1. To the spectators it may have seemed just a well-executed passing. But not to the Red Bull Team Principal, who was glued to his monitor as Mitra weaved high, throwing the Ferrari even further off his game, then cutting hard low at over 100 mph into the turn, drifting and slingshotting her Red Bull Renault into second place. It was a daring move that could have destroyed both cars and killed their drivers- and with less than 2-minutes left in the race. “Damn it!” The Red Bull Team Principal went ballistic at Mitra’s reckless move, ripping off his headset and sending it flying at the same time the white flag sliced the afternoon sun, signaling the last lap. With nothing but the blue Red Bull filling the lead driver’s rearview mirrors and the World Championship less than ninety seconds away, passion overtook reason as the Mercedes and Renault flew into the last lap with no regard for the limits of their machines or anyone’s personal safety, including their own. The Mercedes and Red Bull were both in the last chance zone. But Mitra had the advantage of rage. “Time for a driving lesson, dipstick.” In an instant, the Red Bull was drafting its silver nemesis, looking for the opportunity to pass. Unable to outrun the Red Bull, the Mercedes was masterful at staying in its way, not allowing Mitra to pass through the turn known as Piscine, a fast left-right bend then into the sharp 135° turn called Rascasse. But the driver of the Mercedes knew his strategy wouldn’t hold when they entered the final straightaway where the track was too wide and maneuverable to block.

53 AVC The Mercedes was feeling the pressure. He only had one chance to assure victory. Coming out of the final turn before the straightaway, the Mercedes had to be in front of the Red Bull. But there was no way of knowing if Mitra would try to pass high or low coming out of the turn. Normally the odds would have been 50/50. But that was the Mercedes’ advantage. Mitra was predictable, having mastered the extremely difficult, and dangerous, high fake then strong fast recoil low into the turn, always shooting her out ahead. Going into the final turn, the Mercedes held the center of the track. The moment the Red Bull flanked high, the Mercedes matched the move then shot low. Before Mitra could adjust she would be trapped in second place. Instead, Mitra stayed high, rocketing her Red Bull right up alongside Germany’s finest with her extended middle finger to commemorate their reunion.

Chicago

‘I think I passed.’ Chance was second-guessing herself as she left the Cochrane-Woods Art Center. Despite the distance to her apartment building, Chance decided to walk home along the strand. Oblivious to the lovely day, she walked the long sandy beach deep in thought, going over her performance in her mind a dozen times, hoping Stendig wouldn't be able to interfere with the panel awarding her degree. Crossing over from the strand to the main road snapped Chance back to reality. While waiting for the traffic light at Ellis Avenue to change, Chance was assaulted by a wall of giant flat screen televisions inside the storefront windows of a Best Buy. They were running the national news. And, of course, her grandfather’s trial was still the biggest story of the day with images of his distinctive Latino Lord of the Manor persona appearing on every screen. Just as Chance was about to turn and walk away, she heard someone call out.

54 CARBON COPY “Hey, pretty face.” The endearment was a little out of character for Greg. He was a sweet, tall, lanky guy that Chance had shared a number of classes with over the last couple of years, including their master’s program, and a bit of a nerd. “Where are you off to?” she asked. “Just meeting some guys at the Blarney Stone for drinks and the game.” “Sounds like fun.” “How ’bout you?” “Heading home to finish grading this week’s stellar undergrad work.” “Finish?!? I haven’t even started! Crap, I didn’t even remember to bring my pile home. Anyway, it’s Saturday. Why don’t you join us?” Chance saw Greg’s glance turn to the nonstop coverage of Catel’s trial as the headlines of the acquittal flashed across the screens. “Congratulations, I think. That can’t be fun.” Chance cringed while Greg tried to soften the blow. “At least it’s finally over.” “It’s never over.” “Nobody who knows you believes any of that stuff about your family. It makes you guys sound like The Godfather movies.” They both laughed, a bit awkwardly, before Chance brought perspective to Greg’s comparison. “If only.” Another awkward moment passed before Chance ended their conversation. “Next time, maybe. I’m kinda’ beat. But thanks for asking.” To Chance’s relief, the wall of flat screens switched to breaking news. It was an update of the Monaco Grand Prix. As Chance’s grandfather’s face disappeared from the screens, Greg pointed with a smile. “Well, on a brighter note, at least they’ve moved onto the big race.” A look of shock covered her face. “What's wrong?” “The race!” she exclaimed. “My God, I completely forgot! I promised a friend I would watch!”

55 AVC “Who?” Chance pointed to one of the large flat screens that showed Mitra tied for the lead. “The driver of the Red Bull car.” “Seriously?! You know Manrique?!” “My best friend, since we were little kids. Sorry! Gotta go.” “Sure. Maybe next time.” Chance rushed off, leaving her bewildered classmate marveling at the mafia princess and her jet-set connections.

Geneva

Regardless of their personal convictions, the entire membership was impressed. Zulle’s plan was simple, yet genius. And it left everyone in attendance with the expectation that it would succeed, as well as curious about Zulle’s disregard for his own wellbeing. Stone was the 1st to leave his seat as the membership adjourned to consider Zulle’s proposal. After walking out of the chamber, Stone continued to the far side of the great hall. Its massive scale and soaring high ceiling were exactly what he needed, the feeling of space and separation from the oppression he was feeling in the chamber. Though Stone’s face wore its usual mask of supreme confidence, his heart was heavy with concern. He needed those few moments alone before the vote to plan his next move. Stone was no stranger to ambitious global initiatives; that was the world he helped to create. But the plan Zulle had just proposed was something different, shaking Stone to his very core. Zulle’s proposal would bring the clash of civilizations to a new, almost unimaginable level. It would split the entire world exactly in two, causing the first ever total global war. For the first time in the history of mankind, no land or people would be immune. Worse, it wouldn’t be only nations fighting nations. It would also be neighbors killing neighbors. As Stone walked across the open space, Machiavelli’s words kept haunting him, ‘…and when human craft and wickedness have reached their

56 CARBON COPY highest pitch.’ That is exactly what happened in the chamber a few short moments ago. Zulle had brought human craft and wickedness to its highest pitch. Humanity had just been dealt the worst verdict imaginable. In less than a year, 2 out of 3 of them could be dead and if Stone’s plan didn’t work, he would be as culpable as Zulle. And that disturbed Stone greatly.

The outer wall of the great hall was adorned with the portraits of hundreds of members who had come before. But as Stone walked along, deep in thought, he took no notice until he arrived at the very last portrait. It was Emperor Humayun in his magnificent Royal Cape, wearing Stone’s ring on his right hand. Alongside Humayun was a portrait of Leila in all her glory, wearing Humayun’s Royal Cape and Stone’s ring on her left hand. The inscription chiseled into the alabaster of the paintings’ alcove read:

Nasir-ud-Din Muḥammad Humayun, Emperor of the Mughals, 1501-1571

Leila, Empress of Mughals, 1534-

The legendary emperor and empress were the progenitors of Stone’s lineage. Their ring’s golden eagle had traveled through the generations to the Great Seal of the United States and the inner pocket of Stone’s beautifully tailored jacket. Stone reached into his pocket to touch the ring, feeling its cool metal as he looked the emperor in the eye. “How would you vote?” Stone knew Humayun’s story well. The emperor had been among those first illustrious Twenty to be invited to Rome by Pope Clement VII. Despite its secretive nature, the early origins of La Confraternita and information about all of its former members had been thoroughly documented, except for Leila.

57 AVC Humayun was the first of La Confraternita’s original members to die and pass his ring onto a successor. One can only imagine the consternation within the membership that the emperor chose a woman. Then there were Leila’s many eccentricities, not the least of which was her zest for life and utter disregard for convention. The colorful tales of Leila’s many escapades and sexual conquests after Humayun’s passing were epic. Leila’s first known tryst involved Murad III, the Sultan of the Ottoman Empire whom she met at Humayun’s funeral in 1574. Then there was Pope Gregory XIII in 1575, after the Pope invited Leila to the Vatican, and Alvise I Mocenigo, Doge of Venice in 1577. Mocenigo knew Leila before her fateful journey to the Mughal king’s desert oasis in 1555, where she first met Humayun. On one of Leila’s visits back to her homeland, she was invited to Court to meet with Mocenigo. It was hoped that Leila could help relieve Mocenigo’s aversion to speaking with adults, preferring only the company of children. It worked, to some degree. While Mocenigo was delighted to see Leila and they spoke hours-on-end, she remained the only adult Mocenigo would speak to. Rumor has it, shortly after their first sexual liaison, Mocenigo hung himself out of desperation when Leila left to return to another lover. And the list went on. Another of Leila’s memorable eccentricity was the fact that she had no last name. Other than a vague connection to Venice and her accomplishments there as a courtesan, there was no account of her past. It was as though her life started the very same weekend it almost ended, around the 1st Saturday in May, 1555. It was clear from all accounts that Leila was an extraordinary woman, having enjoyed life on her own terms and achieving whatever she set her mind to. But with all that detail, and more, there was no mention of Leila’s actual death, only a vague reference that at some point she simply appeared to have disappeared.

And though there were striking similarities between Humayun’s world and Stone’s, a great deal had changed since 1530. The 1st and most significant change was Pope Clement’s untimely death in 1534, which allowed La Confraternita to develop and mature on its own without further influence from or responsibility to The Church. By creating its own by-laws and rules with no regard for The Church or the

58 CARBON COPY plight of humanity, the 20-members of La Confraternita were able to enrich themselves beyond anything that Pope Clement had intended. Then, after centuries of the unwanted exposure and notoriety that accompany great success, La Confraternita engineered a coup to shed the liability of its name and public awareness. The initial step was to give the impression that La Confraternita had consolidated its entire operation in Bavaria where it changed its name to The Illuminati during their meeting the first weekend in May 1776. Then, after their March 2, 1785 staged Bavarian exile, the group was able to establish an official public record that their organization and activities had ended. At that point the group had become completely covert, discontinuing any and all contact with anyone but their membership. From 1785 to 1946, the group simply began referring to itself as Undécimo4- until the culling. Along the way, disagreements arose between the membership, some bitter. But the 20-members always found a way to resolve their differences according to their by-laws, secure in the knowledge that everyone who possessed a ring had the membership’s enrichment at heart. And each time, before one of the members died, he or she was careful to pass their ring to an appropriate successor, as Humayun had done with Leila, their first female member. For their Cardinal Rule was exceedingly simple:

“The bearer of the ring shall be the bearer of its power.”

For 5-centuries, since the group first came together, their membership numbered 20-strong. However, a disturbing and lethal development had shattered that peace and tradition to its very core. As recently as the 1930s, when Stone’s grandfather bore the ring of Humayun, there were still 20- members and 20-rings at each May meeting. Now there were only 13-seats at the table and 12-rings accounted-for. 7-members had been assassinated during that relatively short period and 1-member was estranged, causing the members of Undécimo to begin referring to themselves simply as The Group. It was a designation that softened the sting of their declining numbers. But there was no escaping the inexplicable reality. Despite the extraordinary collective strength of its membership, and as astonishing as

4 The Twenty 59 AVC it seemed, the most powerful group to have ever existed was heading toward extinction at the hand of an unknow assassin, and there didn’t seem to be anything they could do to prevent their demise until Zulle’s proposal. Stone glanced across the vast circular space. There, just past the meeting chamber, standing out sharply against the wall of pure white marble, was a row of 7-alcoves made of imposing Portoro black marble. In those alcoves hung the portraits of the 7-assassinated members; Manu from India, Kortsuv from Ukraine, Myŏng from Korea, Jenson from South Africa, Alexander I from Yugoslavia, Namel from Brazil and Saromi from Japan. All of them killed in amazing ways and their rings unaccounted for. A chill shot through Stone as he considered the possibility that he might one day be among them. And, given the speculative nature of his plan, that day could be sooner than later. Stone strolled up to the portrait of Manu, glancing at the dates:

Born-1863 Assassinated-1946

1945 was the beginning of the Great Dissent. It started when Manu, The Group’s Indian member, defied The Twenty‘s directive against engineered genocide through the use of thermonuclear weapons. The World was in a Depression, accounting for over 10-million deaths. And despite the fact that between 50-to-80-million had been killed-off in World War II, it wasn’t enough, amounting to less than 5% of the World’s population. It was Manu who first called for the immediate extermination of, “500- million of them.” To accomplish this, Manu wanted to obliterate entire regions of the world with his new weapon. 9-members concurred but 11- members dissented. The dissenting members, led by the reclusive Corapi from Italy, were adamantly opposed to Manu’s recommendation and wanted nothing to do with any form of engineered population control, let alone global genocide. Stone chuckled grimly at the irony of it all. Humanity’s 11-champions had no qualms whatsoever killing-off a vast amount of them. In fact, all 20- members agreed upon the need for responsible population control. But as

60 CARBON COPY difficult as the problem of overpopulation had become, Corapi and his supporters strongly believed that fate, not man, had dominion over such matters. They believed the tools of conventional warfare, pandemics and natural disasters provided the best solutions. Anything else was simply unacceptable and non-negotiable. Stone had always thought Manu’s plan was pure genius. In the late 1920s, Manu identified key members of extremist groups and individuals who had demonstrated personalities and psychological profiles necessary to lead and destroy. His short list of fanatics included Winston Churchill, Emperor Hirohito, Adolf Hitler, Fumimaro Konoe, Benito Mussolini, Franklin D. Roosevelt, Joseph Stalin and Hideki Tōjō. Manu’s plan called for a 2nd World War, one that would dwarf the lofty accomplishments of The Twenty’s 1st World War. Since this portion of Manu’s plan involved conventional warfare, and since The Twenty had specialized in wars for over 400-years, Manu was confident the entire group would sanction that portion of his plan, which they did. It was the technology portion of Manu’s plan that created the conflict. Manu’s proposed war was to include a weapon so destructive, so different in scale from any weapon that had ever been used before, that Corapi and his supporters would not sanction it. Manu was given the greenlight for the conventional portion of his plan, which he implemented. All was going well until Germany suffered unexpected, pivotal losses and the war started to come to an end in the spring of 1945. Frustrated by disappointing casualty numbers, Manu went back to The Twelve for permission to use his thermonuclear weapon. Manu was livid when he was told to stand-down, though he appeared to have gone along with majority rule. But on August 6, 1945, The Twenty’s rage spiked when Manu unleashed the banned weapon on Hiroshima, a city in Japan. Then; apparently in utter defiance, Manu sanctioned the second bombing of a Japanese city, Nagasaki, with a similar weapon. That was the 1st and only time in The Group’s history that a member went against majority rule. Even Manu’s supporters were outraged. And within the month, Manu was assassinated by an unknown assailant, marking the beginning of the Great Dissent. Since then 5-additional members have been murdered. Each assassinated member was deeply

61 AVC involved in a global plan to exterminate a significant portion of the Earth’s population at the time they were killed. And though no one had admitted to the killings, it seemed obvious to the membership that they were in opposition to global genocide. Stone’s grandfather was among those siding with Corapi’s campaign against genocide. And by all accounts, he was Corapi’s strongest supporter. Now, 3-generations later, Stone was being asked to cast a similar vote to the one that was responsible for starting the Great Dissent. Stone was struck by the irony of what had just happened a few minutes ago in the chamber. Despite there having already been 7-lethal warnings, Zulle was willing to be the 8th-member to try to defy the odds. Why? What did Zulle know? How did he think he could get away with using a banned weapon?

After reflecting a final moment at Manu’s memorial, Stone walked to his grandfather’s portrait. John D. Stone was a man of considerable stature, bearing the same ring. The theme of the painting was striking. A line of oil derricks in the background stretched to infinity, underscoring his pioneering role in that global movement. For a long moment, Stone gazed at his grandfather’s image on the canvas. He never believed his grandfather was a party to Manu’s assassination. Still, he couldn’t be sure. All he knew for certain was that someone was killing-off their membership and that each side suspected the other. It wasn’t until Stone heard a voice behind him that his retreat from The Group ended and he realized he had company. “Do you think he had any idea what he was starting when he took possession of that first barrel of oil?” It was Dubois. Stone managed a smile as both men considered the grandfather’s portrait. “Probably. At least as much as Pope Clement or Einstein knew what they were starting.” Dubois took a deep breath as he considered the analogy. “David. You know I cannot vote in favor of Zulle’s proposal. Even though the first part of it is brilliant.” A slight scowl came over Stone as he answered his dear friend.

62 CARBON COPY “It will work like a charm. The many shades of Islam will finally be united against a common enemy.” “Yeah- US! And the second part of his plan? Do you think he can pull it off?” Stone darkened. That was the part of Zulle’s plan that deeply disturbed him. Just like The Group’s assassination of Archduke Ferdinand in 1914, this coming New Year’s Eve bombing in New York City would be the spark that ignited their newest world event. Stone wasn’t sure how Zulle planned on accomplishing this without getting himself killed, but Stone wasn’t about to give Zulle the chance, especially not on his watch. Stone had been working on a strategy to weaken The Group’s fascination with engineered global genocide for over two years. But it was a high-risk plan and even his oldest friend couldn’t be trusted at this point. It was simply too dangerous to reveal anything to anyone, especially in Zulle’s lair. And though Stone hated to lie, he had no choice. “I’m not concerned about New York.” Since they both knew that was a lie, it didn’t bother Stone that much. Dubois pushed onward. “Of course not, nor was your grandfather.” Dubois countered. “His concern was for all of humanity.” “Then humanity should have thought about what it was doing before it started breeding like rabbits and laying waste to the land and our profits.” Stone’s sharp, sudden coldness took Dubois by surprise. “The Group is all that matters.” “But, David, surely you believe…” “I believe it’s time to vote.” Stone interrupted then turned and walked away toward the meeting chamber, leaving Dubois bewildered.

* * *

After 10-minutes of reassurance that his plan could not fail, Zulle called for a vote. Stone raised his hand in the affirmative, providing the swing vote Zulle needed for approved. It was as simple, unceremonious and unexpected as that.

63 AVC Humanity had just been dealt the worst verdict in history, though no one outside The Group had any idea of the unimaginable atrocities that had just been put into motion, or the relatively short timeline that the majority of the Earth’s population had left to live. But Stone knew, and it required him to accelerate his plan if there was to be any chance of preventing such a horrific tragedy from happening. He also knew that many of the members were thunderstruck by his vote, Dubois among them. That was all the more reason none of them could know his true intentions. He needed to appear to be on Zulle’s side for the time that bought him. These were titans who had long before learned to keep their own counsel. And while they all suspected there was much more in play than the obvious, Stone simply let his vote speak for itself and let nothing else slip.

It had been a grueling day and everyone was pleased that it was finally over. Zulle shook Stone’s hand warmly on his way out, even more curious than the others as to the true reason Stone supported him. Then Stone left the chamber, bringing that day’s meeting to a close.

64 CARBON COPY CHAPTER 6

Monaco

The boldly colored Mercedes and Red Bull flew by the grandstands at over 300 kilometers per hour without enough space between them to tell who was in the lead. With both drivers courting redline and three track records already broken, one thing was certain- this was a day of automotive racing that would be remembered for years to come. With nothing left to them, both drivers aimed their sleek carbon fiber bullets and smashed their gas pedals to the floor, leaving the final few seconds of the most prestigious race in Formula 1 to fate. The moment the two lead cars crossed the finish line the commentator shifted from speculation to statistician. “What an amazing day for the record books. At 1:09.989, today’s final lap was the fastest ever clocked at Monaco, shaving almost 2 seconds off her teammate Daniel Ricciardo’s previous record while entering the illusive 70-second zone. And at 1:37:45, this is the fastest race run at Monaco- ever. But with all that speed, the question remains ‘Who won?’ Not since Senna and Mansell staged their epic battle in the final laps of the 1992 race, separated by just two tenths of a second, have we seen such a finish.” As if on cue, the Red Bull, with Mitra’s signature M&M emblazoned across its nose cone, came to a screeching stop alongside the royal box. Mitra jumped out, took off her red and blue helmet and threw it into the grandstands. Then she pulled off and tossed the bright yellow balaclava into the sea of spectators’ outstretched hands, allowing her long, thick brown hair to fall to her shoulders and down her back. “No surprise there!” The Red Bull’s team principal gritted his teeth as he watched another $10,000+ worth of team gear fall into the hands of lucky race fans. “Thank God she can’t pick-up a car and throw it.” In that moment, the racing world was seduced. Mitra’s spontaneous actions combined with her perfect face and gorgeous mane covered in

65 AVC racing soot couldn't have been scripted any better. With a smile that set ablaze the hearts of millions of men and women watching from around the world, Red Bull’s beautiful 23-year-old driver took Formula1 Grand Prix racing to a whole new level. Mitra became the poster girl for everything that racing strove to be- outrageous excitement and over-the-top sex appeal. Then, in what could only be considered the height of arrogance, she walked into the royal box where the winner’s trophy was presented while the Mercedes driver waited impatiently at his car for the official ruling. Just as Mitra reached out to take the first-place trophy and the Mercedes driver threw his hands to the heavens in protest, one of the officials was handed the results of the photo finish. “Ladies and gentlemen. The results are official. With one tenth of a second margin, for the first time in racing history, the Monaco Grand Prix has been won by a woman. At 23, she is the youngest Formula 1 World Drivers’ Champion ever. “Congratulations, M&M. What an amazing performance!”

* * *

South America

Bottega allowed a slight smile to form on his lips in quiet celebration.

66 CARBON COPY CHAPTER 7

Geneva

The Group’s first day of meetings had been difficult for everyone, especially Stone. After saying goodnight to Dubois, all Stone wanted was to get back to his hotel and unwind. Despite pushing his Bugatti to its limit, Stone found the drive back to town more obligatory than pleasurable. As he entered the foyer of the Wilson’s penthouse suite, Stone paused for a moment in deep thought. The sound of the motor drives in the main entry door, locking his suite down behind him, provided some measure of peace and escape that he so desperately needed. Damn, he hated what he had just done, regardless of how necessary it was. But at last he was finally alone to enjoy his solitude, albeit short-lived. Carson materialized, seemingly from out of nowhere, dangling a small pair of running shoes from his fingers with an inscrutable expression on his face. After placing the shoes in Stone’s hands, Carson reopened the penthouse’s main entry door on his way to the elevator. Without so much as turning around, Carson delivered his departing thought. “It’s a lovely evening for a walk through Old Town, a 4-hour walk. I suspect introductions through recovery should take just about that long.” As the elevator door was closing, Carson provided a caution. “Be careful with this one.” Stone turned to face the suite, curious to say the least. The first thing he noticed was a trail of blue Spandex running clothes and gym socks pointing a path to the master bedroom. In an instant, the meaning behind Dubois’ smile, Carson’s departing note of caution, and the delicate footwear he was holding became crystal clear. And as tempting as the path to heaven was, Stone needed to attend to something even more important before enjoying his old friend’s present. Stone was about to make a bold move, surely the boldest move in his entire life, especially since he wasn’t a gambling man. If anyone in The Group, even Dubois, were to find out what he was planning, Stone would

67 AVC be killed. If the person Stone was about to call wasn’t who Stone believed him to be, Stone could be killed. And even if Stone wasn’t exposed early- on, the odds of his plan succeeding were a long shot at best. In which case, he would eventually be killed. Until that day’s vote, the impression among The Group was that Stone led the opposition against Zulle. That was a dangerous position to be in, especially with assassination as an option. Supporting Zulle temporarily tipped the scale of malcontentment within The Group, though it also placing humanity and natural selection on the losing side of global genocide. But it was a necessary calculated risk, buying Stone the time he needed, time enough to gain the upper hand before Zulle could carry out his plan. At least, that was what Stone was hoping and it all hinged on his next call. The stakes were high. Unless Stone was successful, tens-of-millions of Americans, if not the majority of the country, would suffer then perish. As Stone saw it, blood oath or not, he wasn’t going to let that happen.

* * *

South America

Content with his victory over Team Ferrari and the last sip of his cognac, Carlos Bottega’s attention turned to what nature had to offer. He left the soundproof sanctuary of his theater and walked out onto the west veranda to enjoy the warm salted breeze, boundless views of the Pacific Ocean and a perfect Bellini. Bottega’s estate was truly without equal. Nestled within one of the most secluded regions of South America’s western coastline, its towering 1,000-foot-high, solid granite seaside cliffs protected the lush emerald plateau from attacks by water. The incomparable tropical oasis was fortified on its remaining three sides by a chain of snow-capped mountains, jutting far above the clouds, making access by land virtually impossible. The exotic, geographically isolated paradise paid homage to the majesty of God, who created in Azure the perfect natural fortress. And what God had not planned for, the estate’s advanced air-defense system, private air force and 200-mile no-fly zone completed.

68 CARBON COPY Considering its remote location and inaccessible terrain, it was little wonder so few outsiders knew about this crown jewel of the Southern Hemisphere and even fewer of exactly when Azure first came to be. Azure’s history was as enigmatic as its features. Its lineage was established in 47 BC the night Cleopatra had herself smuggled into Julius Caesar’s bedroom, hidden in a rolled-up floor rug. The evening that followed produced their one and only child, Ptolemy Caesar, the Grand Patriarch of the Azure Dynasty. Over the 2,000 years that followed, Azure expanded its global holdings, despite Rome’s downfall, eventually becoming one of the most influential forces on Earth. That was the reason Pope Clement VII invited Cosimo I de' Medici, Azure’s master at that time, to be one of the Pope’s 20-desciples. However, the events that Manu put in motion in Venice, Italy, in 1946 changed Azure’s direction- as well as Undécimo’s entire structure. Pasquale Corapi; Undécimo’s Italian member, took possession of the Azure Dynasty; which included the South American estate along with dozens of other impressive global holding, in the early-1900s. In 1946 the South American estate became Corapi’s primary residence and headquarters for his global enterprises. It was also Corapi’s most secret property- with intent. Since its inception, Azure had always been a Safe House. It was that one place its owner could escape to if the need ever arose. And not even Corapi’s 19-comrades knew just how important or elaborate Azure had become over the years, relative to even their extraordinary properties. After narrowly escaping Manu’s attempted assassination on his life in 1946, Corapi adopted a new world vision and strategy: First, Corapi estranged himself from Undécimo. This was the first time a member had ever left the group. And considering the Curse of Ma’at, this seemed an impossible feat. Then Corapi assassinated Manu. Another 1st for the membership. But without proof or even a way to reach Corapi, there was little the other members could do. Next, Corapi consolidated his global holdings into his utopian 100- square mile estate on the west coast of South America. A location that had been carefully developed and hidden for over 200-years. Then Corapi passed-on his entire empire and ring to his successor, Carlos Bottega, without letting the other members of Undécimo know who his successor was.

69 AVC Since the members of Undécimo were not aware of any of Corapi’s plans, they never understood how Corapi managed to defeat the Cup of Ma’at, believing Corapi’s successor also possessed that information along with all knowledge of Undécimo. This alone was enough to make the other members very concerned about their estranged 13th member.

In addition to embracing Corapi’s new world vision, Carlos Bottega had plans of his own for the advancement of Azure. Most significant was the monetization and control of humanity through taxation and intimidation, marking the beginning of the end of the escalating personal freedoms that La Confraternita had inadvertently afforded humanity for the past 400- years. Bottega agreed with the need for responsible population control. But Bottega was also a visionary. He understood that until a viable solution to the problem of overpopulation was found, there were ways to advantage from humanity’s ever-increasing numbers. The 2-tools Bottega utilized were technology and nationalism. For over 100-years scientists had been working on a way to track and manipulate vast amounts of information to aid in navigational and other scientific calculations. This was of great value to Bottega. By the 1940s computers had developed to the point that Bottega could use them to identifying, tracking and control a vast amount of humanity. The concept had already been proven by Undécimo’s English member. In return for loyalty, taxes and military support, the English member granted her wards land and a title of nobility, which were also readily taken away in retribution for any form of infraction. The system worked brilliantly. It gave the illusion of ownership to her subjects while getting a great deal in return, even their lives, without actually giving-up anything- as all of the land ultimately stayed in the possession of the English member. But there were problems. The system was labor-intense, requiring a great deal of constant managements. And, as a result, it was only effective in controlling a relatively small group of people. Bottega had a much broader vision and a way to combat both of the English model’s problems. Through the use of homesteading Bottega envisioned bestowing land and status to the masses. Then through various forms of taxation, reaping the benefit of that situation. If the taxes were not paid, the land would be confiscated. Much like the English model, never really giving away anything, but on a much larger scale. And with operatives in key governmental positions globally, and computers to help management the enormous

70 CARBON COPY administrative tasks, Bottega successfully implement his land-Ponzi scheme world-wide. Armed with his ambitious plan, Bottega needed a means of governmental infiltration, influence and enforcement. For this, he invested a great deal of resources into expanding The Monastery, Corapi’s clandestine operation that was based in Azure. By utilizing the information from his computers to identify, track and control humanity in the name of National Security, The Monastery became the most effective covert operation in the world, and Azure’s most profitable enterprise. Another of Corapi’s many brilliant strategies was his use of a technicality within Undécimo’s by-laws. By simply sending a note each year abstaining from that year’s meeting, Corapi was able to provide Bottega a way to retain his membership without subjecting himself to The Group’s scrutiny. That annual note both maintained the now 13th member in good standing while exempting him from any new rules until they were presented to him. This insulated Bottega from The Group’s control while aggravating the other 12-members to a dangerous level. Now, after decades under the watchful stewardship of Bottega, time and intent have maintained Azure as an independent principality, in relative obscurity. And for those chosen few who had the privilege to call this enchanted location home, Azure remained a destination without equal.

But even in utopia, the win at Monaco made this a particularly lovely day in every respect- except for one. The look on Bottega’s face was a mix of intrigue and concern as he sat seaside on his chaise, listening intently to the anonymous caller. “You’re going to have to move quickly…” Normally, Bottega would never have taken such a call. “...intercept the transfer, destroy any collateral evidence and kill everyone involved...” Nor would Bottega have entertained such a proposal. “...making you the sole owner. Its value is incalculable.” Still, Bottega found himself considering what he had just heard before answering. “Why would I want to do that?” Bottega’s answer was a dial tone. The fact that someone was able to call Bottega on his private line was

71 AVC no small feat. That was the first time that had ever happened throughout Bottega’s 40-year reign as Azure’s master. Only 6-people outside his command center were able to call Bottega on his private line. And even they did not have his actual number, only a coded access-key that identified them on Bottega’s phone before he decided whether or not to answer. The fact that someone was able to call through his firewalls with a No Caller ID display was impressive. Then there was the caller’s intimate knowledge of Bottega, to the point that the caller seemed relatively certain Bottega would act on the information. Finally, the caller’s use of the word incalculable wasn’t lost on Bottega. It was a term that was synonymous with trillions in his world. And it was used to entice. These were significant issues that caused Bottega concern. And when a man like Bottega becomes concerned, mountains can be moved. Bottega placed his phone on a side table, took a sip of his Bellini then went to his study to consider his options while he watched the final moments of his victory at Monaco.

* * *

Geneva

Stone’s next call was to room service. The response was immediate and cordial. But then, at $85,000 a night, one would expect stellar service. “Good afternoon, Mr. Stone. How may I be of assistance?” “I would like a bottle of Cristal Rosé. Have it chilled to 28˚.” “My pleasure, sir. Was the previous magnum to your liking?” “Previous?” “The magnum I sent to your suite 35-minutes ago. Also at 28˚.” “It was…perfect.” A smile came over Stone as he started to realize just how predictable he had become, and that his old friend Dubois had, once again, gotten him into a very delightful situation. “I’ll also be needing protein. Two filets, medium-medium, a sweet lobster, 1½ to 2-pounds, asparagus with shaved parmesan, and a warm

72 CARBON COPY berry crumble, vanilla bean on the side. Evidently, I won’t be needing another magnum. 2-hours from now will be fine for the meal.” “Yes, sir. Will there be anything else?” The question brought clarity to Carson’s parting thought when he left for his evening walk. “Yes. A wake-up call in 4-hours.” “Certainly. Enjoy the balance of your day.” “I believe I shall.” Stone ended the call then went into the kitchen. Thinking only of the pleasures awaiting, he absentmindedly set his cell phone on an upper pantry shelf as he reached for a small bottle of white truffle oil. Content that the day was going to end on a much better note than he had anticipated, Stone headed to the master bedroom suite where he was confident the, “less clothing and more champagne” portion of his present was awaiting his arrival. Little did he know how unprepared he was. Stone entered the room, impressed and distracted. There was an erotic, spellbinding tone to everything. From her sensual naked body atop the satin sheets to the soft lighting and stirring background music, she was an absolute temptress. The door closed behind Stone, causing him to comment on what he thought to be a simple parlor trick. “Cute.” As he arrived at the side of his bed, she sat-up, turned and put her open legs on either side of him. Then she took hold of the front lapels of Stone’s shirt and ripped it open, sending buttons flying across the room as she answered him. “Aside from me, there isn't anything cute about what is going to happen to you tonight.” Stone’s mind locked onto the hypnotic look in her piercing green eyes as she tore off the balance of his clothes, threw him on the bed, straddled his naked body then impaled herself while reciting her demonic chant over– and–over. “Bigger-Harder-Deeper! Bigger-Harder-Deeper! Bigger-Harder-Deeper!” Stone was lost in the moment, as though he was having an out of body experience. He could feel himself growing to almost twice his normal size, which started out a proud possession. Then he got as hard as a rock. The

73 AVC sensation was incredible. And though he knew whatever was happening wasn’t natural- he wasn’t about to interfere. Then, just as he had grown to an almost unimaginable size, she teased him to the brink with his favorite fantasy. “Augh! That’s it Big Boy! NOW- FUCK ME HARD!” Stone took off like a stallion. It was the most intense, exhilarating sexual experience he had ever felt- or even imagined. And just when he thought NOTHING could feel any better than that, she did the unexpected. Her lips and mouth were incomparable.

* * *

Monaco

If there had been any doubt of Mitra’s place in automotive racing history, it was dispelled when she pranced up to the Royal Box to be received by the Royal Family. The media, numbering in the hundreds, circled Mitra ten rows deep, vying for her attention like performing seals. “M&M, that was the closest finish in history. How could you be so sure you won?” “Close?” The crowd went wild at Mitra’s whit. Then she riveted their attention on her as she began answering their questions while pulling the front zipper of her driving suit down, slowly and with purpose, giving the impression it was the most natural thing imaginable. In a matter of moments, with all the aplomb and control of a ringleader in the big top, Mitra tamed the crowd, bringing the screaming mob to breathless anticipation. Oblivious to what she was saying, the media and viewers from around the world hung on each advancing centimeter of the zipper’s journey down Mitra’s shapely body, from her lovely neck, through her magnificent cleavage then over her tight, flat stomach on its way to censorship.

* * *

74 CARBON COPY South America

Jason, Bottega’s butler, entered the study looking more like a commando than a domestic. Jason was always casually dressed in khakis and a short sleeve shirt that highlighted his bulging biceps, in sharp contrast to Bottega’s signature white linen suit, silk shirt and matching woven leather shoes. Jason paused to consider Mitra’s performance on the large monitor. “She certainly knows how to work a crowd.” Bottega finished dialing a telephone number while addressing Jason’s sarcasm. “Lighten up. She just made racing history, four times in one afternoon. She deserves to have a little fun.” Rather than engage Bottega, Jason stated the obvious. “Still, it would seem a peculiar time to be taking a call.” “That depends who it’s from.”

* * *

Monaco

Jason and millions of racing fans from around the world watched with great interest as a member of Mitra’s pit crew handed her a cell phone, stopping her zipper just short of everyone’s wildest expectations. After taking a sip of the magnum of champagne that was in her other hand and then spraying her pit crew with the balance, Mitra raised the cell phone to her ear. She had the racing world glued to their televisions in wide-eyed speculation about who was so important that she would take a call at such a time. In the flash of a moment, the sight of Mitra’s broad sexy smile put everyone at ease, giving the clear impression that there was a lucky young man congratulating her and impatiently awaiting her arrival. Mitra bettered even that endearing image with a lie. “My Father.” A collective sigh rolled thought the press corps, as Mitra listened attentively while Bottega gave Mitra her assignment.

75 AVC

* * *

Chicago

“Hello, Patrick!” Chance flew through the door that her doorman was holding open for her. “What’s the hurry?” “The Grand Prix.” “You could have won it the way your racing.” Chance’s doorman didn’t have time to continue their exchange as her private elevator closed and shot straight up to her 58th floor penthouse apartment. Chance hurried through her elevator lobby, opened her front door and went straight for the remote. Two clicks and she was watching ESPN’s coverage of Mitra in the Royal Box. “Damn!” Chance groaned, seeing the race was over. “I’m never going to hear the end of this one.”

* * *

Monaco

Finally, all was put right with Mitra’s mysterious call as she pulled the zipper of her jumpsuit up far enough to slip the cell phone into her cleavage. To further downplay the call, Mitra turned and kissed the good-looking guy that was standing alongside her, full on the mouth. Then as quickly as Mitra put the media train back on track, she derailed it by waving good-bye to the sea of cameras and reporters as she ran out of the Royal Box and out of sight.

* * *

76 CARBON COPY South America

While the announcers tried to make sense out of what had just happened, Bottega gave Jason one of his “Asi es la vida!” looks as he ended the call, turned off the television and savored his win over Enzo Ferrari.

* * *

Geneva

It was the most intense 4-hours Stone had ever experienced. He couldn’t believe his stamina or the extraordinary heights she had taken him. And despite the countless times Stone believed he had enjoyed extreme erotic pleasure, nothing, not the most intense encounter ever, even came close to her. Suddenly, and for no apparent reason, she stopped her rhythmic torqueing, rolled-off Stone and settled-in on the pillow alongside him. Then, as if on cue, the phone range causing Stone a moment of confusion as he answered. “Yes?” “This is your scheduled wake-up call, Sir. Can I be of further assistance?” In that moment, Stone replayed everything about his mysterious companion- from their first roadside meeting, Dubois’ smirk, Carson’s warning, to her apparent premonition of the wake-up call. And for a brief, fleeting moment, their sweat and musk sent a chill through Stone at the thought that he might be the only one who didn’t see the obvious. “Thank you, but no, I have everything I need- for now.” As Stone placed the phone back in its cradle, he was pleasantly surprised as his companion remounted him and resumed her provocative chant.

77 AVC CHAPTER 8

Virginia Countryside

The deep roar of a military convoy rolled across the dew-soaked marshes of the Virginia countryside. It was just after midnight as a massive bright green HEMTT transport and an enormous yellow armored Mine-Resistant Ambush Protected Vehicle came to rest then sat warming their engines just inside the main gates of Fort Belvoir. The two vivid military behemoths seemed out of place, like awkward stage props, until they were surrounded by several Humvees and placed under the watchful eyes of a pair of ominous Blackhawk helicopters. Captain Brad Whitroy, a boyishly good-looking corn-fed Midwesterner, was in charge of the convoy, riding in the passenger’s seat of the lead Humvee, holding a walkie talkie. “We’re ready to leave the base, Colonel. ETA checkpoint Alpha, 35- minutes.” “Roger that, sergeant,” came the reply. “We will wait for your contact at checkpoint Alpha.” Whitroy’s driver raised an eyebrow as the Fort’s main gates swung open. “Jesus! That was Colonel Reed on the box! What the hell’s in that HEMTT?” Sergeant Whitroy stared into his side view mirror at the massive transports behind him. His need-to-know look was enough to end the conversation. Whitroy was the only soldier in the convoy who knew exactly how important the payload they were transporting was. Ever since the near disaster earlier in the year, which cost several colonels and other high- ranking officers their careers, the military had become obsessed when it came to moving around its nuclear arsenal. Of course, the public had no idea about the Broken Arrow fiasco over Goldsboro, North Carolina, or how close they had come to an unthinkable disaster when a B1 Bomber carrying nuclear bombs broke apart in midair. Two of its nukes were armed upon impact, and their detonation sequences had begun. The size of each bomb

78 CARBON COPY was more than 250 times the destructive power of the Hiroshima bomb. Each bomb exceeded the yield of all munitions ever detonated in the history of the world by TNT, gunpowder, conventional bombs, and the Hiroshima and Nagasaki blasts combined. It was only because of the miraculous intervention of one loose wire and one blown fuse that the bombs didn’t explode. The city of Atlanta, about 45-miles from the crash site, would have been obliterated and the eastern seaboard of the United States changed forever. Colonel Reed had been unusually hands-on during this entire operation, which only a few years ago would have been just another routine transfer of old cold-war technology. But this was the new, paranoid face of the modern military. Colonel Reed made it very clear that if anything went wrong, Captain Brad Whitroy, the highest ranking noncommissioned officer on the base, would be discharged.

* * * 18 Hours Earlier...

“Those little canvas duffs might seem small,” Colonel Reed said the day before when he and Whitroy surveyed the base’s inventory. “But there’s enough nuclear material in their M-3888 warheads to wipe out every living creature within 5-miles of the blast.” Colonel Reed had taken Whitroy to lockup where the “backpack nukes” of legend had been stored since the 1960s. “And there’s enough fissile nuclear material to make an effective dirty bomb, which is what every terrorist from here to Kandahar has been dreaming of since 9/11.” Whitroy shook his head in numbed disgust. “How many of these things did they make?” “We’ve got 500 here,” said the Colonel wistfully. “There are another 500 in Florida. And they’re only the ones we’re responsible for. We’re gonna ship ’em all to the Colorado nuclear waste dump so they can take ’em apart. Thing is, according to the new regs, we’ve gotta do it one backpack at a time, starting tonight. I want you riding with the first one all the way to the Alexandria Rail Yard. From there you’ll sign it off to the DTRA, return, pick up a second backpack and start all over again.”

79 AVC Whitroy stared at the hundreds of small apocalyptic canvas sacks, failing in his attempt to grasp the enormity of the task ahead until he did a quick mental calculation. “At two a day, that will take all year to complete.” “Then I suggest you get started.” It was eerie looking down the row upon row of drab army green canvas sacks in lockup as Whitroy began his year-long assignment. “Shit, the things they dreamed-up back then.”

* * *

“What’s that?” The driver snapped Whitroy back to the present as he looked up and saw a sign:

ROAD CONSTRUCTION NEXT 5-MILES

“Do you remember seeing anything about construction?” Whitroy started flipping through a clipboard containing the operations instructions, folded maps, manifests and other forms until he came across the notice. “No foul, here it is.” Whitroy commented on the time stamp as he read. “It was added just before we left.” Whitroy’s Humvee and the massive MRAP slowed to 40-miles an hour, keeping the regulation 100-foot distance between them and the precious cargo in the HEMTT behind them. The Blackhawks seemed louder now that the trucks had slowed and their huge diesel engines quieted somewhat. “It’s fine. They’re just widening the road,” the driver said confidently, perhaps sensing Whitroy’s continued anxiety. At that moment, with perfectly choreographed precision, 6-large bulldozers that had been spreading gravel along the shoulder of the road pivoted simultaneously, shovels up, directly in front of each of the convoy’s vehicles. Whitroy’s Humvee pulled hard to the right, dodging their bulldozer while everyone else in the convoy slammed on their brakes.

80 CARBON COPY There was no time to stop as they plowed into the bulldozers’ shovels that were packed with high explosives creating massive shaped charges. “What the f—” Whitroy didn’t have time to finish as the “ambush protected” vehicle just behind him exploded into an inferno. In that moment of twisted metal and death, surface-to-air missiles struck the convoy’s two ill-fated helicopters, lighting-up the night sky as if they were a couple of massive bottle rockets. Sergeant Whitroy instinctively ducked as his eyes squinted at the bright light of the inferno. Another loud explosion rocked the atmosphere like the sudden jolt of a massive earthquake as a rocket-propelled grenade ripped through the driver’s side window of Whitroy’s Humvee, trapping him, his driver and the evidence of noted road construction in a metal cauldron of 6000° flames. Sergeant Whitroy’s last moment was a flash of hot yellow- then nothing.

* * *

As the attack systematically destroyed each of the convoy’s 7-vehicles and 2-helicopters, communications were severed between that convoy and Fort Belvoir. Emergency beacons were transmitted in rapid succession from each of the convoy’s downed assets. And though the emergency signals pinpointed the convoy’s exact location, that was the only information available to Fort Belvoir for those crucial initial moments.

* * *

Within the synchronized chaos of the explosions and fires of the attack on Whitroy’s convoy, the movements of a young man and woman in stolen Fairfax County Emergency Medical Team uniforms went unnoticed. They went straight to the aft section of the mangled HEMTT truck, blew its rear hatch off then removed the container that housed the nuclear backpack. The two made their way back through the carnage to their stolen ambulance, placed the backpack in the aft section then drove away. As quickly as the assault began, it dissolved, along with the young man and woman who were now in control of the convoy’s precious cargo.

* * *

81 AVC

Geneva

Watching from his satellite surveillance system on another continent, Gaston Zulle mused over his success. “Now it begins.”

* * *

Fort Belvoir

In the few shorts minutes it took Fort Belvoir to synchronize the convoy’s location with satellite surveillance, it was over. Everyone involved in the assault had cleared the area, leaving only the occasional motorists that began that morning’s horrific traffic back-up and a public relations nightmare for the Department of Defense.

82 CARBON COPY CHAPTER 9

Geneva

Stone woke to the pleasant scent and memories of his guest. She was amazing, the most incredible woman he had ever been with, making it the most pleasurable evening he had ever had. Still, in those first moments of wakening, Stone had a strange feeling that it was all just a wonderful dream. Instinctively he reached down, took hold of his still enormous member then mused to himself. “Holy Shit!” Struck by both the confirmation that last night was real and excited that one of its incredible surprises was still with him, Stone rolled over to continue his adventure, only to be confused then instantly upset. She was gone- completely gone. Other than her scent and his exhausted, enhanced body, there was no sign that she had ever been there. A chill shot through Stone as he tried to make sense of the situation. But why? And how could she have left his suite? Stone’s security was failsafe. Stone reached over to his nightstand to push the emergency response code on his cellphone only to accidently bash the bottle of white truffle oil, sending it flying across the room. Then he was struck by the mental image of his cellphone setting on the pantry shelf. Without missing a beat, Stone went straight to old-school and yelled out. “Now!” Carson appeared almost instantly to find Stone sitting up in bed. “Sir?” “Where is she?” “Ah…” Carson took a few moments to walk through the suite of rooms directly adjacent to the master bedroom, returning with an empty hanger. “Assuming we are not playing hide-and-seek, she appears to have vanished.”

83 AVC “Vanished?!” “Vanished. There is no sign of her other than a very pleasant waft and a missing shirt.” Carson held up the hanger as if in evidence. “Your security staff’s log has no mention of anyone leaving the suite from last night to the present. The hotel has no record of anyone leaving the suite by either your elevator or stairway. And jumping is out of the question. So- what would you call it?” Stone allowed himself to fall backward, returning to his pillow which was thick with her scent. It was also Carson’s signal that the matter was closed, at least for the time-being and he should leave to further investigate.

84 CARBON COPY CHAPTER 10

Chicago

Chance was attending one of the final lectures of her master’s program. She and the other 200-students in the large hall were listening intently to Professor Nasser’s captivating performance. Nasser was a slight, 48-year-old anthropology teacher with brown skin and haunting black eyes, delivering a lecture with the fervor of a Pentecostal preacher to a packed auditorium of students at the University of Chicago. There was a massive timeline chart on the wall behind the professor, complete with pictures, breaking down the evolution of life from the amoeba to Albert Einstein. Nasser was pure animation as he smacked the massive chart while gliding back and forth across the entire width of the stage as though he was ice skating. To further engage his students, Nasser spoke so loudly that he occasionally broke into a yell. “So, as you can see, every major scientific discovery has changed our previous perceptions and beliefs. The fact is, 95% of what mankind now holds as truth has only been discovered over the last 60-years. And what we will learn in the next 10-years will render most of that obsolete or incorrect!” Nasser pointed over his shoulder at the chart just before dropping into a crouched position in the center of the stage. His loud, boisterous voice softened to a whisper, as though what he was about to say was an important secret. With the entire auditorium straining to hear, Nasser’s face lit up once again, throwing his impressionable flock off-guard while ensuring their attention. With his pearly white teeth contrasting his dark complexion, Nasser was mesmerizing as he delivered what he considered to be the heart of that day’s lesson. “Unlike the changing landscapes of all other sciences, we now know everything about the chronological order of life on this planet because of carbon dating. Carbon dating has proven to be accurate and reliable. In fact,

85 AVC it will be the improvements in carbon dating that will lead to further advances in many other branches of science in their quest for truth.” A smile came over Nasser as he paused to consider the irony of what he had just said, and just how prophetic his remark happened to be. “Ah, yes- truth.” After another moment of reflection, Nasser popped back up to a full stance with his voice returning to a normal volume. “And to think, this groundbreaking technology was discovered at this very university in 1949 by Professor Willard Libby. According to one of the scientists who nominated Libby for his Nobel Prize, ‘Seldom has a single discovery had such an impact on the thinking of so many fields of human endeavor.’ Nasser’s tone went from professorial to prophetic as if delivering the essence of truth. “And, I believe, carbon dating will play an even greater role in some of the most important events of our time, and that its true potential has yet to be realized. “It may seem a bit overstated to say that you are sitting on hallowed ground, but just consider. Everything from the Shroud of Turin to the tusk of a saber-toothed tiger has been properly positioned in Earth’s chronology, separating truth from fiction, all because of this reliable means of measuring time. “And that is your reading assignment for this week- Chapter 13, Carbon Dating. Thank you for your attendance.” Professor Nasser closed the lecture as he had every lecture before it, with his favorite quote. “And remember, ‘It ain’t what you don’t know that gets you in trouble. It’s what you know for sure that just ain’t so.’”

86 CARBON COPY CHAPTER 11

40,000 feet above the Atlantic Ocean-

Mitra was curled up on a leather sofa in the aft section of one of Bottega’s private jets as it made its way from Monte Carlo, across France toward O’Hare. During breakfast on the plane, Mitra studied background reports along with schematics and blueprints of Nasser’s college office and home. After looking over the final pages of the classified dossier, she began planning her evening’s assignment. All the while, the instructions she received from Bottega lingered in the back of her mind.

“Intercept the transfer, destroy any residual evidence of the technology, and kill everyone involved, including Doctor Nasser.”

A faint smile came over Mitra. It was always the same whenever the assignment called for a termination. Mitra would get the urge to call the mark and tell him to get his affairs in order because he had less than a day to live. And though she knew just how absurd the notion was, it visited her each and every time. Confident that all was in order, Mitra closed Nasser’s encrypted file, slid her laptop into its case, then placed a call to her best friend. “Good morning.” “Good morning...?” Chance hadn’t fully awakened as she looked over at the alarm clock on her nightstand, annoyed at seeing 4:17 A.M. “Don’t you ever sleep?” “It’s so overrated. Anyway, it’s lunch time in my part of the world.” “And your point? It’s still the middle of the night here.” Chance propped herself up on one elbow, rubbing the sleep from her eyes as she completed her thought. “When are you coming to visit?” “This afternoon.”

87 AVC Mitra’s timeline caused an adrenaline rush in Chance, bolting her straight upright. “What? I thought you were in Monaco.” “Did you watch the race?” Chance hesitated, hating the idea of lying to her best friend. But before she could, Mitra moved their conversation along. “No big deal,” Mitra joked. “I just made racing history, breaking 4-track records at the most prestigious venue in all of motorsports, and my best friend was probably walking the strand.” “That’s not so. Well, not completely accurate. Congratulations!” Chance never understood how Mitra knew things that she should have had no way of knowing. Like the fact that Chance was walking on the strand while the race was going on. Worse, Mitra did it all the time. It drove Chance crazy. But whenever Chance pressed Mitra for an explanation, Mitra would just say something like, “Lucky guess,” or, “I was just kidding,” blowing it off. This time Mitra didn’t even do that, simply moving onto more important matters. “I’m still over the water but should be landing at O’Hare in about 6- hours. Do you have any plans for later on?” “You tell me.” “Cute.” “Actually,” Chance recalled, “tonight is the opening of the largest Monet exhibit to ever tour the country. Well, technically tomorrow night is the official opening, but tonight is a private viewing and VIP cocktail party for the City’s luminaries.” “Bor…ing,” Mitra sighed. “Boring?!? Are you nuts? This will be sensational!” Mitra laughed, “You so need to get laid. Oops- did I say that?” Now it was Chance who ignored Mitra as she continued her enthusiastic pitch. “Anyway, just about everyone who is anyone in Chicago will be there. You never know. This could be the night we both find our Mr. Rights.” “The last thing Mr. Right or I need is each other,” Mitra grimaced. “You, on the other hand, could really use that whole knight-in-shining-armor thing and I’d love to be there to see it happen.”

88 CARBON COPY “Enough to put on a little black dress?” “Where and when?” “It’s at…” Mitra cut her off. “Just text me.” “Okay, I’ll see you soon.” “Love ya.” “Love you more.” After a moment of reflection on how pleased she was that the assignment would allow her to visit her best friend, Mitra retired to the aft bedroom cabin to catch up on her sleep through the final few hours of the flight.

* * *

Chicago, 6-hours later-

As the sleek white jet taxied toward a large private hangar on the far side of O’Hare Airport, the hangar’s massive doors began rolling open. Neatly positioned inside were a Boeing 747, Bell 206L-4 and 429 helicopters, two Rolls-Royce limousines, four black SUVs, and a custom Aston Martin One- 77 convertible. The Aston was being pulled up close to the bay doors as the Bombardier 8000 rolled into Bottega’s Chicago hangar, one of sixty such facilities around the world. Surrounding the bespoke collection of transport options was elaborate workspace and offices for the staff of 26-mechanics, clerical and security personnel that manned the 24/7 facility. As the jet came to rest, the next 55-seconds were every road warrior’s fantasy. The boarding door opened and a large guard stepped out, clearing the way for Mitra. In the time it took her to descend the escalator and walk to the metallic anthracite Aston Martin, her luggage had been offloaded from the plane and placed in the trunk of her car. Mitra’s car door was opened by a 2nd well-groomed gentleman with an earphone and slight bulge under

89 AVC the left panel of his black Armani suit coat. To the side, a buttoned-down clerk dealt with a customs agent on Mitra’s behalf. After slipping into the sleek grey sports car, the guard closed Mitra’s door, leaving her with only a seat belt and 1st gear to attend to. It was the perfect arrival.

90 CARBON COPY CHAPTER 12

Chicago-

It was quite the Gala. An elegant black-tie gathering of Chicago’s elite was enjoying champagne, caviar and hors d’oeuvres in the reception area of the Museum of Contemporary Art’s main gallery. Then, precisely 30-minutes into the reception, a pair of massive etched bronze doors opened to the soft call of chimes, drawing everyone into an elaborately appointed wing. The guests entered in wide-eyed amazement, as if an adult Disneyland. There were paths through rows of hawthorn bushes that led to a stream teamed with small brightly colored boats to resemble Giverny, the village on the bank of the Seine where Monet painted his famous lilies. It was pure eye-candy and appreciated by all. As the final guest moved through the entryway, it was as though someone pressed life’s PAUSE button. Framed like a perfect piece of art within the impressive main entry doorway stood the silhouette of a goddess. Despite the presence of over a dozen of Monet’s finest works and twice that many of Chicago’s most outstanding trophy wives, every man and woman took the time to notice and admire Mitra’s arrival; some taking more time than others. Her jaw-dropping entrance was by design and only trumped as Chance walked up to the tall, sleek beauty. While no one would have mistaken Mitra and Chance for sisters, but there was an unmistakable familiarity between the two, in addition to their exceptional beauty. Seeing the exquisite ladies together ignited a flurry of frames from the event’s photographers. With a slight shake of the head and a sly smile, Chance commented on Mitra’s choice of attire. “So much for black.” Mitra’s sleek, satin dress was the exact same rich caramel color as her sensuous skin, producing a near-nude image until one took a closer look, which everyone did.

91 AVC “At least you got the little part right.” Perfectly form-fitted, there was barely enough fabric to be street legal. But Mitra was one of those extraordinary women who could pull it off, looking elegantly exotic rather than inappropriate. And though few in attendance may have realized Mitra was one of the most accomplished racecar drivers on the planet, everyone knew she was remarkable. Chance gave her best friend a welcoming hug while whispering in her ear. “God, I’ve missed you. It’s been almost two months.” But before Mitra could start in on the stories of her adventures over the past couple of months, they heard a handsome young man comment on their appearance from close by in the crowd. “I knew there was a reason I needed to be here tonight.” With a smile of appreciation on their faces, Chance took Mitra’s hand, weaving them both through the crowd to the far side of the gallery. As they arrived, they stood quietly at the back of a group that had gathered to hear a distinguished gentleman in his 70s critic the exhibit’s premier painting. “Water Lilies is arguably Monet’s most extraordinary painting. Over 60-feet long, this magnificent creation was barely ½ complete when Monet was nearly blinded with cataracts and underwent 2-eye surgeries. It is estimated that Monet was completely blind in 1-eye with only 10% vision in his other eye as he continued to work on this masterpiece using a new, broad sweeping technique to capture the beauty of the colors that had been etched in his mind. One can only imagine how difficult Monet’s final year must have been as he struggled to complete his final masterpiece.” Having been enlightened, the audience of smart black tuxedos and flowing silk gowns dissolved into the sea of couture that blanketed the gallery, all in search of other treasures. Chance and Mitra made their way to the distinguished gentleman, at ease in his black tux and private thoughts as he quietly admired Monet’s seminal work. “Doctor Wassermann.” “Ah, Chance, so good you could be here.” Wasserman took both of Chance's hands into his as he completed his thought.

92 CARBON COPY “And you can’t imagine how much pleasure I had watching you stick it to that old relic Stendig during your oral examination.” “I wasn’t trying to stick it to anybody,” Chance demurred. “Okay, maybe just a little. But I’ve been a nervous wreck ever since. I won’t be able to sleep until Wednesday when they post the results.” “Well, I won’t be violating protocol by saying I wouldn't lose any sleep if I were you.” As the professor winked, Chance’s heart leaped with joy. “That’s my girl!” Mitra beamed. “Oh, sorry...” But before Chance could finish, a glow came over the world-renowned authority on impressionist painters as he turned to extend his hands to Mitra while completing Chance’s introduction for her. “Ah- this must be the amazing and beautiful Mitra that I am always hearing about.” A rare blush swept Mitra’s face, bringing a warm, disarming innocence to her otherwise exotic appearance. “Chance has always been my biggest fan. Though, as you can see, she is the brightest star.” A knowing-smile can over the good doctor suggesting that he was comfortable in the presence of extraordinary women. Then he made it clear. “Fortunately, at my age, I no longer dabble in the folly of comparison, especially when dealing with perfection. But I can tell you this, the room became much more captivating when you entered.” After Mitra released his hands, Wasserman turned back to Chance, once again the professor. “It appears to be a night of beauty.” Motioning in the direction of Monet’s enormous mural, Wasserman was beaming in its presence. “What do you think of Monet’s genius?” “It’s one of my favorites. But I’ve always been curious about something.” “What is that?” “Come close.”

93 AVC Wassermann leaned in toward the painting as Chance pointed to a very specific area and whispered in his ear. A look of concern came over Wassermann as he inched closer to the painting, examining it through a small magnifying lens he took from his inside jacket pocket. After a brief investigation, Wassermann backed away to admire his protégée. “A remarkable observation.” Wassermann turned to Mitra with his parting thoughts. “Take good care of this one. She’s going on to do great things. And it was a pleasure to finally meet you.” Then Wassermann whispered something into Mitra’s ear, ushering in the second blush of the evening as Mitra responded. “Thank you, the pleasure was all mine.” After graciously accepting Mitra’s compliment, Doctor Wassermann disappeared into the elite sea of Chicago’s finest. Mitra was curios. “Nice man. What did you say to him?” “You first. What did he say to you?” “He congratulated me on my win at Monaco. Seems he wasn’t walking the strand.” “That’s cold.” “Whatever.” Mitra rolled her eyes. “Your turn. What did you say to him?” “That the painting is a beard,” Chance whispered. “A fake?!?” “Ssshh!” Chance pulled Mitra close enough to muffle their conversation. “No. The painting is authentic. But there is another painting under it.” “Like the dogs playing poker in the Thomas Crown Affair?” teased Mitra. “No money wasted on your college education.” Completely ignoring Chance’s sarcasm, Mitra pushed on for more information. “How do you know?”

94 CARBON COPY “I don’t, at least not for sure. But every time I’ve been able to view the painting, my suspicion’s grown stronger. See here. Notice the subtle difference in color. It’s as though the paint is thin and not quite covering what’s beneath it.” “I see…” Mitra was just about to touch the painting when Chance gave her a mild slap on the back of the hand, ending the temptation. Mitra winced as she pulled her hand away, while softly pouting. “Was that necessary?” “Yes.” Mitra was baffled, “So why would an artist like Monet do that?” “Any number of reasons. Sometimes canvasses were scarce, or the artist couldn’t afford them.” “Puh-lease! We’re not talking Cézanne here. I doubt Monet had any trouble getting lunch money.” “I have no idea why, or even if it was him,” Chance countered. “Remember what Doctor Wasserman said. There is a lot of speculation about the last half of this painting’s creation and the final year of Monet’s life. What I think I know is that there is a painting under the one we are looking at.” Mitra took a slow, forensic sweep of the painting. Her tone was pure admiration. “Maybe you’re right. I know the one I can see is certainly beautiful. And to think, it could be a twofer.” Chance followed Mitra’s sweep of the painting as she agreed. “It certainly is.” After walking away from the magnificent mural, the 2-ladies continued their stroll through the gallery, enjoying the art and stopping to acknowledge the occasional, “Congratulations” to Mitra on her victory at Monaco. Barely 30-minutes had passed before Mitra gave Chance an unexpected hug. “Thanks. I’m a little surprised at just how much I enjoyed myself. How about breakfast tomorrow morning?” “What? You’re leaving me...already?!?” “I still have things to do tonight.”

95 AVC “If you’re dressed appropriately, I doubt I’d feel comfortable tagging along,” Chance teased. “Right on both counts.” An impish smile came over Mitra as she handed Chance a spare keycard to her hotel suite. “Come by tomorrow morning. Breakfast is on me. I’m staying in the penthouse suite at the Elysian.” “Still slumming it, I see.” Chance’s sarcasm wasn’t lost on Mitra as she continued. “Go have fun, but not too much. I might stop by later this evening.” Chance waved Mitra’s room key through the air as a playful threat. “No problem. It’s a king bed. There’s plenty of room for three.” “TMI,” groaned Chance. “Then breakfast?” “You win, breakfast it is.” After sharing a quick hug, Mitra was out of the room and on her way before Chance could protest any further. It was a white lie. While Mitra did intend to be with a man that night, it was to kill him. Chance felt abandoned as she walked over to the massive curtain-wall of glass that looked down onto the hustle-and-bustle of Chicago’s streets below. She watched as Mitra crossed the roadway, casually plucked a parking ticket from her windshield and placed it into her purse. Then Mitra waved over her shoulder at Chance without turning around. “Am I really that predicable? Why would you assume I was looking on, rather than being back at the party?” Chance mumbled ruefully to herself. Though it was a small thing, it was another example of how Mitra seemed to know things that she shouldn’t. But as always, Mitra was right, and Chance continued to look on while her best friend slid into her sleek sportscar then drove away. Seeing the convertible and Mitra’s long windblown hair moving down the boulevard shifted Chance’s thoughts from Mitra’s psychic proclivities to her zest for life. Since they were children, Chance had always marveled at the way Mitra was able to make an art form out of living well. Having been born to

96 CARBON COPY two of the wealthiest families in the world, Chance exhibited certain extravagances and eccentricities that were understandable. While Mitra’s upbringing was also privileged, with a father who was a US ambassador and a mother who was a Persian supermodel, her eccentricities were unique. Mitra had a remarkable talent for making others feel honored, and grateful to give her things, usually very expensive things. Despite their differences, Chance and Mitra were much more like sisters than friends. Chance had always felt enormous pleasure just being with Mitra and was genuinely excited with each of Mitra’s accomplishments and conquests. And as always, though Mitra had just pulled away, Chance was already missing her best friend.

* * *

Even though Mitra sincerely wanted to visit Chance, she had no choice but to be in Chicago that evening. Stopping off in a public place with hundreds of highly respected people, coupled with the documentation of the photo shoot and parking ticket, established the alibi Mitra needed for the evening. The timing of the Monet exhibition fit perfectly. After leaving the museum, Mitra completed her sweep of Nasser’s home, rigging it to explode and burn to the ground later that evening, destroying all residual evidence. Then she hurried back to her hotel to change into more appropriate “work attire” before heading to the university to scope-out and prepare the transfer point. After that she would return to the Gala to solidity her alibi. The exchange was scheduled for 10:30 that evening, so Mitra expected to have plenty of time to inspect the building and plan her escape route. It was a plan that looked great on paper.

97 AVC CHAPTER 13

Geneva-

The soft landing of the elevator belied the fact that it had rocketed 30- stories straight down into Zulle’s protected lair. As its door opened, David Stone paused for a moment, pleased to see he was being greeted by his friend. “You look way too rested.” Dubois stretched out his arms in amazement as he welcomed Stone. “Shouldn’t I be?” “You shouldn’t be able to walk,” Dubois laughed. “You haven’t seen me try.” A broad smile came over Dubois as Stone faked a limp walking out of the elevator. “At my age, the only thing still working properly is my imagination,” said Dubois. “And when I saw her, it went wild. So, I continue to live vicariously through your adventures, David.” “In that case, may you never stop enjoying myself.” The two men laughed for a moment before Stone continued his query. “Where did you say you met her?” “I didn’t.” Dubois was surprised by Stone’s probing which suggested infatuation, “You can’t be serious.” “There was something about her,” Stone said elusively. “Was?” “When I woke up, she was gone,” Stone seemed mildly annoyed. “And that’s a bad thing?” “No- but unusual.” “How so?” “She managed to get past my staff and hotel security without being noticed. She left…without even being paid.”

98 CARBON COPY “So, what is it?” Dubois asked, slightly amused. “Are you concerned that she is cleverer than your security detail, or that she had an agenda other than financial? Or perhaps, could it be that you, dare I say, like her?” Stone gave Dubois a playful backhand to his chest as the 2-men walked into the chamber to join the others.

* * *

Working through Zulle’s plan on Saturday had been intense. All of the members shared in the exhaustion, both mentally and physically, including Zulle. The one positive thing that could be said about that day was that it ushered in a good night’s sleep for most of them- other than Dubois. Dubois didn’t question Stone’s decision to support Zulle, nor did he judge. It wasn’t Stone’s vote that tore at Dubois, though the vote did come as a shock to everyone, including Zulle. The real burn was that Dubois knew Stone’s heart which meant Dubois knew there was more in play than the obvious. It was what was going on under the surface that intrigued Dubois. That was where the truly important decisions were being made. And the mere fact that those decisions could be more important than a vote to obliterate the majority of the human race concerned Dubois greatly, and he wasn’t alone. While Zulle basked in his victory with the vote, he was vigilantly awaiting Stone’s true motivation to present itself. Dubois, on the other hand, wasn’t as patient a man as Zulle. The unknown was haunting Dubois and he was determined to find out what Stone was up to.

* * *

Zulle’s plan was brilliantly simple, costing relatively little and requiring less than a year to put in motion. Its genius lay in the fact that it preyed upon and was fueled by the growing fears and superstitions of the masses. Together they would create the most volatile and widespread global conflict the world had ever known. It was a boundless source of destructive energy just waiting to be released.

99 AVC Close scrutiny had been given to Zulle’s plan to eradicate 5-billion people before the majority’s ratification. The Group’s next day of meeting was dedicated to the details, especially the timeline leading-up to the New Year’s Eve event. New Year’s Eve was designed to be truly epic. It would create an explosive moment that would be remembered for eternity, which pleased Zulle immensely. “Thank you for indulging me with your on-time arrivals. I see even David is here. That has to be a first.” After a conciliatory wave from Stone, Zulle continued. “You will be seeing live satellite images of the technology exchange portion of the plan. A team from The Organization, headed by General Akmed, will take possession of a replica of Ali’s compiled version of the Quran mus’haf with strategic additions. The exchange will begin in approximately 30-minutes.” “You mean I could have slept in?” Zulle ignored Dubois’ sarcasm as he continued. “This document will unite and incite the Islamic world unlike anything that has come before.” Zulle’s introduction was cut short as the monitors throughout the chamber activated. The Group’s attention shifted to images of an exotic dark grey sportscar, turning off its headlights as it pulled into a parking lot. Zulle wasn’t able to see inside the car as he began his explanation. “It appears we are getting started a bit ahead of schedule.” Though he tried to make light of it, there was a hint of concern as Zulle continued. “No matter. This is the United States. We are looking at the University of Chicago’s anthropology building where the exchange of the altered Quran is to take place.”

100 CARBON COPY CHAPTER 14

University of Chicago- Anthropology Building

As Mitra was about to get out of her car to prepare the site for the exchange, headlights entered the parking lot from its far side. The car drove straight to her location then parked one space away. Even without the nameplate at the head of the parking space that read “Professor Jamal Nasser,” Mitra recognized the vintage BMW 507 from the professor’s dossier. And though she had counted on the next 30-minutes to prepare the site, now that Nasser was here, it was show time. Mitra got out of her car and walked over to Nasser with all the implied authority of a knowledgeable participant. At the same time, Nasser was getting out of his car. Mitra took note of a box under Nasser’s arm but was careful not to say anything since she had no idea what the exchanged item was. “Hello, Professor.”

* * *

Geneva-

The sight of Mitra created confusion on two continents. “Why- Hello, General,” quipped Dubois. “Akmed is far better-looking than I remembered.” Zulle was in no mood for Dubois sarcasm. Worse, he wasn’t prepared for what he was seeing. And Zulle was always prepared. “Something is wrong,” he bristled. “Not on my monitor,” Dubois winked. Zulle continued to ignore Dubois as he tried to make sense out of the intruder. “What in the hell is she doing there?”

101 AVC “Looking terrific?” Dubois was enjoying both the view and grating on Zulle. “Who is she?” demanded Zulle. Elizabeth, The Group’s only female member, provided the answer. “You should surface more often. Her name is Mitra Manrique and she just won the Monaco Grand Prix.” “A rather unlikely person to be frequenting deserted parking lots late at night,” Dubois continued, finally infuriating Zulle. “No one is supposed to know about this!” Zulle screamed. Zulle swept the room, pausing briefly at the empty 13th chair then at Stone who needed to solidify his position. “Don’t look at me. I gave you your swing vote. This one’s on you, Gaston!” Zulle struggled to maintain his confidence, even pausing to consider Mitra might be one of Akmed’s operatives. But that delusion was fleeting. None among them could ignore the profound threat an outsider infiltrating Zulle’s plan posed to The Group’s security or the deep distrust that lurked just beneath The Group’s orderly façade of supremacy. Though only a few moments long, the haunting silence seemed interminable, paralyzing the roomful of titans until Elizabeth broke its grip with her dry British perspective. “Curious. Makes one wonder what is going on. But then, I have always appreciated a good mystery.” With only satellite images available to them, The Twelve looked on, intently, even though they were unable to hear what was being said.

* * *

Chicago-

Professor Nasser had his own set of questions. Seeing an attractive girl, in a black commando suit, getting out of an expensive sportscar, alone in the evening didn’t compute. Nor did her greeting him by name. Seeing the professor’s look of concern, Mitra needed to legitimize herself.

102 CARBON COPY “I’m here for the transfer.” Nasser looked down at his wristwatch, a bit more engaged, but every bit as confused. “You are early.” “Is that a problem? I can come back in ½ an hour if you prefer.” Mitra's reference to the correct meeting times seemed to have a calming effect on Nasser. “No, no. Now is fine.”

* * *

Geneva-

Zulle was becoming extremely concerned and the absence of audio was frustrating him all the more. “What the hell is she doing there?” he muttered. “Starring in your video, Gaston, and entertaining the hell out of me.” Between Zulle's frustration and Dubois' incessant sarcasm, the tension in the room was high. For Zulle, there was no place for humor in the delicate balance of his global plan, while Dubois needed some reprieve from his loss of Saturday’s vote and was taking great pleasure needling Zulle every chance he got.

* * *

From the look on Nasser’s face, there was more than a ½-hour time difference that he was trying to work through. “But you’re a girl.” A smile came over Mitra, calculated to throw Nasser off. “Thank you for noticing.” “I mean, I wasn’t expecting a girl.” “Nor would anyone else.” “Ah, very good.” With Nasser starting to accept the situation, Mitra needed to widen the deception. “I answered your question. Now it’s your turn.”

103 AVC “I’ll be happy to, if I can.” Mitra walked along the driver’s side then leaned in to get a closer look at the pristine interior of the professor’s car. “How does one manage to own a 507 on a professor’s salary?” A smile came over Nasser as he whispered his answer as though it was a secret. “Two reasons. I was lucky enough to buy her many years ago, used, long before her price started to climb. And I only drive her a couple of times a month to keep everything operating properly. So, she costs relatively little to maintain.” “Then it’s my lucky night. 507s are one of my favorites.” Mitra continued to admire the classic coupe as Nasser became more comfortable and engaged. “Now it’s my turn.” “Okay.” “How do you know so much about cars? You’re a…woman.” “That’s the second time you’ve noticed. I’m flattered.” A blush came over Nasser as Mitra continued her explanation. “Well, I can only imagine that my father thought I was a boy when I was a child. All my toys were cars. And every chance he got, he would take me to car shows or races. It didn’t matter if they were dirt tracks, off-road, drag strips, or go karts, if it had wheels, we were there.” “Interesting.” Nasser paused, as he considered Mitra’s explanation. Then he continued on about his car. “Even though I love the 507, it’s more for her beauty. I really don’t know much about cars at all.” Nasser hesitated for a moment, as if he was too shy to complete his thought. But then he did. “I can’t speak for your father, but I can assure you, I don’t know anyone who would mistake you for a boy.” “Thank you. I’ll bring that up with my dad the next time we’re under a hood.” That was all it took. Nasser was completely comfortable with Mitra at that point. And with Nasser’s lack of F1 racing knowledge and Mitra’s hair

104 CARBON COPY pulled tight in a ponytail, she had completely blurred her public image. The professor seemed to have no idea who she really was. As they neared the building, the professor offered a suggestion. “I have access to the side door which is right under my office. It will save us about two blocks of walking around to the front of the building.” With a smile and a nod, they walked toward the secured entrance. After Nasser unlocked the door, he continued their conversation as they climbed up the 2-flights of stairs to his office. “I still can’t get over your appearance.” “I hope that’s a good thing.” Mitra’s seductive delivery had the desired result. From the blush on Nasser’s face, Mitra knew she was in complete control. “Yes! Certainly, yes. It’s just that I was expecting something else.” “Like what?” “I really don’t know. I was only told to be in my office at 10:30 and the courier would meet me. Nothing else. But the last thing I was expecting was a beautiful young lady in a…” Nasser looked out the window of the stairwell landing and back down to Mitra’s car as he completed his thought. “…I know it’s an Aston Martin. But I’ve never seen a convertible look that…” “Nice?” “Yes. Nice, and…mean, at the same time.” “The company only made 77-hardtops and 2-convertibles.” “Really? How wonderful for you. Who is the other lucky owner?” “Me.” The look on Nasser’s face was priceless. Staring in awe at Mitra, any skepticism about her not being the courier had been forgotten. Mitra and the professor arrived at the 3rd floor, then started down its hallway. It had been a few years since Mitra attended classes, and her college was on the other side of the country. Even so, there was a soothing, almost familiar feeling about the building with its’ bulletin boards and glass cases displaying anthropological artifacts from around the world. Halfway down the corridor they entered a lab. After walking through the lab, they came to a door along its far wall. Nasser unlocked the door,

105 AVC turned on the lights and stepped aside to let Mitra pass while he began making apologies. “Sorry for the mess. I never seem to be able to keep this place neat.” 3 of the 4-walls of Nasser’s modest sized office were lined with bookcases and file cabinets that were so packed that their drawers wouldn’t close. Even the windowed wall had papers and books on the floor piled so high that they covered sections of the glass. A large wooden desk, worktable and four chairs, all scaled too large for the room, left only 2- narrow aisles to move around the office. Every available surface, even the seats of the chairs, were stacked with documents, books or other forms of academia. Some were piled so high that they seemed ready to topple over at any moment. Still, there was a strange order to the confusion, as though the professor could have laid his hands on any given document upon request. The next few moments were critical. Mitra’s plan had been to hide away, observe the exchange, terminate those present, take the object that had been exchanged and then incinerate the building along with all evidence of the event. That was impossible now. With no idea what she was supposed to take possession of, Mitra had to act decisively. To hesitate for even a moment could set the professor’s mind spiraling in the wrong direction. So with all the assurance and attitude one would expect from a knowledgeable participant, Mitra extended her hand. Eager to accommodate, the professor placed the black box he brought in from his car on top of a stack of papers in the middle of his desk. Then he took a pair of surgical gloves from his pocket and put them on. At that point Nasser’s moves became very precise. First, he removed the top of the box and set it aside. Then he folded back two scarlet velvet panels. Reaching in with great care, the professor removed what appeared to be a very old, elaborate collection of manuscripts, written on vellum in the Hijazi script and tied together. Nasser looked at the bound stack of manuscripts for a moment before he moved it closer to Mitra. There was something beautiful, if not profound, about the appearance of the fragile parchments. Mitra’s

106 CARBON COPY response seemed almost involuntary, as though she couldn’t help but compliment. “It’s lovely.” The reverence in Mitra’s tone was genuine, which seemed to provide Nasser the comfort to begin his proud explanation. “Who would ever think they were not authentic?” “Certainly not me,” she quickly replied. Mitra took her time as she admired the impressive old documents, while the professor continued his explanation. “The system I created for backdating objects such as these has proven to be everything I could have hoped for. No individual or scientific method can prove these writings are not Ali’s compiled version of the Quran mus’haf, making this the very first compilation. It will be assumed that Ali maintained his own book, this book. This contains 116 sura, 2-more than Abu Bakr’s, making it the complete, original Message dictated by Mohammad during his life.” The importance of her mission began taking shape to Mitra. “Making this the definitive Word for the entire Islamic world.” The professor looked very proud. “Exactly. With a few additions, these manuscripts direct the unification of all branches of our religion; Shia, Sufi and Sunni. Can you even begin to imagine its power?” “Barely. This is incredible. How many of these are there?” “Only one, of course.” The question was a calculated risk, but Mitra needed to know if there was any evidence that needed to be rounded up and destroyed. The concern in Nasser’s tone forced Mitra to make a quick adjustment. “I understand this is the only final product. But how many attempts did you have to make to create this masterpiece?” Nasser seemed to settle back into his comfort zone as he continued. “Hundreds, literally. However, once the process was perfected, this compilation…” Nasser motioned to the large stack of worn vellums. “…was made on the very first attempt. Now, whenever I have applied the process, I have been successful on the first attempt.” “Excellent and impressive.”

107 AVC Having seen an autoclave, worktable, stacks of manuscripts, ripped and tattered documents and empty chemical containers in the basement of Nasser’s home, Mitra was confident she had identified and planned for the elimination of Nasser’s production facility and all residual evidence. Mitra’s superlative set Nasser along a prophetic path. “There has never been a greater example of the pen being mightier than the sword than this single collection of documents. Who would have imagined, in a world of thermonuclear weapons, stealth supersonic bombers and armed forces numbering in the tens of millions, that a small stack of papers would be responsible for the downfall of the Western blight as well as the restoration of our people to their rightful place? And all without a single shot fired.” In that instant, Mitra was struck by the enormity of her assignment. This truly was the most important task she had ever been assigned to, causing her to feel a profound sense of honor as she commented on its importance. “That is a powerful thought, and accomplishment. If only Mohammed himself could be here to praise your work. You should be very proud. And I am honored to have met you.” Mitra’s compliments had the desired effect. Nasser was aglow as he carefully placed the splendid documents back into their black box then covered them with the two velvet panels. Now it was time for Mitra to take control of the situation. As Nasser placed the top on the box, Mitra quickly injected a syringe in his neck. Holding him in her arms, Mitra provided Nasser comfort in his final moments. “You are a remarkable man, but your time in this life must end now.” There was utter bewilderment in Nasser’s eyes as he looked into Mitra’s. And though he was unable to talk, Mitra could feel him ask, “Why?” “Go in peace to the reward that awaits you.” Mitra’s consolation was comforting. As his final breath passed, the professor’s expression turned to contentment in the anticipation of his next destination. Mitra gently set Nasser’s lifeless body into his desk chair. As she closed the professor’s eyes, she heard sounds coming from the parking lot. Moving

108 CARBON COPY to the window, she saw 2-men getting out of a black Mercedes sedan. Even from 3-stories away, Mitra recognized one of them. General Akmed was a tall, lean, intense, dark figure of a man with slick black hair and a leather trench coat. There was no doubt from the precise, capable way the general carried himself that he was the intended recipient of the professor’s handiwork. Seeing someone of the general’s stature and reputation underscored the importance and danger of the assignment. It also sparked an adrenaline rush that put the finely tuned operative at the top of her game.

* * *

Geneva-

“Now things are going to get interesting.” Even with the professor and Mitra together in the building, seeing the general eased Zulle’s concerns. Zulle was confident Akmed had either sanctioned the young woman’s presence or would take care of the problem. Either way, Zulle’s plan appeared to be back on track.

109 AVC CHAPTER 15

With the general and his soldier moving around to the front entrance of the building, Mitra had approximately a minute to clean up and leave the area. She quickly took 2-devices about the size of hockey pucks from her pack. She placed 1-device on the professor’s desk, activating it by pressing a series of buttons on its face in rapid succession. Then she took the professor’s black box and ran through the lab, opening half a dozen gas burners at a number of the lab stations along the way. As she was about to leave the lab, she placed the 2nd puck on a table just inside the lab’s main door, activated the device, then took-off running down the short hallway toward the back stairwell. Mitra reached the door to the stairway just as Akmed and Yemen arrived at the other side of the 3rd floor hallway, a 100-feet from her location. Seeing Mitra slipping into the stairway, Akmed instinctively drew his gun and fired, just missing as the door closed behind her. The 2-men took off after her as fast as they could. 5-seconds into her sprint down the staircase, Mitra pressed a button on a small remote control. Her timing was almost perfect. Akmed and Yemen had just passed Nasser’s lab when both her devices detonated, igniting the lab gas into a vast fireball that exploded in every direction. The force of the explosions hit both men in their backs, throwing them forward toward the stairway before slamming them to the floor, though relatively unharmed. A ½ second earlier and the blast would have killed them both. Instead, the explosion only bought Mitra a moment or two and made the general even more angry. As quickly as the 2-men hit the floor, they picked themselves up and were back in pursuit of Mitra- with a vengeance. Entering the stairwell, they could hear her final steps before the ground floor door slammed, sending Akmed and Yemen cascading down multiple steps at a time after her. Mitra jumped into her Aston and tossed Nasser’s black box on the passenger seat. Popping the clutch, she took full advantage of the One-77’s

110 CARBON COPY 750-plus horses as she fishtailed out of the parking space and accelerated through the parking lot in a spectacularly drifting maneuver.

* * *

Geneva-

“I’ve seen her in action. A billion says she gets away.” Elizabeth was uncharacteristically engaged in the action, or perhaps simply feeling patriotic about the British car. “Okay, she’s clearly talented. I’ll give you that. But you’re betting against Akmed? On a girl?” Elizabeth’s brow rose as she took exception to Dubois’s comment. Dubois, in turn, made a quick adjustment. “No offense.” “None taken.” Everyone knew that wasn’t the case as Elizabeth continued. “I’m not betting on the girl. I’m betting against that bucket of led.” Elizabeth’s swipe at the Mercedes produced the desired result as Werner Rhinebolt, The Group’s German member, took her bait and chimed in. “Liz, old girl, I’ll take your money since it’s obvious you are trying to throw it away. Are we talking Pounds or Euros?” “Whichever you prefer.” The light banter was more a reflection of their nervousness than anything else. They were puppet masters reduced to spectators, and the passivity of their role only heightened their anxiety. Zulle’s supposed ironclad plan was unraveling before their eyes and there was nothing any of them could do about it. At least Elizabeth had managed to momentarily divert some of their concern with her wager. Zulle slammed his fists onto the thick ebony table, bringing the inevitable questions back into focus as he demanded. “Who sent her? Where is Nasser? Where the hell is the product?!?”

* * *

111 AVC Just as Mitra was about to fly out of the parking lot, her cell phone rang through the car’s audio system. It was Chance. Mitra instinctively pressed the answer button, growling. “Hello?!?” “You don’t have to bite my head off. Since it’s still early, by your standards, I thought I’d call before your night got started.” “Unfortunately, it got started a little earlier than expected.” Even Britain’s finest couldn’t outrun Akmed’s bullet as it ripped through the rubber and ricochet off the inner rim of one of the Aston’s rear tires, sending a ringing sound echoing throughout the car. “Was that a gunshot?” Chance shrieked. “I’ll call you back.” Though the shot slowed the Aston, Mitra was confident she could still outrun Akmed’s Mercedes on one run-flat tire. A 2nd series of explosions ripped through the building as the Mercedes rocketed out of the parking lot. After seeing the entire 3rd floor consumed in flames, Akmed’s intense gaze fixed back on his target. “You’re good at blowing things up. Let’s see how you drive.” Though off balance, the exotic vehicle performed well on the custom run-flat tire, outfitted for just such an eventuality. After ducking down an alley and a couple of strategic right-hand turns, Mitra was alone and on her way back to the Elysian. Without a trace of the Mercedes in her rearview mirror, Mitra slowed to blend in with the local traffic and calm down from the chase. It was a needed and well-deserved break, bringing order and peace to the chaos she had just been through. While making a music selection, the black sedan flew out of a cross street right behind her. “Mierda!” A downshift and the accelerator to the floor catapulted the V-12, leaving a cloud of burnt rubber and a fair distance between the Aston and the Mercedes. With laser-beam accuracy, a 2nd shot from Akmed’s long-barrel Colt 45 dropped Mitra’s remaining back tire onto its run-flat interior rim, slowing the Vantage and putting the Mercedes back in the game.

112 CARBON COPY * * *

The Twelve were captivated by the high-speed drama unfold on their monitors. “That can’t be good,” Rhinebolt gloated with a smirk. All things considered, he had a right to gloat.

* * *

Within moments, the Mercedes was alongside the ailing Aston Martin, matching its pace, which would have been extreme even for a freeway. But it bordered on suicidal for the city streets they were on, reducing the time between intersections to mere moments as the 2-cars flew through each crossing without regard for pedestrians or oncoming traffic. As the Aston and Mercedes blew through the next red light, several cars collided to avoid hitting them. But instead of slowing down, the speed of the 2-cars increased, leaving carnage in their wake. Mitra’s cell phone rang again. Seeing it was Chance, again, Mitra instinctively answered. “What?” “You said you’d call back.” “That was 2-minutes ago! I’m kinda busy.” Akmed fired another shot close to Mitra’s head, grazing her right ear. The bullet shattered her rearview mirror then passed through the Aston’s windshield, snider webbing ½ the windshield and temporarily blinded Mitra’s view until her vision adjusted. “Okay, now I know that was a gun shot. Where are you? I’m already in a cab. I’ll meet you at your hotel.” “It’s not a good time. I’ll call you back.” “Don’t hang up!” But it was too late. Mitra cut her off. Speeding through another intersection, Mitra weaved and narrowly avoided an elderly man crossing the street. She was so close that her car brushed his clothing. The old man stumbled backwards directly into the path of the Mercedes. His body bounced off the front bumper of the large

113 AVC German sedan with a deafening thud then flew through the air like a rag doll. The Mercedes passed under him before his body landed on the roadway, twisted and mangled. Mitra rocketed toward the next intersection as the light turned red. Laying on her horn, she was able to aim for a small open space between traffic. 6-cars screeched to a halt, leaving the sliver of space she needed. As fate would have it, Chance’s taxi happened to be approaching that intersection on her way home from the Monet event just as the crippled Aston weaved its way through. Mitra threaded her car so precisely through the space between the front end of Chance’s cab and the opposing car that both of the Aston’s side mirrors were torn off. And in that flash of a moment, Mitra saw the unmistakable frantic face of her best friend Chance in the cab she just clipped. With the balance of the sleek anthracite convertible intact, Mitra cleared the intersection and continued to race down the boulevard. Less than a car length behind, the full-size Mercedes sedan couldn’t fit through the space that filleted the mirrors off Mitra’s narrower sports car. Akmed’s car smashed hard into the front end of Chance’s cab, as well as the opposing car, sending both spinning out of control yet barely slowing the Mercedes’ pursuit. The next few seconds seemed to pass in slow motion. Mitra’s mind and heart were racing, and even her highly honed reflexes weren’t enough to stave off the flood of emotions that consumed her. Chance, one of the few people Mitra loved unconditionally, may have just been hurt- or worse. And it was all her fault. “Chance!” Mitra yelled out as she tried to refocus on the matter at hand, outrunning the thugs, but it was too late. Those critical moments of humanity gave Akmed the edge he needed.

* * *

Though everything happened in an instant, Chance was able to get a clear look at Yemen, Akmed, and the black sedan. With her cab disabled, Chance

114 CARBON COPY jumped out and started running in Mitra’s direction, desperately pounding Mitra’s number on her cell phone. There was no time to answer the call. But at least it let Mitra know Chance was still alive. Mitra saw it coming, but her mind was stuck on the horrified look on Chance’s face, missing her opportunity to avoid Akmed. The Mercedes veered hard into Mitra’s car, sending it careening. Mitra drifted sideways through the next crowded intersection, bouncing off several cars, jumping the curb, flying across the sidewalk, then crashing through the front window of Macy’s State Street department store, ripping off the Aston's convertible top and destroying what was left of her car. After tearing through counters and displays, the battered anthracite convertible finally came to rest in the middle of the bridal department with white lace gowns, accessories, and fragments of mannequins scattered across the hood and the inside of Mitra’s car.

* * *

Geneva-

Without so much as a word, Elizabeth took out a checkbook from her small handbag, wrote $1,000,000,000, signed and handed the check to Rhinebolt, who unceremoniously placed it on the table in front of himself as much to gloat as to acknowledge the win.

* * *

Macy’s Department Store-

Aside from the sounds of a few items still toppling over, it was silent as Mitra hung unconscious, harnessed in her seatbelt and bleeding from a deep cut over her right eye. Then, as though awakening from a deep dream, she breathed in hard, snapped to, and unhooked her seat belt. As she shifted to get out of her car, she came face to face with Akmed, standing alongside her car.

115 AVC Akmed slammed her door shut then immediately recognized Mitra, though her being there made absolutely no sense to him. Curious, he placed his free hand on the edge of Mitra’s door. He leaned in to her, so closely that she could smell the grease in his hair, pointing his gun at her as he spoke in a chillingly calm tone. “What are you doing here?” “Keeping it interesting, General.”

* * *

Geneva-

“Much better.” Through the use of Akmed’s audio system, Zulle and the other members could finally hear as well as see what was happening. Dubois appreciated Mitra’s spunk. “My kinda’ girl.” But Zulle wasn’t in the mood for Dubois's humor. “A heifer in a skirt would be your kinda’ girl.” Though there was too much riding on the unfolding drama to put up with Dubois’s arrogance, Dubois was relentless. “At least mine wear skirts.” A smile came over Dubois as he watched Zulle’s blood pressure spike at the reference to his sexual preference. It didn’t help that Zulle was gay and Dubois a raging homophobe.

* * *

Hearing Mitra call Akmed by his title was disarming, throwing him off-point just long enough for Mitra to grab the broken arm of a mannequin that had fallen onto her lap then driving its pointed finger directly into Akmed’s right eye. Akmed jerked back and yelled out in excruciating pain. 5”ةرهاعال فيخس تنأ“ In an instant, Mitra pulled a gun from under her front seat while violently pushing her car door open, slamming it hard into Akmed’s groin.

116 5 “You fucking bitch!” CARBON COPY Akmed doubled over from the dual pain as Mitra bolted out of her car and leveled her gun at Akmed’s head.

* * *

“That’s going to leave a mark, or two.” Elizabeth casually reached over, took back her check and placed it on top of her clutch on the table in front of her. Now it was her turn to gloat.

* * *

As Mitra took aim and began to squeeze the trigger, the inside of Akmed’s sedan lit up from the flash of Yemen’s gun. The bullet seemed to move in slow motion as it entered the back of Mitra’s head, hurling her forward. Mitra’s body was suspended in midair for a brief moment before it cascaded to the ground. Though Akmed had one eye gouged out and sustained an incredible blow to his groin, the sound of approaching sirens moved him with speed and agility. He grabbed Nasser's black box, Mitra's purse, gun and cell phone in rapid succession. Then he limped quickly back to the battered black sedan.

* * *

Geneva-

Rhinebolt retrieved the check from atop Elizabeth's handbag, folded it, then placed it into his inner jacket pocket, signaling the end of the wager. While the loss of a billion dollars had no effect on the world’s largest landowner, it was her competitive spirit and uncompromising loyalty to Great Britain that put Elizabeth in a state, as she whispered under her breath. “Prat.”

117 AVC CHAPTER 16

Chance had been running as fast as she could, but she was still ½ a block away. Even so, she was able to get a 2nd good look at Akmed. This time he was holding the right side of his face with blood running down his cheek as he got into the black sedan and sped off, just ahead of the sounds of approaching police cars. Akmed’s car was off in the distance by the time Chance ran through the department store, dove to the ground and scooped Mitra up in her arms. Chance was frantic, breathing hard and gasping for air, fueled by the need to help her best friend. But when she turned Mitra over, the gruesome sight made it instantly clear that she was too late. With the entire front of Mitra’s face blown away from the exit wound, there was no hope of life. All that was left for Chance was to yell out in agony. “NO!” Chance was clinging to Mitra’s dead body, rocking slowly back and forth when the police arrived at the crime scene.

* * *

Stone turned to Zulle with the questions on everyone’s mind. “Even though the general retrieved the document, it still begs 2- questions. ‘Who else knows about your plan?’ and ‘Has the technology been compromised?’” Zulle slammed his fist on the table as he yelled out at his comrades. “There are only 14-people that know of this plan, the alim, the prime minister and the 12 of us. Who do we start with?” “My money is on the prime minister. I never met a politician I could trust.” The irony of Elizabeth’s sarcasm wasn’t lost on anyone as Zulle snapped back. “And it was on the girl 2-minutes ago. Akmed is the prime minister’s soldier and the alim sanctioned the plan. Why would either of them want to sabotage it?”

118 CARBON COPY An uneasy silence fell over The Group as Zulle’s assessment rang true. The membership started looking around at one another- more toward Stone than anyone else. Fortunately, Stone’s recent vote in favor of Zulle’s plan was already paying dividends as it softened their suspicions. “I suspect there is at least one more person who knows.” Always the statesman, Dubois defused The Group’s suspicion of one another for the moment with his implied reference, as everyone’s attention turned to the vacant 13th chair.

119 AVC CHAPTER 17

The police continued swarming to Randolph and State Street like locusts, even after the initial six black-and-whites had arrived. With no clear indication of what had happened, the first wave of uniformed officers moved cautiously with guns drawn through the gaping hole and the broken glass in the front of Macy’s. As the wedge of officers inched their way down the path of destruction that tunneled thru the store, they saw the out-of-place Aston Martin. The lead officer was the first to see the two girls huddled on the ground in a pool of blood alongside the car, so he yelled out. “Don’t move. Put your hands in the air.” “Make up your mind.” Chance had no intention of moving or putting her hands up. But her response was the perfect distraction, defusing most of the dangerous tension that had built up in the small army that was moving her way. A female officer next to the lead officer holstered her weapon and crouched down to assess the situation. Seeing the stream of tears running down Chance’s face was all the reassurance that the 11-armed officers needed. They relaxed their weapons as they surrounded the three ladies and the car. But the few moments of fragile peace were shattered when the female officer tried to separate Chance from Mitra. It was as much the calm in Chance’s voice as her message that put everyone back on full alert. “Don’t touch me. I need a moment to say good-bye.” For some inexplicable reason, the female officer obliged by standing up and taking a careful step back. The uneasy silence was broken by Chance as she slowly raised her head and sorrowfully straightened her shoulders. “Thank you.” The female officer and one male officer moved in quickly, separating Chance from Mitra as delicately as the situation would allow. The massive amount of blood and Mitra’s horrific condition brought gasps from several of the officers as they carefully untangled the two young ladies. The area was cordoned off with a frantic mix of chaos and precision, while the female officer escorted Chance to a squad car. After lightly patting

120 CARBON COPY Chance for a weapon, she helped Chance into the back seat. With Chance secured, the officer got into the front seat of the squad car then began questioning Chance. “Is there anyone else in this area?” While the officer questioned Chance, she looked through Chance’s purse for identification. “I don’t know.” The officer read Chance’s name on her driver’s license. “Are you any relation to Arturo Catel?” Chance knew where this was heading. She also knew her rights. “Please hand me my cell phone. I would like to make a call.” “I asked you if you are any relation to Arturo Catel.” “And I asked you to allow me to make a telephone call.” Seeing they were at a standoff, the officer assumed Chance and Catel were related, prompting the officer to hand Chance her cell phone. “Please give me a moment of privacy to make my call.” While that went beyond Chance’s rights, the female officer obliged Chance for a second time by stepping out of the squad car so Chance could have her privacy. Up to that point Chance had been remarkably resilient. But the moment she heard her mother’s voice, Chance unraveled. “Mom, Mitra was just murdered.” Chance heard her mother gasp. “Are you hurt?!?” “No.” “Where are you?” “In a police car in front of Macy’s, downtown.” “Is anyone in the car with you?” “No.” “Don’t say anything to anyone. You’re safe now. Help will be waiting for you when you arrive at the police station. They will take care of everything for you. But don’t talk to anyone, not a word, not even to your attorney. Do you understand?”

121 AVC Chance’s mind was swirling with confusion as she tried to process her mother’s instructions and her mother’s lack of concern for anything but absolute silence. “What about John and Matthew?” “What about them?” “Will they be at the police station when I get there?” “Of course.” “Can I at least talk to them?” “No! Listen to me. Not a word to anyone unless it’s your grandfather or me. Period!” “Okay! I understand.” “I’m in Qatar. I’m leave for the airport right now. I will be with you as soon as possible. Remember, you are safe now. And not a word. Is that clear?” “Yes, it’s clear, but Mom, I need you so badly.” “I know. I love you and we will be together soon.” “Hurry.” It was puzzling. Though Alyse’s message was clear, it was the message behind the message that concerned Chance. Why would her mother be so distant? Why wasn’t she shocked or at least saddened by Mitra’s death? She seemed to be unusually practical, almost mechanical in her response. How was that possible? And why the unusual level of secrecy, especially since Chance had nothing to hide? Chance understood not speaking to the police, even to her lawyers, but Alyse’s insistence that Chance not talk to John and Matthew baffled her. John and Matthew had been Chance’s personal guards since the day she was born. In many ways, they were closer to her and knew more about her than anyone, even her mother and grandfather. She trusted them unquestioningly, which only added to the confusion. But those worries vanished as reality hit her- Mitra was gone. And that awful fact made no sense at all to Chance. Why would anyone want to hurt Mitra, let alone kill her?

122 CARBON COPY CHAPTER 18

The moment the crime scene investigators pieced together who Chance and Mitra were and the impending public relations nightmare both ladies represented, they quickly removed Mitra’s body and whisked Chance away from the scene. When Chance arrived at the precinct there was a group of attorneys and private guards already waiting for her. Yet despite the best efforts of Catel's legal guns and a few strategically placed Chicago police officials that were on Catel’s payroll, the specter of a capital crime against an international superstar involving and international underworld figure required several hours of legal maneuvering and red tape. It wasn’t until 3 A.M. that Chance, her lawyers and her guards were finally able to leave the police station. Journalists and the paparazzi started congregating out front of the police station shortly after Chance’s arrival. By 3 A.M. they had turned into a hungry mob demanding information, requiring every available officer to fold them at bay. Extreme care was taken to make sure Chance wasn’t involved in a public spectacle that they would have to answer to Catel for. Despite it being the middle of the night and a closely guarded investigation, word of the death of Formula 1’s top driver spread around the globe like wildfire. Every news agency, talk show and freelance journalist worth his or her salt was trying to get any information possible on the breaking world-class story. There was no way Chance could make it through the front door to the street without being overwhelmed by the media. Catel’s inside man at the front desk saw the potential train wreck coming as he picked-up his phone and called the Police Commissioner. After a brief exchange, it came to this. “You need to get down here, now, and release a statement. You have less than 30-minutes.” “Who the fuck do you think you’re talkin’ to?!” “My boss. And, for now, he is still vertical. But if he isn’t here in less than…” The officer looked at the clock on the wall. “29-minutes, a very

123 AVC important young lady is going to get in a little trouble, my boss is going to meet with some sort of untimely tragedy, and I get a promotion. Just sayin’.” A smirk came over the Desk Sergeant at the sound of the dial tone as he hung-up the phone and started to put together a plan. The first thing the Desk Sergeant did was clear the police station’s underground garage of all nonessential personnel. Then he had Chance and her entourage escorted from the second floor, down the elevator to the precinct’s underground garage. After a final sweep to be certain the garage was clear, Chance exited the elevator and was escorted into one of Catel's black, bulletproof Suburbans with dark tinted windows. A staged press conference at the front of the police station began the moment the Commissioner arrived and Chance’s convoy was about to depart the building. It was a solid plan and played-out like clockwork- almost… No sooner had Chance's driver put her SUV in gear then two unmarked Crown Victorias with grill lights flashing and sirens blasting pulled into the garage, momentarily blocking Chance’s exit. “What the fuck?!” The Desk Sergeant was at his post monitoring the precinct’s surveillance cameras to insure everything was as planned, and the unwanted noise and attention from the arriving convoy didn’t set well with him. A tall, ruggedly handsome gentleman in a suit with cowboy boots and a Stetson grabbed Chance’s attention. He bolted out of one of the unmarked cars with purpose and authority as he ran up the stairway, skipping as many steps as possible. In his hurry, he didn’t notice Chance’s convoy leaving the station. * * *

The man in the cowboy hat and boots shot straight to the Desk Sergeant, flashed his Interpol credentials and started demanding information through a southern drawl. “Where are you holding Chance Catel?” “I thought you boys from the South were supposed to be friendly,” muttered the Desk Sergeant. “I’m in no mood.”

124 CARBON COPY “Than I suggest you get in a mood. It’s been a long night and attitude ain’t gonna’ get you very far here.” The officer gazed off as though he was trying to place the person as he repeated the name. “Chase Cuttle.” “Ca-tel! Chance Catel.” The officer started flipping through a log, though he seemed lost in his search as he further enraged the Interpol agent. “Chance! Catel!” “Yeah, yeah, Catel, I understand. What did you say your name was, Hoss?” “I didn’t.” “Then I suggest you do.” “Simon Fleming.” Fleming tossed the Desk Sergeant his credential. The officer took a moment to inspect the credential before laying the credential on the counter. “Thank you. Now here’s the thing…” The officer looked back at the credential for a name. “…Simon. The night’s been pretty crazy with the murder investigation of that racecar driver girl. Everything else is kinda taking a backseat.” The officer chuckled to himself as he continued, “Backseat- that’s a good one.” The officer looked to Fleming to share the humor, which wasn’t appreciated. “Anyway, with something as internationally important as M&M’s murder, what the heck does Interpol want with the Cuttle girl?” “Catel is part of your investigation. She’s the girl you boys found holding Manrique’s dead body at the crime scene.” “Oh, her.” “Yeah, her. Now where the hell is she?!” Looking through his ledger for a few more moments to distract Fleming, the officer flipped a switch under his counter that turned off the power to the elevator. “Here it is. She’s on the eighth floor, room 846.”

125 AVC Fleming headed straight for the elevator. After a protracted wait for it to arrive, he called out to the Desk Sergeant. “What’s with this piece of shit?” “Sorry, Simon. It’s out of service. The stairs are over there.” “You’re kidding.” “Hey, I called it in. What do you want from me?” “You don’t want to know.” Fleming took-off running up the eight flights of stairs while the officer placed a hurried call to the eighth floor. “An Interpol agent is on his way to you. You can’t miss him. He’s wearing a cowboy hat and boots. He’s looking for the Catel girl. Stall him as long as you can and then tell him she was taken to Interrogation on the fourth floor. I’ll take care of things from here.” “Got it.” Then the officer placed a quick call to Interrogation. “An Interpol agent is going to be showing up in a couple of minutes. He’ll be pissed, really pissed. Tell him the Catel girl was released about an hour ago.” “But she just left.” “I know. But if the cowboy thinks she left an hour ago, he’ll also think she’s got too much of a head start to try and catch up with her tonight. In the meantime, I’ll take care of it with the old man.” “No problem. I’ll stall him as long as I can.” “Make me proud.” A final quick call from the officer put him in touch with one of Arturo Catel’s lieutenants. “We’ve got Interpol poking around. I can hold him off for a little while. But you gotta’ get her out of town. And I mean now!”

* * *

About 10-minutes later Fleming emerged from the stairwell. Seeing the elevator door opening, Fleming glared at the duty officer, then left him with a parting thought on his way to his car. “Asshole.” “Welcome to Chicago, Hoss.”

126 CARBON COPY CHAPTER 19

“I don’t know what I’d do without you. I love you, Grandpa. Give me a half hour to clean up and I’ll head to the airport. I should be there with you for breakfast.” Chance finished her cell phone conversation with her grandfather just as her convoy pulled up to the front of her apartment building on Lake Shore Drive. Then she assured her three body guards as she dropped her phone into her purse and slipped out of the SUV. “I’ll be back before you know it.” Inside the sanctuary of her apartment, under the warmth of a cascading shower, Chance was finally able to wash off Mitra’s blood. It helped to ease some of the tension, and to begin the process of reconciling the horrible events of the past 5-hours. She replayed the day in her mind, starting with Mitra’s early morning telephone call, the joy of spending the afternoon with her best friend, the extreme anxiety of the high-speed chase, and finally the unimaginable horror of Mitra’s murder. Fortunately, the warm gentle spray from her shower was comforting, almost hypnotic. There was even a moment in which she felt as though the entire evening was too terrible to have actually happened. And for one short, fleeting moment, Chance imagined it was all just a bad dream and she would soon wake up to find it never actually happened. But it did happen, and it was tearing at her soul like nothing she had experienced before. Suddenly, even the comfort of the shower ended abruptly as a thought sent a shock up her spine, shaking her out of the soothing warmth of the rhythmic spray. She still had the keycard to Mitra’s hotel suite. There might be some information or some clue in the suite that could explain why Mitra was murdered. It was the first positive feeling Chance had all night as she rushed out of the shower and grabbed her purse. Dripping on the marble floor, she stared at the rectangular piece of plastic with “Elysian” prominently etched

127 AVC across its face. With a huge sigh of relief, Chance scrambled to dry off and get dressed. Then, standing in the middle of her bedroom, all ready to go, she froze as a thought came to her. “What are you thinking?! Both Mom and Grandad said, ‘Don’t talk to anyone! There is no way they are going to let me to go to Mitra’s hotel.” Chance kicked her heel hard to the floor. Frustration was the last thing she needed on top of the hurt and anger she was already feeling. It was too much. And just when she was about to abandon the idea, she caught another glimpse of the boldly printed keycard. It was as though the word “Elysian” was calling-out to her, making the decision for her. At least that was her reasoning. Chance knew she'd have to deal with her mother and grandfather. And with no way to justify what she was about to do, it became a case of pleading for forgiveness rather than asking for permission. The first problem was getting past John, Matthew and Philip. These were highly trained, career mercenaries who had been assigned to protect Chance her entire life. They had learned how to anticipate Chance's every move, knowing what she was going to do even before she did. Her one advantage was that she had the keycard and they didn’t know that. Then there was their group persona. One look at the three broad- shouldered men in black Armani suits, ear pieces, and shaved heads made it clear they were a team, a very serious team, and not to be challenged- as the results could be fatal. John was posted just outside the front door of Chance’s apartment. Matthew was in the lobby, and Philip, her driver, was stationed in the SUV just outside the main entrance to her building. Her three centurions knew she was safe in her apartment and had no reason to think she would veer from the plan. That was her second advantage. But it was a small window of time, not enough to get to Mitra’s hotel and back. She knew she would get busted. Still, she felt she had no choice. After taking the private penthouse service elevator at the back of her apartment and leaving by a side door to avoid her detail, Chance hailed a cab. Inside the stark solitude of the cab, the devastating reality of what had happened that evening began to settle-in, causing her to start shaking all

128 CARBON COPY over again. However, this time she was shaking from anger, not fear. Her intense feelings of bewilderment and loss were completely eclipsed by the hate and need for revenge that consumed her, transforming her. She felt an overwhelming, uncontrollable rage taking over every part of her being. Even within the confusion of it all, one thing was clear. Someone was going to avenge Mitra killing- that filthy madman was going to pay for what he did. Chance knew there was nothing she could do to get Mitra back. But Chance understood power, real power. She had witnessed it from afar since birth, it was a part of her DNA. Now it was her time to participate. This may have started as Mitra’s fight, but now it was Chance’s, and she was determined to right the wrong that had taken her best friend from her. Chance knew she could go to her grandfather, the same way he had always helped her whenever anything important in life needed to be taken care of. Now all she needed was something to go to him with. And she was hoping she would find that in Mitra’s hotel suite. “Where to?” “The Elysian.” As the cab pulled off, unbeknownst to Chance, a GPS tracking device that Matthew placed in the lining of Chance’s purse at the police station triggered an alarm to her security detail. All three guards went on immediate alert. John, who had been stationed outside Chance’s front door, was the first to take action. He went straight into the apartment and in less than a minute completed a sweep of the entire penthouse. Finding it empty, he notified Matthew and Philip. Within moments the three men were in pursuit of Chance’s beacon. The cab’s location and progress were displayed on the monitor in the dash of the SUV Philip was driving. The SUV’s flashing red and blue lights and blaring siren parted the traffic, narrowing their gap with the cab. But Chance’s head start was enough to allow her cab to pull into the Elysian's cobblestone courtyard and her enter the lobby ahead of her guards. The imposing black SUV with lights flashing and siren winding down came to a screeching halt at the Elysian’s revolving front door. John and Matthew jumped out and ran into the lobby only to see the back of Chance cut between two ornate sculptures and slide into the private penthouse elevator just as the doors closed.

129 AVC Exasperated, John banged on the gilded art deco elevator doors sending an unexpected metallic echo through the shaft, causing Chance a moment of concern. Then John turned and headed straight toward the manager.

* * *

Instinctively Chance swiped the keycard through the door lock to Mitra’s suite. But then she stood motionless, ignoring the green light on the access device. She was frozen in place, unable to pull down on the door handle before the automated lock cycled out and the small green light disappeared. By the time she finally pushed down on the handle, the door was locked again. Chance knew she needed to get a grip. But it took every bit of reason to calm herself down. She needed to focus. Simply fantasizing about sending Mitra’s murderers to a slow, painful death wasn’t going to make it happen. Chance didn’t even know who they were or what any of this was about. What she needed was information. And her one and only option was on the other side of the door she was standing in front of. A chill shot through Chance. Then, out of options, Chance reinserted Mitra’s access card. This time the flashing green light caused Chance to pull down on the handle with purpose.

* * *

Back in the lobby at the front desk, tensions were running high. Chance’s two guards were doing their best to intimidate the hotel manager in order to get him to escort them to Mitra’s penthouse suite. Unfortunately for John and Matthew, the manager was a seasoned, capable man accustomed to such tactics from everyone from the paparazzi to the authorities. And, short of a signed warrant, he wasn’t about to buckle under their verbal abuse or threats.

* * * Inside Mitra’s suite, Chance’s level of apprehension began to evaporate.

130 CARBON COPY Seeing a few of Mitra’s things scattered throughout the living room had a calming effect. By the time Chance passed through the master bedroom then into the bathroom, she had regained complete control. With no one there and everything as she would have expected it, Chance shed the last of her demons and focused on the task at hand- finding anything that would lead her to Mitra’s murderers. With the bed still made, Mitra’s overnight bag only partially unpacked, and the small piece of fabric Mitra had on earlier at the art gala lying on the bed, it was clear that Mitra had returned to the hotel after she left Chance. “So much for being dressed appropriately.” Chance mumbled her annoyance with Mitra’s lie as she continued her search. With the overwhelming majority of the two-story, five-bedroom suite undisturbed, Chance was able to sweep through its 4,000 square feet in short order. There wasn’t anything of interest except a small laptop computer. Chance put the computer in her purse, took one last look around the large, well-appointed duplex, then left. Her ride down the elevator was uneventful until its doors opened. Before she could step out, she was joined by Matthew, who escorted her to the front desk where John was still berating the manager. Chance’s appearance ended John's conversation abruptly, walking away as though the manager wasn’t even there. Just as Chance and her Hulk-ish bookends were about to leave the building, she froze, seeing one of Mitra's murderers about to enter the hotel. There was an unsettling assurance in his stride, the kind that said, “I’m busy, don’t bother me.” Yemen walked through the hotel’s main entry doors, past Chance, her guards and the two statues then placed Mitra’s keycard in the penthouse elevator's access devise. Chance was beside herself, there was only one way he could have gotten that card. She had Mitra’s murderer. She just didn’t know what to do about it. So, she called her grandfather, knowing full well what that would mean and the price that was about to be paid. “Grandpa, sorry to wake you again, but I’m at Mitra’s hotel.” Before she could continue, her grandfather laid into her.

131 AVC “Is this your idea of heading straight for the airport?” “I’m sorry. But after we talked I remembered Mitra gave me a key to her hotel room and I…” “And you wanted to get in over your head. What the hell do you think you’re doing?” “I said I’m sorry,” Chance snapped. “Sorry doesn’t count. All that matters is that you get out of Chicago. And I mean now.” “Fine! But the man who murdered Mitra just walked in the hotel and went straight to her suite.” There was a moment of silence before Arturo Catel answered Chance calmly but directly. “Are you sure it’s him?” “Absolutely.” “Did he show any sign that he recognized you?” “None.” “Are you sure?” “Yes!” came her confident reply. “Good. Describe him.” After a brief description, Catel gave his final instructions. “Who is there with you?” “John and Matthew. And I can see Phillip in the SUV right outside the hotel entrance.” “Hand John your phone.” “My grandfather wants to speak to you,” Chance said, arm extended. “Hello, sir.” Chance tried desperately to hear what Catel was telling John. But it was no use. John was a seasoned pro. He pressed the phone hard to his ear to prevent that very thing. Nevertheless, she knew her grandfather was instructing John and Matthew to go into the hotel and kill Mitra’s murderers. “Yes, sir. Here’s Chance.” Chance snatched the phone from John, excited by the prospect of imminent revenge. “It’s me, Grandpa. What are we going to do?”

132 CARBON COPY “We aren’t going to do anything. You are going with Phillip to the airport- immediately. I am going to wait for you. In the meantime, John and Matthew will attend to Mitra’s killer. Now you need to get into the car. Do— you— understand?” “Yes, I understand. And I’ll do just that. I promise. I love you.” Chance was ecstatic. Throughout her entire life, whenever her grandfather said, “I’ll take care of it,” he did. Catel underscored his instructions to Chance. “I love you. Now get out of there. And no more shenanigans.” “Promise. See you soon, Grandpa.”

133 AVC CHAPTER 20

It had been the longest, most intense 30-hours of her life. But Chance was finally boarding the private jet sent by her grandfather. Its destination was the Miami International Airport. As she slid into the lush leather seat, she let her head fall back into the safety and comfort she so desperately needed. And for the first time since Mitra’s call woke her up, she finally began to decompress.

* * *

Fleming stood outside Chance’s apartment, waiting impatiently for someone to answer the door. After a few minutes, Fleming pushed a speed dial number on his cell phone. “Interpol. Operator 38. How may I be of assistance?” “This is Simon Fleming, Interpol D.C., I.D. 17321. Give me the location of Chance Catel, Chicago, Illinois.” A few moments later, Fleming received his information. “2:43 A.M., last known location, 1160 North Larrabee Street, Chicago, 18th District Police Station.” “Old news. Where is she now?” After a few more moments, Fleming received his second answer. “Most likely location, though not confirmed, 600 Lake Shore, Chicago, Illinois. Her apartment.” “Look, you moron. I’m at her apartment. I don’t want to know where she was 3-hours ago. I don’t want to know where she may be. I want to know where she is now.” There was a short pause before Fleming received a reply from a curt female voice. “Moron… Hmm… Let’s see, you’re looking for information? No… let’s cut through the crap. You’re looking for a favor, and ‘moron’ is the best you can come up with?” Fleming got a dial tone, then hit the speed-dial button on his cell phone- again.

134 CARBON COPY “Interpol. Ms. Moron speaking. How can I be of assistance?” It was everything Fleming could do to hold his temper in check. “Perhaps we got off on the wrong foot.” “Ya think?” Fleming gritted his teeth. “I apologize.” “Excellent save.” “Please check all airlines, limousines and any other forms of transportation to see if Chance Catel has booked passage in the last 3- hours.” “I ran those sweeps with your first query. A Chance Catel does not show up on any form of transportation manifest in or out of the Chicago area over the past 48-hours.” “Shit.” “I know you’re not talking to me.” “Sorry. How about cell phone calls?” “What period?” “The last 6-hours.” “6-calls,” the operator took a moment to review the log before continuing. “All blocked numbers.” “Where to?” “Three within Chicago. Two to Miami. One to Qatar.” “Can you get me the actual numbers?” “It will take a couple of hours.” “Call me on my cell. Thanks.” “Did you just say, ‘Thanks’?” “I’m tired. It was a moment of weakness.” The call ended as a smile came over Operator 38.

* * *

At the same time, somewhere near the middle of the Atlantic Ocean at approximately 40,000 feet, a G650 was returning to the Middle East from the United States. As the Demerol began wearing-off and the pain intensified, Akmed put on a pair of surgical gloves. Then he opened Nasser’s box, gently removed the parchments and began examining the documents

135 AVC that were going to change the World as he knew it, certainly for the next 100-years. After understanding the significance of the altered Quran, Akmed cupped his hand over his face to help ease the pain as he thought to himself, ‘This is worth an eye.’

* * *

Zulle’s 2-young operatives had hidden the stolen ambulance they used in the assault on the military convoy, in a barn at a remote farm in northeastern Pennsylvania. The farm was a safe house owned by The Organization, The Group’s clandestine arm. To avoid any chance of detection, the young couple planned to stay at the farm for the next 8- months, until their assignment in New York city on New Year’s Eve. The young couple had been making love in the quaint one-bedroom farmhouse during the early morning hours. As the girl swung her legs out of bed, her right foot grazed a jagged metal clip on the stolen nuclear backpack that was lying on the floor, leaning-up against the side of their bed. She commented ruefully while rubbing the scraped area on her leg. “Does that thing have to be in the bedroom?” The young man sat-up and swung around. Placing a leg on either side of his lover, he wrapped his arms around her then hugged her from behind as he answered. “That thing has to be wherever we are, until our time.” His response caused the girl to consider the order of things. “How certain are you that this is truly our calling and our time?” “As sure as I am that we are blessed. Think, of all the Faithful, we are the ones who were chosen. This is a remarkable honor and opportunity to serve our God, our people and our families.” The young man paused for a moment as he considered his own answer before finishing his thought. “Very certain.”

136 CARBON COPY CHAPTER 21

As night gave way to the dawn, the sun’s brilliant shafts of crimson and fuchsia sliced the distant horizon with a blinding intensity. In an instant, the morning’s first light raced across the vast desert floor before tearing through the jagged silhouette of the ancient city. After casting long fingerlike shadows through the streets and marketplaces, the sun set the scorched desert west of the city ablaze. Then, as quickly as the assault on the peaceful evening sky began, it was over, signaling the beginning of another oppressively hot day, as it had every morning for centuries on end. Deep within the maze of timeless sandstone buildings, the sounds of a holy man praying to Allah echoed through empty narrow streets. As effectively as the moon summons the scorpion, the holy man’s message caused scores of frail, niqāb-wrapped figures to gather along the river’s edge, performing their daily tasks. Weighed down by their wicker baskets of laundry and children in tow, the women honored the Message, as had been the custom since before recollection. As one of the oldest cities on Earth, this was a place that ran deep with tradition. Having served as a crossroads through the Middle East and the gateway between the north and south for thousands of years, it was a place laced with remarkable depth and diversity. But this was also a place where unimaginable pride and radical religious oppression had been grafted onto a rich tradition in order to enslave the human spirit for generations. For those who had found it useful, this stranglehold had suppressed hope and ambition, nurturing and controlling one of the most fanatic social orders of all time. It was a place where hate and fear broke noble souls while their impoverished lives and malnourished bodies hung precariously in the balance. It was a place where the countless Faithful were ready and willing to do anything for the promise of a glorious afterlife, as their only alternative to the despair and desolation they had been left with. It was a place where martyrdom once again became the foundation upon which a great movement was born and thrived. It was also the staging ground for the most diabolical plan that had

137 AVC ever been conceived against humanity. A place where, “human craft and wickedness have reached their highest pitch.”6 Towering above the choking heat, pungent odors, dust and turmoil, an impressive golden dome stood as the supreme irony. Glittering in the blazing morning sun, it presided over an unsettling combination of magnificent wealth, unspeakable poverty, and the human suffering that coexisted within its very shadow. Inside the cool, privileged opulence of the mosque, the alim, a grey- bearded Islamic holy man, crouched on his knees in prayer. His spiritual plea was intense. In less than 30-minutes he would confront the most important challenge of his life, one that would impact the entire world. But rather than asking his God for the wisdom to make the correct decision, he prayed for the courage to carry out the decision that had already been made for him, his duty and the final act of his life. After concluding his morning rituals that lasted almost until noon, this complex man in a simple white thawb and sandals steadied himself on the altar and stood, slowly and deliberately. Though a pillar of spiritual fortitude, his arthritic body had long ago betrayed him, succumbing to the ravages of time and abstinence. Rising above the pain, the alim walked purposefully through the marble muşallā embellished with ivory, semiprecious stones and gold gilding. Outside the holy chamber ran a long, ornate hallway of granite and spectacular hand-carved moldings. The hallway provided separation between the prayer hall and the executive wing, establishing a physical divide between the things of God and the things of man. Regardless of how many times the alim had approached the end of the hallway throughout his 40-year tenure, it always seemed surreal to him. There they stood, at attention, 2-heavily armed guards in full military dress, holding automatic weapons in the midst of this hallowed place. Still, the alim understood that it was an unfortunate sign of the times, one he himself had helped to create and had resigned himself to. As the alim approached, the guards parted, allowing him entry to a vaulted foyer of mosaics and frescos blazing with colorful images of Islam’s 1,500-year history of conquest, leading to a large meeting chamber.

6 Machiavelli 138 CARBON COPY Despite the fact that the alim was standing in one of the finest examples of Middle Eastern architecture, there was no escaping the squalid, dry morning air- dense with the dust and pungent aromas of the city. Even in these exalted surroundings, it left a bitter taste in the back of the alim’s throat that was a constant reminder of just how fragile the balance had become for his people. That disturbed him greatly while providing further justification for what he was about to do. Pausing outside a pair of massive etched-bronze doors, the alim took hold of their exquisitely formed handles as he reflected for a moment on the path that had brought him to this place, wishing beyond hope that he could shed this yoke. Unfortunately for the alim, he was a wise man cursed with knowledge. Then there was his position and duty, which further denied him the relief the masses found in delusion and naiveté. Resigned to his obligation and fate, the alim took a deep breath as he leaned down onto the levers, entering the chamber along with his destiny. The alim took his place at the head of the long conference table that dominated the center of the large room. A dozen high-level holy men and politicians stood and bowed their heads in reverence. It was an elite gathering. And though none but the alim and the prime minister had any knowledge of Zulle or his plan, each attendee was aware that what happened that day might well be the most important decision of their lives, affecting all the Faithful for generations if not centuries to come. Patiently allowing the attendees to complete their homage to him, the alim finally motioned for them to sit. Then he spoke directly to the prime minister with all the authority of his position. “Come.” It was an awkward start to their meeting. The prime minister was quick to join the alim as the 2-men stepped out of the main chamber into an adjoining anteroom. After closing and bolting the door behind them, the alim turned to confront the prime minister. “It is a dangerous path you would have us travel.” The prime minister was a political chameleon of the highest magnitude, the essence of fabricated respect and constraint. Believing that this would be his one and only opportunity to assure his place in history, he chose his words carefully before answering the alim.

139 AVC “At this moment the technology is available to us and us alone. If we do not seize this opportunity, others will. Like Ali bin Abi Talib, we must be decisive or the infidels will take possession of the technology and use it to destroy us. But make no mistake. The technology will be used and the destruction that will follow will be horrific. All that is left is a decision. It is up to us, you and me, here this day, to decide who will be the victors and who will be the victims.” The alim wasted no time responding. “Allah will thwart us if this is not His will. And God help us if that comes to pass.” Empowered and stunned by the alim’s apparent swift approval, the prime minister answered with a renewed sense of confidence. “It is both His will and our time. This is the grail the infidels have been searching for since their fall from grace. It is our duty to keep them from it while honoring Allah.” The prime minister’s logic was flawless, and apparently exactly what the alim required. The alim unbolted the door then turned back to the prime minister. “Very well. You may proceed.”

After returning to the chamber and taking his seat at the conference table, the alim addressed the collective, who represented both Sunni and four Madh’habs as well as the Shi’ah and four of the Shi’ah’s major groups. “My brothers.” The alim rose while motioning to Nasser’s stack of manuscripts sitting in front of him, as he continued. “These are extraordinary times. Now, with the words of Allah more clearly revealed, we must go forward, regardless of the costs or the consequences. It is our duty.” The alim motioned toward Nasser’s Quran. “This makes it clear. It is Allah’s will that we are one- one people, one nation.” The imam representing the Shi’ah was skeptical. “This is not the first time I have heard these words.”

140 CARBON COPY Though prophetic and intense, the imam’s reference to past failed military campaigns did nothing to dissuade the alim from his appointed task as he provided his response to the imam’s concerns. “Our past mistakes were to attempt to do with the sword that which can only be done through the spirit.” The alim’s response was compelling. He provided the perfect balance of theocracy and history that was needed to move forward. Then the alim placed his hand on Nasser’s stack of bound vellum writings that Akmed had retrieved from Mitra. As he looked upon the impressive forgeries, the alim paused before he continued. “We will not have to take Iraq, Iran, Libya, Afghanistan or even Saudi Arabia by force. They will come to us, willingly, as the infidels fall.” For effect, the alim gathered the full collection of parchments in his hands and extended the forgeries as he continued. “Unlike the past, this time we have truth, honor and God on our sides. Nothing can defeat them.” As a man of God and a senior member of The Organization, the alim was unencumbered by truth or honor. He saw beyond morality, because history had made him painfully aware of the inevitable pilferage and devastation the Christians and Jews would inflict upon his people if he were not successful. The alim understood this was a defining moment for all the Faithful, and that what he and the prime minister were about to do should tip the balance of global power in their favor. Staring deeply into the prime minister’s cold, dark eyes, the alim searched for a sign, anything that he could use to claim this was Allah’s will. Unfortunately, the alim also knew the most unlikely place for a holy sign would be from this lost soul. Even so, the alim understood the need for this meticulously groomed heathen who stood before him. Though he had been completely corrupted by western society, as evidenced by the prime minister’s finely tailored black worsted suit and tasseled alligator shoes that lay in hiding under his Didashah, Thagiyah, Gutrah and Ogal, the alim appreciated the purpose the prime minister served and the absolute necessity for their charade. The stakes were high, if not unprecedented. Without the pretext of a holy and noble cause to mask Zulle’s dreadful plan, the Faithful could suffer

141 AVC another 500-years of servitude at the hands of the infidels. Or worse, if for some inexplicable reason Zulle’s plan was uncovered, it could bring about the end of the entire Muslim faith. The alim would do anything to prevent that from happening, which ensured the alim’s loyalty to Zulle’s plan. The alim also understood that he must die before Nasser’s Quran was released to the public to guarantee he couldn’t be tortured into betraying Zulle’s plan and that success required that extraordinary level of deceit and loyalty. The tension inside the large room riveted the members of the tribunal to the alim’s pause. Though only the alim and the prime minister knew the manuscripts sitting before them were forgeries, it was clear to all that they were responsible for the global movement that was about to ensue. Finally, the Shi’ah imam with his chest length beard and green turban spoke to the alim, releasing the spiritual grip on everyone in the chamber other than the prime minister, a man devoid of spiritual content. “I understand what you have said. Now tell me what you believe.” This was the defining moment for the alim, if not the entire Middle East. And it was clear from the alim’s response that he was up to the challenge. “I believe in history and my God.” “Meaning?” The imam’s intense gaze was as much for justification as it was a plea for understanding. “Meaning- only the strong have ever survived, and I am honored to do His will.” The room went still as everyone, including the alim, waited for the imam’s response. “There is honor in both. His will be done.” Those simple 2-sentences sealed the fate of 5-billion human beings. Within a year, most of them would be dead. Ironically, the alim and imam had no idea that several billion of the Faithful would be among the casualties.

142 CARBON COPY CHAPTER 22

Deep beneath the ground, Zulle and his 11-comrades were seated around a magnificent round table in the meeting chamber, watching intently as the alim and the prime minister’s meeting approached its critical conclusion. The Twelve were deeply invested in the proceedings. And with only one day remaining in their May retreat, they were pleased with the progress that had been made. The Quran portion of Zulle’s plan was so much more palatable than the second part, which Zulle already revealed would require blowing-up an entire city. And though Stone managed to keep his feelings to himself, Zulle had a 6th sense about people’s true feelings. Zulle knew Stone was hiding something as he continued. “Now the process starts. It’s time to significantly reduce their numbers.” This caused all the members to look back at their monitors with renewed interest as their advanced technology continued to pirate the mosque's audio and video feeds, chronicling the alim and prime minister's meeting for the Twelve voyeurs.

* * *

As the alim lowered his head in silent prayer, the prime minister stood in amazement. There was a moment that followed in which everyone in the tribunal, with the exception of the alim, was at a loss. None of them were prepared for such a swift approval. But then, none in attendance had any way of knowing the alim’s decision had been predetermined and presented to him earlier that morning, or that the alim answered to a powerful earthly force as well as God. With the politics behind him, now the alim needed to authenticate the manuscripts. Having both the Sunni and Shi’ah leadership’s approval was a major first step. The fact that they were delivered to the alim by a high- ranking source provided additional credibility and was a role perfectly suited for the prime minister.

143 AVC The alim had already planned his own death and the death of the prime minister, removing both of them from the inevitable investigation that was about to follow. With no one to depose, the newly discovered Quran would have to stand on its own merit- which of course it would. After the manuscript had withstood scientific scrutiny, and with Islam’s leadership in support, there would be no way for anyone to slow down, let alone stop, the global movement that was about to take place.

* * *

Unaware that he just sentenced himself to death, and careful not to overthink his misguided success, the prime minister placed the impressive forgeries back into Professor Nasser’s black box before officially presenting it to the alim. The next few moments were gravely important. If anyone outside of Zulle’s group knew of the technology, it would nullify the manuscripts’ usefulness. And there was no assurance that the problem was contained with the Manrique girl’s death. The prime minister had planned to dedicate a significant portion of that morning’s meeting with the alim, discussing recommended courses of action to deal with the Manrique problem. However, with approval of the overall plan in hand and the opportunity to resolve the Manrique matter on his own, the prime minister justified his silence as he bowed and left, followed by his 3-military escorts. Once outside the diplomacy of the chamber, the prime minister and his entourage moved silently down the hallway, distancing themselves from the alim, the only person that the prime minister believed could stand between him and destiny.

* * *

The prime minister’s deception wasn’t lost on The Twelve, as Alexandrov, The Group’s youngest member, was quick to point out. “That little shit. He’s going to keep quiet about the technology being compromised.” Alexandrov turned to Zulle.

144 CARBON COPY “You are going to notify the alim, aren’t you?” “For what reason?” Zulle queried. “What reason?!” “Think about it. If all goes as planned, this will be an incredible blow to the Christians and Jews. It will provide a leg up for Islam, which they could use right about now. And, in conjunction with the New Year’s Eve event, it will bring about the onslaught of World War III.” “And if things don’t go as planned?” Alexandrov countered. “Then it will be an incredible blow to Islam, a leg up for the Christians and Jews, and in conjunction with the New Year’s Eve event, the start of World War III. That’s the advantage of controlling both sides of a plan. All we have to do is allow human nature to run its course, one way or the other. Either way, they lose- we win.” Stone seized the opportunity to deflect any suspicion that he wasn’t strongly in support of Zulle’s plan. “As I see it, there isn’t anything we can do without an answer to the Manrique conundrum. Does anyone have that answer?” Stone paused and swept the expressions in the room for effect. He knew full-well there was no one in attendance that knew what to do about Manrique’s involvement. Then he finished his thought. “There you have it. I suggest we stand down and allow Gaston to work his magic. As usual, he is correct. Either way, we win.” Zulle tipped his head in appreciation of Stone’s complement. After a moment of reflection, Alexandrov acquiesced, though he sounded less than won over. “We’ll see.”

145 AVC CHAPTER 23

It had been an intense weekend, even by The Group’s lofty standards. Not since the days of planning World War II had their meetings been so challenging. And since none among them were old enough to have been present then, it made this May gathering the most difficult in the history of the current membership. Tensions were running high on both sides of the genocide issue. Today’s meeting promised to be every bit as impressive as Saturday’s as Zulle took the early lead. “Admittedly, Saturday’s car chase and shootout is a hard act to follow. But as the Manrique girl put it, I’ll do my best to, ‘keep it interesting.’ “Please turn your attention to your monitors. What you are about to see is a rehearsal of the U.S. portion of our plan. Once the Quran has had a few months to get everyone worked-up and ready to explode, the events you are about to see should provide the spark that will send the frantic global masses to the brink of anarchy. “Left with no choice, governments of the world will either go to war with each other, their own citizens, or be overthrown. Regardless, global conflict will break out, infrastructures will collapse, food, water and medical supplies will no longer be available and the populace will begin to die off by the millions in short order. I suspect at the end of 6-months only the strong or the well-prepared will have survived. “Long-term global civil unrest and food riots will follow, creating conditions truly unique to the human experience, reducing the population by hundreds of millions, hopefully billions. This should go on for two to three years. “After that time, the emerging government, or governments, will be in charge of the cleanup. Humanity’s survivors will start over, but at a more manageable level and the world should run smoothly for the next several centuries. “Our successors will look upon this New Year’s Eve celebration as the

146 CARBON COPY end of the Great Dissent and the birth of the New Order. And though the masses will view it as the most unfortunate chapter in human history; in truth, we will have saved them from themselves. Can you even begin to imagine the suffering and anguish they would have had to endure if their uncontrolled breeding continued unchecked?” Zulle stood with the agility and assurance of a man 40-years younger. “Consider this. The foundations of the 3-greatest movements throughout human history were built upon 1-man, a 1-book and martyrs.” Zulle was absolutely aglow as Dubois looked at Stone with furtive disdain as Zulle continued. “I give you the 4th and greatest movement of all time. Again, 1-man, me, 1-book, my altered Quran, and the largest number of martyrs, ever, billions.” Five of the members applauded Zulle’s plan and self-deification in earnest. Stone and the remaining 5-members also applauded. But it was only for the genius behind Zulle’s plan. Zulle’s self-deification left those members with severe reservations as to Zulle’s mental state.

The next part of Zulle’s presentation was a simulation aided by computer graphics and special effects that appeared on each of the member's large monitors, suspended in the air, just in front of them. The Twelve watched intently as an eerie voiceover narrated in a dramatic newsreel style: “It is New Year’s Eve in Manhattan. 15-seconds remain as the glimmering Waterford crystal ball completes its 77-foot, 60-second descent in Time Square…” A window in the upper left corner of each member’s screen activated, tracked the Waterford crystal ball on its way to its cradle. “…and hundreds of millions of people from around the world watch in anticipation of the coming New Year…” Another window on each of theirs screens began flashing images of people from around the world, looking-on blissfully at that unifying global tradition. “Some watch from the quiet, peaceful seclusion of their beds while others are jostled around in large, boisterous crowds, yelling out with each

147 AVC declining second. Regardless of their location, the people of the world are watching, counting-down in anticipation of those last fateful seconds leading up to the New Year. And despite this being one of the most exciting moments of the year, these have always been the most predictable final seconds in history- until now.” Then, on the 3rd quarter of their monitors, The Group saw the image of a young man hurling a drab green backpack high over the guard railing of the Empire State Building’s Observation Deck as the narrator completed his presentation. “Tonight, the people of the world are in for a surprise. A surprise to paraphrase the late President Roosevelt, ‘That will live in infamy.” As the backpack went into freefall, the final ¼ of their monitors activated showing the clock at Time Square about to strike midnight. At that moment, the 4-choreographed events came together. The Waterford crystal ball settled into its cradle, the clock at Time Square struck midnight, billions of people from around the world began to screen for joy as the backpack exploded- sending a blinding flash of intense white light across their entire screens, along with the ear-piercing sound of the enormous explosion. The 13-split-screens changed to the single, horrific image. A million- people celebrating within the massive neon-colored shadows of Time Square were instantly engulfed by an immense fireball. Simulated satellite images of the thermonuclear blast consuming the Times Square Building, along with the better part of midtown Manhattan, filling the members’ monitors. Zulle tapped an icon on his panel causing the simulation to zoom out. The image of the explosive plume consuming New York city was shocking, even to this group of jaded titans. The size of the blast area and the shock of the moment sent Zulle’s comrades into expletives, all resounding at the same time. “Wow!” “Merde! “срања!” ف !"

“Stront!”

148 CARBON COPY ”القر!

“Shit!” “拉屎!” Then- utter silence. But within the silence there was a profound sense of importance that gripped each of the members. They reflected on what they had just witnessed while quietly questioning their decision to go forward with Zulle's plan. Everyone except Zulle, who could not have been more pleased with himself. Even within The Group’s sense of utter self-importance, the sight of millions of people being incinerated and skyscrapers falling to the ground like discarded dominoes was reason for pause. In addition to their dismay, the blast also underscored one of New York’s less fortunate realities. With notoriety comes exposure, a dubious distinction in the current theater of global terrorism. For New York, this had proven to be an enormous liability, making it ground zero and terrorism’s ultimate mark of success, time-and-time again. “Well!” Elizabeth took another moment to consider the devastation before continuing. “My, my. You certainly have a flare for the dramatic, Gaston. I was expecting another couple of airliners and a lost building or two.” “срања…!”7 Alexandrov’s earlier apprehension was replaced with the enthusiasm of his youth. “Outstanding. This is completely apocalyptic.” While the other members considered the implications of what they had just seen, Zulle paused to reflect upon his handiwork. As he considered the plume, clouds of dust, and floating debris on his screen, Zulle felt a deep sense of satisfaction as he turned off the 13-monitor. The satellite image of New York City’s incineration disappeared from view- but not from their minds. Racking his fingers as he considered his next move, Zulle settled back into his large overstuffed black leather winged chair to share his optimism with his fellow members.

149 7 “Shit!” AVC “The buildup of 2-months of global tension after they discover our Quran will create the perfect, volatile, sociopolitical climate for this coming New Year’s Eve surprise. It will be of epic proportions and should make the Yanks mad enough to get back in the game madder than ever before.” Yee, a slight Asian gentleman seated across the table, waved his hand through the air as a sign that he was less than impressed. “So, you eliminate a couple million of them. That still leaves over 7- billion to deal with.” There was utter calm in Zulle’s voice as he responded sarcastically to his comrade. “Decades of your brilliant genocide and pandemic programs combined haven’t even kept up with their birth rate. Which, incidentally, China is most responsible for. Remember that Bird Flu thing you swore was going to be the next Black Plague?” Yee sighed as he fell victim to his own fallings while Zulle drove the final nail. “And you question my plan?” “Still, he has a point.” Rhinebolt wasn’t so much onboard with Yee’s dissention, but he couldn’t resist the opportunity to take a jab at Zulle. And it worked. Zulle’s tone elevated as he became less conciliatory. “You need to take a good look at your own shortfalls. Even after creating over a dozen global health epidemics from cancer and heart attacks to obesity with your meat and dairy campaign, you still haven’t come close to keeping-up with the birth-rate.” Then Zulle settled-down as he considered what Rhinebolt had accomplished. “Still, your cheeseburgers have made us trillions in pharmaceuticals. And now that China has gotten hooked on fried-everything, you might just start killing-off enough of them to make it all worthwhile. Certainly, the upcoming increases in pharmaceuticals from the Asian rim should be impressive over the next 25-years. “But with my plan we’ll get instant gratification and long-term benefits. Over a million dead in a matter of moments and many more over the next 10-years from the collateral damage of radiation poisoning. The medical treatment of which will add to our bottom line.”

150 CARBON COPY After pausing just long enough to sip his absinthe, Zulle continued his thought. “But you’re both missing the point. We don’t need to kill that many Americans. We only need to get them mad enough to help incite WWIII.” Yee wasn’t about to let Zulle off that easily, especially since he had been lobbying The Group for decades for China to replace the United States as the world’s leading super power. “I wouldn’t start patting myself on the back just yet. Both of your Desert Drizzles and romp through Afghanistan combined amounted to no more than a few hundred thousand fatalities. Add to that your New Year’s Eve barbeque and this year’s 140-million birth rate is alive and well.” It wasn’t that Zulle disagreed with Yee. The problem was that Yee was so determined to establish China’s supremacy that he didn’t want to see the bigger picture. “Forget regional conflicts and isolated campaigns. I’m betting on World War III,” Zulle said confidently. “With the other side having used a nuclear weapon in a preemptive strike, we should see the first volley of nuclear weapons ever in open combat. Combine that with global genocide and we’re looking at a billion, minimum, in the 1st year. Even more, depending upon how long we can keep the conflict going. That goes way beyond your birth rate.” Yee was trying his best not to be convinced. “Perhaps, but I still think you should start looking elsewhere for new leadership. The Americans just aren’t up for the job any longer.” “I disagree. The Americans just need a good kick in the pants. Who else do you know that will start a war at the drop of a hat, overthrow any government that we want in the name of freedom while shooting through a couple of trillion dollars, most of which we get? Then change their minds when we want them to, clean-up the whole mess, and turn the region into a tourist destination, all at their own expense? They are an amazingly conflicted people. All we need to do is unite them in their anger. I’m betting this New Year’s Eve will do just that.” Zulle turned the monitors back-on as he continued. “We’ll give them someone from the Middle East to blame so they can start racing through their first trillion dollars before mid-January.”

151 AVC A faint smile accompanied a look of mixed emotions as Zulle gave the screen an intense observation, surveying the damage he intended to inflict on New York City in another 8-months. “After all, even without New York they are still America. And they haven’t failed us yet.” It took every bit of Stone’s restraint to keep from jumping over the table and strangling Zulle. But even more, he knew this wasn’t the time to show his hand.

152 CARBON COPY CHAPTER 24

Even though it had been 6-hours, Stone still wasn’t able to shake the inner- torment of Zulle’s plan. He found himself pacing the floor of his penthouse suite. As it stood, his country was about to get a 2nd bloody nose this century, and this one was going to be even worse than the last. The entire situation went against everything Stone believed in and held dear. Still, Stone’s only option at the moment was to let things run their course. A flash of light from across Lake Geneva caught Stone’s eye through the massive wall of glass. “Probably a camera,” he mused quietly to himself. Stone imagined a very attractive young lady with dark flowing hair in a leather miniskirt and cable knit sweater having her picture taken by her boyfriend with the Jet d’Eau in the background. The image sparked a desire to be around average people, anonymously. Maybe that would take his mind off the looming carnage he had just sanctioned, even though he was betting his life that he had a way to prevent it. Stone grabbed a jacket then left the secluded opulence of the Wilson to stroll along rue de Rive and rue du Rhone. Along the way, Stone glanced in the storefronts of Glashutte Original and Jaquet Droz, Apple and Louis Vuitton. But instead of enjoying his window-shopping, Stone found himself lingering near the little church across from Patek Philippe. The small building was a couple of hundred years old, reminiscent of a Gothic fairytale and completely out of place amidst the luxury and Euro modernity that had overtaken the area. There was a clock tower with a yellow sun on the clock face and a bell turret above. Below the clock was a row of square illustrations in painted brick. The square that captivated Stone had a large brown bear that seemed to be desperately ascending the tower toward the clock- a kind of race against time. A chill ran through Stone as he considered how prophetic it was that he and the bear had so much in common. Slightly annoyed that he wasn’t shaking his angst, Stone made his way to one of the cafés at Place du Molard to do some people watching, have a drink, and place his 2nd call to Carlos Bottega. Stone had been committed to unravel Zulle's insanity even before making his 1st call to Bottega, but today’s meeting doubled his resolve. As Stone dialed Bottega’s number, a waitress approached.

153 AVC “Hello. What can I get for you?” “A Bellini, thank you.” As the waitress walked away, Stone took his phone from his finely tailored cashmere jacket then dialed.

* * *

“Hola.” “It appears Round 1 has gone to the other side.” Stone’s message grated on Bottega. He had never failed at anything, and he hated the feeling. “So it would seem. How many rounds are there?” Stone remained cryptic. “We won’t know until the game is over.” “Who are the dissidents?” “Whoever loses. History will see to that.” “Do you have any advice?” Bottega ventured. “Get creative, very creative.” Stone ended the call content that Bottega was still in the game. Bottega sat back in his wicker lounge, looking across the endless vista of the South Pacific with a great deal to consider. It was obvious that whatever was in play was very important to someone with significant resources. That being the case, why would he contact Bottega rather than deal with the matter himself. And if the technology was as valuable as he claimed, why wouldn’t he keep it for himself, or at least hold onto a significant stake in it? Then there were concerns about the players. Who was Bottega up against? And what were they up to? Finally, and most important, why would the caller choose to hold back that information? The more Bottega considered the matter, the more uncomfortable he became. He had already suffered a significant loss with Mitra’s death. Mitra was Bottega’s top operative with extraordinary qualities and an irreplaceable importance to him personally. But for some inexplicable

154 CARBON COPY reason, none of the vagaries and warnings dissuaded Bottega, which he found as exhilarating as perplexing.

* * *

Stone sat back in his chair to enjoy the procession of old tourists and young lovers as they passed-by, between him and the breakwall along Lake Geneva. Within the crowded procession he saw an elderly couple that Stone found particularly endearing. As they walked arm-in-arm, slowly along the strand, the old fellow kept stroking his wife’s arm with his arthritic hand. Frail and clearly in the twilight of their years, there remained a twinkle in their eyes that Stone had never experienced. After shaking his moment of envy, Stone panned the expansive waterside for another distraction. Though rare, the times Stone ventured out among humanity he always felt a strange sense of belonging, as if he could actually be one of them had circumstances been different. That was another of Stone’s Achilles’ heels, as was his father’s before him. It was the cause of the Great Decent and the reason Stone was risking his life for his one and only noble cause- humanity’s right to self-determination. And while both Stone and his father understood the need for responsible population control, neither was willing to kill a single one of them to that end. It was a warm, balmy night- perfect for distraction. But like Bottega, Stone had a great deal to consider, not the least of which was his own mortality should his actions come to the attention of his colleagues. Fortunately, Stone was able to switch-off bothersome issues and move on to more pleasant thoughts, saving a great deal of wear-and-tear on his conscience and nerves. In the process of one of his mental adjustments, the images of New York City’s incineration and the macabre look of Zulle’s pale, translucent skin, pulled tight over his skeletal face were replaced by thoughts of his most recent guest. She was magnificent. Stone’s mind locked on to the beads of sweet that shimmered over her exquisite form as she straddled his naked body, looking deep into his soul with her hypnotic green eyes as told him, ‘This is going to be a night you'll never forget.’ And she was right.

155 AVC Stone was accustomed to gorgeous, accomplished women. But even in his rarified world of Brazilian supermodels and Russian Instagram beauties, she was extraordinary, the stuff of fantasies. And though Stone didn’t understand how she manager to evade his security detail, endow him with pornstar status or the power she had over him, he was willing to throw caution to the wind. He knew he had to see her again. With a Bellini delicately balanced on a serving tray, Stone’s waitress skillfully navigated the sea of tables, approaching him from behind. Out of nowhere the beautiful jogger intercepted the drink while slipping the waitress a $100 bill, just before they arrived at Stone’s table. “Thank you, I’ll take it from here.” The jogger’s broad smile and $100 bill was all it took to send the waitress on her way, back to the bar. Stone was still deep in thought reliving the tastes, scents and wild abandon of his anonymous friend as she sat down alongside him. Somewhere between surprised and excited, Stone watched on as she took a deliberately slow and sensuous sip of the peach-flavored champagne, then set the glass in front of Stone, kissing his ear as she whispered. “Good choice.” She was pure eye-candy in a pair of white hot pants, which looked more like a belt than clothing, and Stone’s missing Bijan shirt. A smile came over Stone as he made a mental note, ‘So that’s where the shirt went.’ He savored her provocative appearance, taking-in every erotic piece of her as he got hard while picking up the cold, fluted glass, carefully sipping from the mark her lipstick left on its crystal rim. “I remember that taste.” Stone’s words had the desired effect. Her mouth opened ever so slightly as her tongue slid along the underside of her upper lip. Her breathing accelerated as she smiled slyly at the memory. Without saying a word, she reached over and retook possession of the Bellini. She nicked a straw off a passing server’s tray, and slowly slid it into the cool peach drink. Then she gently grabbed hold of the straw, using only her tongue as she guided it into her mouth, the same way she had done the last time she had

156 CARBON COPY him in her mouth. At that moment, he wanted to be that straw more than anything on Earth. Stone’s waitress joined three other Italian waiters who were looking on from the service stand enjoying the moment almost as much as Stone. A smile came over one of the waiters as he commented, “Quando io sto per morire e ritornare indietro, vorrei essere lui.”8 After she set the glass down, Stone allowed his body to relax into the moment, cupping his hands behind his head and settling in for a wonderful visit. “This is a pleasant surprise. What are you doing here?” “Keeping it interesting.” Her words cut into Stone like a hot knife as she gave him one of her CFM looks and took another slow, seductive sip of their drink. But Stone didn’t give up anything. For the first time in years Stone found someone he liked- really liked. But not to the point of being blind. Hearing the same unusual phrase from the Manrique girl was just too coincidental. Stone was always cautious of ulterior motives in anyone that came close to him. But, surely, Dubois would have vetted her. And was it simply another coincidence that Zulle used the same expression earlier that day in his remarks? The last thought Stone wanted running through his mind was that she could be working for Zulle. Though having her come through Dubois as a cover was just the kind of stunt Zulle would pull. Dubois’s love for beautiful women made him an easy mark. Damn, it all made sense. But he didn’t want the image to persist. So, like any of the many other unpleasant things that Stone chose not to deal with, he simply switched it off. The smart play would have been for Stone to finish his drink, enjoy the balance of their time together at the café then excuse himself. But he simply couldn’t do that. All Stone could think about was the feeling of being entwined with her in bed, knowing that if he slid his hand between her legs he would find her wet, warm and ready for anything and everything. And though Stone was a man accustomed to being in control. She was simply irresistible, requiring a heightened level of attention. A level he had never put into anything but his business deals. Then there was the tightness in his pants. It brought back memories of grabbing her hair from behind

8 “When I die and come back, I want to be him.” 157 AVC while he rode her hard, blurring any hope of good judgment. He knew he could be making a mistake. But he just couldn’t help himself as he reasoned, ‘Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.’ And though his true motivation was much simpler than his convoluted logic, Stone intended to keep her extremely close that evening. After taking a moment to regain his composure, Stone downed the last half of the Bellini. “Funny, I wouldn’t have pictured you as a ‘last sip’ kind of guy.” “Interesting. I’m not. It’s just that I needed to taste you one more time before the long walk back to heaven.” “You’re good.” As Stone reached for his cell phone that was still on the table after his call to Bottega, she noticed it had a half-finished game of Solitaire. “You, too?” “What?” “Solitaire.” She picked up his phone before Stone could get it and began working on the half-finished round. “It’s the one thing I do for distraction. I’ve been addicted since I was a little girl.” Stone reached over and took back his phone. “Since that means you've only had a couple years of experience, I don’t want you messing up my game.” Though they both appeared to enjoy Stone’s backhanded compliment, there was an uneasiness as he slipped the phone in his jacket. To smooth things over, Stone forced a smile as he felt better not having his phone in her possession, as she agonized over her 2nd failed attempt to bug his cell phone. Stone took her hand as they began their walk back to his suite at The Wilson. “How did you do that thing?” “What thing?” “You know.” Stone casually cupped himself with his free hand as he completed his question. “Turning me into a pornstar.” “Oh that- just a little something I learned along the way.”

158 CARBON COPY “There’s nothing little about it. And I’d like to hear more about your ‘along-the-way’ adventures.” “Boring- nothing like the life you’re used to.” “Somehow I doubt that’s the case. Between your disappearing act, this…” a second handful of groin, “…and that thing you do with your eyes.” “Aw, you noticed.” She feigned shyness, though they both knew she was incapable of it as she finished her thought. “Oh well, now you know all there is to know about me.” “Right. If you were living 300-hundred years ago they would have burned you at the stake.” A glow came over her at Stone’s reference to witchcraft. “Ah, now that gives me an idea for tonight.” Her sassy smile sent a chill through Stone’s entire body in anticipation of another unforgettable encounter.

159 AVC CHAPTER 25

The early May sun was low and gentle in the Florida sky as a pleasant ocean breeze cooled South Beach and the causeway. It had been 4-hours since Chance left Chicago’s O’Hare and 15-minutes since she stepped off Catel’s G6 and into his Bell 429 helicopter at the Miami International Airport. Chance was drained. It had been the most intense 36-hours of her life, and a great deal of it still hadn’t settled-in. But for now, she was safe. So she sat back, motionless in the sleek transport, looking out across the urban sprawl below as she crossed Biscayne Bay on approach to Catel’s estate on Star Island. Chance had read dozens of early morning postings on the internet about the high-speed chase, the collateral damage throughout the entire stretch of the Magnificent Mile, and Mitra’s death. Some accounts were more graphic than others, but they all fell short of what really happened. Being there, witnessing the horrific episode, made it unsettlingly personal. But what did not make sense were the explosions at the University, Professor Nasser’s death and the images of Mitra captured on the campus’ security cameras, linking her to those events. The mere thought that Mitra could have even been somehow involved in Professor Nasser’s death sent a chill up Chance’s spine. As the custom-painted helicopter descended toward the lush east lawn, Chance stared blindly through red, tear-swollen eyes out her window at the exquisite compound below. She hardly noticed the 7-men waiting patiently at the far corner of the landing area. Instead, her mind was flooded with images of Mitra’s murder playing over-and-over. All she could see was the chase, then the gruesome sight and cold feel of her best friend’s lifeless body in her arms. It fueled Chance’s rage with an uncontrollable need to avenge Mitra’s murder. Her stomach curdled with disgust as images of Yemen and Akmed swirled in her mind. It was only through her personal pact for revenge that Chance was able to release her mind from the grip of those images. Her vow, ‘You’re going

160 CARBON COPY to curse the day you were born before I get through with you. I promise you that.’ gave Chance her strength. And the key to making that vow come true was her grandfather, the one person in life who had never let her down. As Chance neared her destination, the sight of her grandfather began a slow cleansing of the vile images of Mitra’s murderers. Unlike the rest of the world, for Chance, Arturo Catel represented all that was good about life. He had always protected and taken care of her. Chance was confident something was surely already in motion to avenge Mitra’s murder, if not already done. Content, she settled back to escape the open wounds of her feelings through the short final moments of her landing. Arturo Catel was a 70-year-old gentleman with a commanding presence. But that morning he was barely recognizable as he waited patiently, behind his guards as the helicopter bearing his family crest began to set down. It wasn’t until his 6-soldiers in black tailored suits began attending to Chance’s arrival that Catel’s smart camel blazer and white slacks provided the contrast that allowed Chance to know he was there. The cluster of testosterone that always surrounded Catel whenever he stepped foot outside his mansion spoke volumes to his power and authority. But for Chance, the world-class estate, with its elite private security force, surrounding the international businessman/warlord, was simply her home. The moment the aircraft touched down onto the lush emerald lawn that separated the imposing Mediterranean villa from the channel, a small army of guards and staff went into motion. It was clear that life in that precious piece of the world revolved around the Catels. Even before the rotors came to rest, 3 of the 6-men in black squatted then approached the craft. After anchoring the helicopter’s skids to the lawn, one guard attended to Chance’s door while the other two cleared the pilot and copilot. With the help of one of Catel’s men, an emotionally drained Chance stepped out of the still chopper then struggled across the lawn to the waiting embrace of her grandfather. “Mijita!” Since she was a baby, Chance had always been Mijita to Catel- his little one.

161 AVC “You look very tired.” It had been over 36-hours since Chance last slept. During that time, she had been through hell, and it showed. As Catel and Chance hugged, he kissed her forehead, just as he had since she was a baby. Chance closed her eyes in the sweetness of the moment and instinctively slid her arm through his to steady herself. Arm- in-arm they began their slow procession across the beautifully manicured floral veranda toward the villa. Yet even with the comfort and security of home, Chance looked around as though something was wrong. Catel had an uncanny way of sensing Chance's true feelings, good or bad. With a slight squeeze of her arm that was resting on his own, Catel reassured his granddaughter. “Don’t worry. Your mother should be arriving in about 2-hours. It takes a bit longer to get here from the Middle East than it does from Chicago. Even with your side trip.” That put Chance on notice that the matter of her unauthorized visit to Mitra’s hotel was still open in Catel’s mind. Normally, this would concern Chance. But given the circumstances involving Mitra’s murderer, along with John and Matthew’s involvement, she was more than willing to take her reprimand in order to learn what finally happened in Mitra's hotel. Inside the beautifully fortified villa’s grand study, Chance curled up on one of its large down-filled sofas. Though she was exhausted, Chance was eager to hear Catel’s report on what had happened to the man who murdered Mitra. So she went straight to it. “Where did the man who killed Mitra go when he left the hotel?” “I don’t know.” Time stood still as a look of utter disbelief came over Chance. Never before had her grandfather said he would take care of something that it wasn’t handled to her complete satisfaction. At first Chance was at a loss for words. Then, given the gravity of that moment, she snapped back with a force that both she and her grandfather were unaccustomed to in their relationship. “You don’t know?!?”

162 CARBON COPY The ensuing silence created a tension between Chance and Catel that they both needed to resolve- and quickly. Catel’s slow and deliberate response began the repair. “I sent in John and Matthew, my two best men. They are very experienced in these matters.” “And?” “And I apparently underestimated the other side. Neither John nor Matthew have been heard from since they entered the hotel elevator.” “You don’t mean…?” The sound of Chance’s voice was utter desperation. Catel nodded gravely. “Oh my God!” Chance flung her body to the side of the sofa and doubled over. She had held herself together remarkably well until then. But with nothing in her stomach for 18-hours and the last of her strength drained, her emotions overpowered her body in a fit of dry heaves. When her convulsions stopped, she was dripping in sweat, lost and adrift in her thoughts and frustrations. She struggled to recover her wits, then leaned back and rested her head on her grandfather’s chest. Catel began stroking her hair, which brought Chance some degree of comfort. Still, she was devastated. Two people she had known her entire life, and were as close as family, may be dead on her account. Despite their imposing statures and intimidating presence, Chance had always been able to bring out their softer side, reducing them to giant teddy bears. John and Matthew were an important, irreplaceable part of her life. And she could not stand the thought of never seeing them again.

* * *

Evening before…

By the time Yemen arrived at Mitra’s suite, the turndown service had already been done. Having what he believed to be the only access card, Yemen was prepared to begin searching the penthouse. When he went to check-in with Akmed, Yemen realized he left his cell phone in his car

163 AVC charger, which was a serious breach of security protocol that could have gotten him killed if it was taken, so he headed back to retrieve his phone. At the elevator, Yemen saw it had been called and was on its way back up, alarming him. A quick review of his arrival through the parking lot and lobby flashed through Yemen’s mind. There was a security transport, a black SUV with a driver. The engine was running which meant a recent arrival or near departure. Then there was the 2-man contingent at the desk with the young lady. Though Yemen only saw her from the back, her dress and stance indicated she was the one being escorted and they were checking with the front desk on their way in or out. There was a strange tension between the group at the front desk. Other than that, nothing seemed out of the ordinary, which bothered Yemen all the more. As the elevator was about to arrive, Yemen stepped into the coat closet to its right, unholstered his gun and left the closet door slightly open- just enough to see out. The elevator door opened but no one exited, at least not right away. The pause, while John and Matthew checked out the lobby while safely tucked behind the sides of the elevator, gave Yemen further cause for concern. But it was when John and Matthew stepped out of the elevator with their guns drawn, moving purposefully through the elevator lobby toward the suite that sealed their fate. Yemen’s first two shots were to the backs of John and Matthew’s heads. Before the two men even started to drop, two more shots came in rapid succession, through each of their backs, into their hearts. As the two men fell to the marble floor in a heap, Yemen’s mind went straight to the driver in the SUV. ‘He would be showing-up shortly if these two don’t return or check-in. I need to get them and me around him?’ Within 5-minutes, Yemen completed his sweep of Mitra’s suite and dropped both of the dead bodies from a balcony to the grassy knoll far below. Then Yemen went down the elevator, out the back door and loaded both bodies into his car. As Yemen drove away, he saw the driver leaving the SUV moving quickly into the hotel.

* * *

164 CARBON COPY Chance and Catel were sitting quietly on a sofa trying to gather their thoughts. The evening news was running softly in the background. Images scrolled across a large flat screen mounted above one of the room’s two massive fireplaces. Catel made a selection on a touch panel that raised the volume of the newscast just enough so he could hear it while Chance stared blindly into space. The two of them stayed that way for a long while. Mitra’s car chase and murder was still the lead story. The networks had solicited 1-expert after another to speak about the tragedy. Everyone from top race car drivers and team sponsors to psychologists and attorneys capitalized on the opportunity for a few moments of airtime, most of them pontificating on events they had not seen and clearly did not understand. No one on the news had a clue about what really happened that night or the events that led up to Mitra’s murder. Nothing had changed. It was what Catel and Chance had come to expect from the news, fascination rather than facts. In the absence of facts, the press had already started insinuating that Mitra’s flamboyant lifestyle and profession could have contributed to, if not encouraged the incredibly reckless street-racing episode that went very wrong. “Grandpa, it was horrible and there was nothing I could do. I’ve never felt so helpless.” Catel continued to stroke Chance’s hair as he provided what comfort he could. “It sounds as though you did everything you could. Be thankful you weren’t hurt.” Rather than comforting her, Catel’s comment sent a shiver through Chance as the reality of John and Matthew’s fate settled-in. Then Catel began asking questions. “Do you know who the men were?” “No.” “Were they Hispanic?” “No. Middle Eastern, definitely Middle Eastern.” “That’s good. How were they dressed?”

165 AVC “Suits. Dark suits. Black with black shirts, I think. Mitra must have done something to one of the men because he was holding the side of his face and blood was running through his fingers as he got back into his car.” “You were that close? Close enough to see blood?” Chance nodded her head. Catel paused, making Chance feel uneasy. She didn’t know exactly what it was. Even though Catel appeared to be genuinely concerned for Chance’s wellbeing, something was wrong. Catel wasn’t nearly as concerned or determined to avenge Mitra as Chance had expected. Granted, Mitra wasn’t a blood relative, though she may as well have been. She was that close to the family her entire life. Then there were John and Matthew. Both men had been in Catel’s service at the head of his elite force since before Chance was born. Even so, Catel didn’t appear to be much more than mildly concerned at their disappearance. None of it added up. Chance didn’t understand what was behind the strange vibes she was feeling, but she knew something was wrong. “Grandpa, it was awful!” “I’m sure it was. These men, did they say anything to you?” “No. They didn’t even know I was there.” “Which means they have no reason to be concerned with you.” This was another sign from Catel that exasperated Chance. “No reason? Who cares? This isn’t about me. I’m here, safe and sound. This is about Mitra.” Chance was agitated. Catel’s insistence on concerning himself with only Chance’s wellbeing was like raising the lid on a pressure cooker filled with angst and anger. “What are you going to do?” she insisted. “About what?” “Mitra! You have no idea how important this is to me.” “Yes, I do. But listen.” Catel was firm. “I know you loved Mitra. We all did. But we may have already lost 2-men. Thank God you are safe. I’ve done all I can. Now it’s time for the police.” “The police?!” Chance knew that was absurd. And she knew her grandfather did too. “When was the last time you called the police for anything?” There was silence.

166 CARBON COPY “I’ll make it even easier. Have you ever called the police for anything?” Chance made her point, though it really wasn’t necessary. They both knew Catel never called the police for assistance, nor did he ever intend to. Catel’s financial, technological and personnel resources had always been far superior to the police and not subject to the limitations of their judicial system. In Catel’s world, he was the commander-in-chief of an effective and lethal force. And when it came to dispensing justice, his word was final. Catel cut Chance off with a raised finger, a stern look and a single word. “Enough.” After a moment of silence, Catel changed the subject. “When did you call your mother?” “As soon as I let go of Mitra.” “That explains a lot. When Alyse called me, she was as upset as I’ve ever heard her. Can you imagine what it must have been like getting a desperate call from you saying Mitra had just been murdered and you could have been as well? You scared your mother half to death. And being on the other side of the world only made things worse.” “I didn’t mean to upset Mom. But I needed to hear her voice so badly.” “I know.” Catel’s diversion worked, but only for a moment. “Grandpa, please make things better, like you always do.” “What would you have me do?” “Find Mitra’s killers.” Catel resumed stroking Chance’s hair. “Trust me when I say everything that can be done will be. Unfortunately for now, there’s nothing anyone can do to ease your pain.” “Trust me. Knowing those 2-animals are lying face down in a gutter someplace would go a long way to easing my pain.” Catel sighed. “Think about it. We don’t know what they wanted or why they killed Mitra. Correct?” Chance nodded. “We don’t even know who they are. Correct?” Chance nodded a 2nd time.

167 AVC “What we do know is they went through an elaborate and dangerous chase to catch Mitra who, incidentally, should have been pretty hard to catch in a car. We also know they are capable of handling 2 of my best men while evading any sign of detection. And even with an international manhunt and the entire world aware of Mitra’s death, there hasn’t been a single lead. I suspect whoever they are, they are long gone by now. And whatever they wanted, they already have. No one is going to find them, at least not for a while.” Chance was deeply conflicted. She wanted to tell her grandfather the men didn’t have everything or they wouldn’t have gone to Mitra’s hotel room. She desperately wanted to tell Catel she had Mitra’s computer. But there was something about her grandfather’s lack of commitment to revenge that caused Chance to hold back. “So, what do I do?” “You move on like, we always do. But most important, you don’t let things get out of control.” Breaking news of the first-ever domestic terrorist attack on a military convoy preempted the non-stop coverage of Mitra’s news. The attack early that morning in the Virginia countryside seemed to have disrupted that entire region, giving Catel an excuse to change the channel and the focus of their conversation. “Even this country is going to the dogs.” As images of the carnage of Zulle’s heist scrolled across the screen with no mention of the nuclear backpack, Catel moved their conversation in another direction. “Look here.” Catel pressed down on the touch pad that changed the program on the large screen from the live newscasts to a prerecorded clip while he began his explanation. “This was right after last week’s verdict. Can you imagine what would happen to this family if I let things get to me?” Chance always tried to avoid the endless media circus surrounding her grandfather’s life, and this was no exception. Catel’s record-breaking trial had just concluded. The video clip showed

168 CARBON COPY him exiting a federal courthouse in Washington, D.C. where anchorman Paul Berry was waiting for Catel on the front steps. Catel and his small army of attorneys and handlers were whisked past the anchorman as Berry began his presentation. “Good afternoon, America. Today in a major setback for the Justice Department, a federal court acquitted Arturo Catel of all charges of racketeering in what is purported to have been the most expensive case ever brought by any government against a single individual.” The screen cut to a smiling Catel as he stepped into an awaiting limousine while his bodyguards and attorneys continued to keep the sea of cameras and reporters at bay. Now in the privacy of his home, Catel could not have looked more pleased as he commented on the verdict of a trial that’s outcome was predetermined before it started. “See? Things have a way of always working out.” “Congratulations, Grandpa.” Chance turned away from the TV and buried her head back in Catel’s chest as she completed her thought. “But things don’t seem to be working out for Mitra.” Catel continued to stroke Chance’s hair. “None of this would have happened if you had listened to me 6-years ago. I told you from the start that I didn’t agree with this college thing. Now it’s time to forget it. Don’t go back.” “I have to. I’ve got my thesis, the apartment and all my friends.” “Friends? Your best friend was just taken from you. Things like that don’t happen here. I’m telling you, it’s time to come home.” “Grandpa, being home would’ve protected me from seeing Mitra’s murder, but it wouldn’t have stopped it. I can’t live my life in a bubble. Not even a beautiful, protected, perfect bubble like this.” For the first time since she landed, a faint smile brushed Chance’s face, as she glanced at her grandfather with sympathetic eyes. Catel was content to be at home. He rarely left for anything, but they both knew Chance was incapable of living such a life. Chance looked up at the TV, more out of instinct than intent. As the image of Catel’s limousine pulled out of view, anchorman Berry turned and

169 AVC began interviewing the two key witnesses for the prosecution. The caption at the bottom of the screen read:

Federal Prosecutor ERIC LLOYD & Chief Investigator SIMON FLEMING

Lloyd was bookish and correct, in an ill-fitting, off-the-rack dark blue suit and disheveled hair. Fleming was a tall, weathered Texan with a short fuse and much better sense of style and grooming. He was also the man in the cowboy hat at the Chicago police station the night of Mitra’s murder. But Chance turned her head away before he appeared in the frame and missed the connection. Lloyd was the first to answer Berry’s questions. “The government is obviously very disappointed with the verdicts.” “Disappointed? You’ve lost the most expensive trial ever brought against an individual- and you feel disappointed? How do you think the taxpayers who funded this government debacle feel?” Berry had managed to rattle Lloyd enough to get a bit of a sound bite. “They should be outraged. Arturo Catel isn’t a victim. He’s the leader of a multinational crime syndicate the likes of which this world has never seen. What started with drugs in Colombia years ago has expanded into gambling, extortion, transportation, research, offshore banking, communications and pharmaceuticals on every continent. Catel’s syndicate makes the Mafia look like a cottage industry. He’s got more power than most countries, and we had him.” As damning as Lloyd’s assessment of Catel was, it barely scratched the surface. The global powerbase and financial holdings that Catel had amassed over his forty-year career as the head of one of the most notorious crime syndicates in the world was staggering. Throughout her naïve, protected youth, Chance had been a beneficiary of those spoils. With enough political and underworld influence to achieve any outcome she desired, and financial means beyond her ability to spend, there was never a time in Chance’s life when she found herself disappointed, let alone defeated. It made her inability to locate and punish Mitra’s murderers all

170 CARBON COPY the more frustrating as she viewed this as the single most important thing she had ever wanted. And for the first time she wasn’t getting her way. Berry turned and put the microphone right into Fleming’s face. “Mr. Fleming, the judge came very close to accusing Interpol of fabricating evidence and misrepresenting the facts. You must be devastated by the jury’s decision in favor of the defendant.” “We didn’t misrepresent anything. The facts in this case speak for themselves.” Fleming shoved the microphone away as he vented some of his anger. “It’s too (bleep) bad we had a jury that was (bleep) hearing impaired. Today didn’t change a (bleep) thing. This isn’t over. Not by a long shot.” Hearing the heightened rhetoric and bleeps, Chance turned to the screen to see what was going on. The image of Fleming jolted Chance’s memory. “Grandpa, that guy to the left.” “Fleming?” “Yeah, the one with the cowboy hat. I saw him last night. He was in the parking garage at the police station.” “No surprise there. What did he say to you?” “Nothing. He was coming in just as I was going out. He never even saw me.” “Good.” “Good what? Do you know him?” “To well. He’s been poking around my life for years. I have been told, bringing me and our family down is the single most important thing in Fleming’s life. It’s what he lives for. The trial and that TV coverage is only a small portion of Mr. Fleming’s meddling.” “He looks like trouble.” “He is.” Then Catel turned from the TV back to Chance as he continued stroking her hair. “But enough of this.” Catel turned off the TV. “All’s well that ends well. A nice quiet life at home. That’s what you need. At least until all this blows over.” “What I need is those two animals gutted.”

171 AVC “And if we find them, you may get your way. But for now, agonizing over your loss isn’t going to make it go away. The best thing is to get on with your life. And you can start by coming home.” “Maybe, but not right now.” “Then at least call Angelique and have her ready the Paris flat. Go spend some time healing. Just stay away from that school for now.” “And do what?” “Do what?! You’re young, beautiful and a Catel. That’s everything you need to put these horrible memories behind you. And Paris is the perfect place to do it. The French have a wonderful way of ignoring reality. And you have the brownstone, Angelique and your friends there to help. Can you think of a better place?” “No. Actually- I can’t.” Catel’s advice made good sense, and Chance knew she had to get away for a while, if for no other reason than to plan her next move. As she rested against Catel’s chest to gather her thoughts, Chance found herself conflicted. She desperately wanted to avenge Mitra’s death. And she knew there was a lot more to talk about with her grandfather, especially given the fact that she had Mitra’s computer. But seeing her grandfather wasn’t willing to commit to any further involvement, at least not at that time. And the fact that that was such an unusual position for him to take. Chance felt it best to put him at ease with a response that was more conciliatory than sincere. “Maybe you’re right.”

172 CARBON COPY CHAPTER 26

Despite having gotten very little sleep over the past couple of days, along with an intense late-night talk with her mother, Chance was up before dawn. And as much as she wanted to continue the conversation with her mother, for now, Chance had enough on her mind. To begin with, she needed to find out what was on Mitra’s computer. For that she needed help. But first she needed coffee- strong coffee. Moving quietly through the villa down to the kitchen, Chance was careful not to disturb her grandfather, mother or brother’s sleep. Thinking she was the only person awake, Chance was startled to see Maria, one of Catel’s staff, already at work in the kitchen. “What are you doing here so early?” “I am always- here so early,” answered the stocky middle-aged domestic whom Chance had known all her life. “How do you think breakfast is ready whenever you arrive?” Chance paused to consider the question. “I guess I never thought about it. What time do you arrive?” “Usually at 6:00. But I knew you wouldn’t be sleeping very well after what you have been through. So, I came at 5:00 this morning.” Chance was touched, if not a little overwhelmed by Maria’s devotion. Maria motioned for Chance to sit at the table in the kitchen. A place setting was already prepared with fresh-squeezed orange juice and a latté, piping hot. “Would you like a spinach and feta omelet with egg whites?” A smile came over Chance at the sound of her favorite breakfast. “Thank you. That would be perfect.” Then Chance completed her thought, pointing to the frothy cup of coffee. “Is that a double espresso?” “Of course.” After a knowing-wave of her hand, Maria continued preparing and serving Chance breakfast while updating Chance on her son Derek’s brilliant

173 AVC accomplishments, which she often did. In addition to being genuinely interested, Maria’s update gave Chance an idea and the next step in her plan for revenge.

* * *

It was just before 7:00 A.M. when Chance walked up to one of the graduate housing units in the University Village section of Miami U. After stepping over at least three days of newspapers, she knocked on the front door. She waited a few moments. Not hearing a response, she tried again, knocking harder this time. “Coming!” After another protracted period of time and strange noises from inside the apartment, the door finally opened. A tall, gangly, young man in strangely colored, mismatched plaid pajamas stood motionless, looking groggy. A moment later he ran his hands through his dark disheveled hair but still had little regard for who was standing in front of him. It wasn't until he put on his thick bottle glasses that he recognized Chance and lit up. This priceless look of joy and surprise let Chance know he hadn’t heard the news of Mitra’s death. “Holy mackerel!” Derek jumped out of his apartment and hugged Chance like she was a ragdoll. Standing there in a bearhug with her arms pined to her side and unable to move, she was struck by a curiosity, “Derek, isn’t mackerel a fish?” Derek smiled at Chance’s sarcasm as he squeezed her one last time before letting go, grabbing her hand then pulling her into his apartment. The place smelled vaguely of stale beer and unwashed laundry, definitely lacking his mother’s touch. Random meme posters with ironic catchphrases were posted on the walls. The floor was a collage of discarded clothes, papers and books. A very large human foot was sticking out from a blanket on a couch. Chance assumed there was a roommate of some sort under there but chose not to ask. Derek sat Chance down on the other couch as he began his questioning. “What are you doing here?” “Do I need a reason to visit one of my best friends in the whole world?”

174 CARBON COPY “Yeah, right. Outside of the obligatory Christmas and birthday cards which, incidentally, you still send to my mother’s house, I haven’t seen or heard from you for over two years. Now you show up on my doorstep, early on a Sunday morning, unannounced, and you expect me to believe this is a social call?” Chance was lost for words. “Have I really been that absent?” “Yeah! Hell, how did you even know I moved from the dorms?” “Your mom. She still brags about you whenever I go home to Grandpa’s. Especially if I’m the only one who comes down for breakfast, like this morning. I can tell you everything that you’ve done over the past year. Heck, I probably know more about you than you do.” “That is so embarrassing.” Derek’s head dropped and his chin collided with his chest. Chance sprang to her feet and gave him a big hug. “Embarrassing? Are you crazy? You should be over the moon that your mom is so proud of you. You can’t even imagine how she carried on last September when you got your master’s degree a whole year ahead of schedule. And now, to be working toward your doctorate? I think she’s going to get a set of pom-poms.” Chance’s excitement put Derek at ease, hugging her back warmly as he continued. “God, I miss when we were kids and your granddad would let me come over and play with you, Ricky, and Mitra while Mom cooked.” “Me, too,” Chance said sadly. It had been a while since Derek had seen Chance or Mitra. They shared a childhood bond that was deeper than time or distance. And though they came from very different social and economic backgrounds, in their souls they were family. “How is Ricky?” Derek asked “Terrific. Well, as terrific as Ricky can be.” “It’s been over four years since I’ve seen him. Actually, it was that summer Mitra won her first NASCAR race and she took Ricky up on the podium and everyone thought he was her boyfriend. Talk about messing with the media.” A loving smile came over Derek as he completed his thought.

175 AVC “Speaking of Mitra- how’s my girl?” Horrified that she had to be the one to break the news, Chance stepped back and placed a hand on each of Derek’s shoulders. Then Chance looked straight into his eyes. “You need to prepare yourself for some really bad news.” “Hey, this is me you’re talking to. Your idea of bad news is when Tiffany runs out of your favorite diamonds. Trust me, I’m a big boy. Now tell me. What’s this all about?” Seeing Chance struggling caused Derek to think the worse. “Don’t tell me she got married.” Chance wanted to come right out and tell Derek, but she just couldn’t bring herself to do it. So she procrastinated. “When was the last time you turned on your TV?” “I don’t know. A couple of days ago maybe.” “How do you stay in touch with the outside world?” “I don’t when I’m studying. And I’ve got my most important exam of the semester tomorrow. Anyway, the outside world is so overrated. It’s been three days of Folgers espressos and Sara Lee cheesecake. And I’m ready to ace it.” That was Derek, sweet and loving but a card-carrying nerd who lived in a perpetual state of detachment from reality. “Turn on CNN.” “Come on. Just tell me. Believe me, I couldn’t care less about another fallen dictator or the latest Kardashian wedding.” “Turn it on.” “Fine.” Derek was totally focused on his upcoming exam, and a visit from Chance was about all the distraction he could handle. But none of that mattered because he knew Chance wouldn’t let up until he did what she wanted. So Derek moved a few discarded pizza boxes, unearthed the remote then pushed a couple of buttons. “This better be good,” he joked. “I wouldn’t count on good. Think awful.” In the few moments it took for CNN and its continuing story banner to appear, Chance’s comment had Derek seriously concerned at that point.

176 CARBON COPY The first images were of Mitra’s recent victory at Monaco while the news announcer chronicled the extraordinary race and the records that were broken that day. “Please tell me you didn’t come all the way here to bust my chops for not watching the race. You’re not going to tell Mitra are you?” Just then the images changed to the aftermath of Mitra and Akmed’s high-speed chase as the news commentator continued his coverage. “While details remain sketchy, what we know is that famed Formula 1 racecar driver Mitra Manrique was shot late Friday evening. After being involved in a high-speed chase and collision, Manrique was pronounced dead upon arrival at Northwestern Memorial Hospital.” Derek pressed the OFF button. The news was devastating and he wasn’t prepared to hear anymore. The remote dropped to the floor as Derek clenched the sides of his head with both hands and images of him and Mitra raced through his mind. He saw himself as a young boy, running around Chance and Ricky’s childhood home with Mitra always the ringleader. As they all matured into their teens, Mitra was Derek’s first love. Derek never expected the young dark-haired beauty to think of him as anything more than a friend. Why would she. He was the class nerd and she was beyond beautiful and popular. And it wasn’t just the usual, superficial, adolescent baggage that should have gotten in their way. Mitra was also intelligent, outgoing and came from a terrific family. She had it all. So, naturally, with it can a steady stream of boys trying for her attention. It wasn’t until after a water-skiing accident, when Derek almost killed himself running into a dock, that it became clear how Mitra felt about him. She was there every day at the hospital after he had surgery to insert a metal plate into his head. Then, to everyone’s surprise, including Derek’s, Mitra wasn’t interested in anyone but him, seeing something in Derek that even he didn’t see. Derek could never forget their first time together, in the back of his worn-out ’78 Camaro that he bought for $700 after slinging French fries all year after school. Mitra always had this confidence that Derek envied. He was sure that he would be the nervous one, and he was right. But Mitra had a warm, loving way about her that made that first time something he would cherish for the rest of his life.

177 AVC Unfortunately, Derek’s intimacy with Mitra was short lived. Just a single summer and the following school year. Then they were both headed off to different colleges, with life taking them in very different directions. While they vowed to always love each other, Derek knew that he could never compete with the life Mitra was destined for. So instead, he threw himself into his studies and resigned himself to being her friend. The crazy thing was, despite moving-on, Mitra never missed sending a birthday, Christmas, or anniversary present. She always showed-up to his graduation ceremonies, which were numerous. And though they had both lived very different lives, she never broke her vow. Mitra never stopped loving Derek. What Derek didn’t know was that Mitra had a very secret life, a life she could never share with him. So he always harbored his own hopes that someday they would find their way back to what they had. But now that would never happen. While Derek was adrift, Chance sat alongside him. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and hugged him, which brought some measure of comfort as he heard Chance weeping softly, too.

* * *

“Why?” Derek asked helplessly after a while. “That’s what I need to find out. I was less than a block away from Mitra when she was gunned down.” “A block away... gunned down?” Chance nodded as she took a computer out of her shoulder bag. “This is Mitra’s. I got it from her hotel room after she was killed and just before her murderer showed up to search her suite. I’m hoping whatever he was looking for is here and it will help us find him.” Derek was motionless, staring blindly at the ground for several moments before speaking. “Why is everything in your life so bizarre?” Chance knew just how hurt and mad Derek was, because she felt the same. She also knew Derek needed to vent and since she was the only other person there, the burden fell on her. Not waiting for an answer, Derek took the laptop computer then walked over to his kitchen table.

178 CARBON COPY “So what happened?” “It’s even hard for me to understand, and I was there. After an awful car chase that killed people and wrecked a mile of everything in its path, Mitra’s car was hurled into the Macy’s building. I was too far away to see what happened just before she was shot. But I got there less than a minute later. She was already dead.” Mitra’s computer whirled and beeped as it initialized, causing both of them to sit down in front of the laptop. After a series of quick keystrokes, Derek found himself blocked:

Password

“Your turn,” he said, looking to Chance for the password. Chance’s whole body tightened as she read the simple word. “That’s why I came to you. You’re the computer guru.” “I’ll take that to mean you don’t have the password.” “No, I don’t.” “You didn’t see me do this.” Derek flew through the keys like a savant. In less than a minute the monitor displayed Mitra’s screensaver, which was a historic image of Ford beating Ferrari at Le Mans in 1967. Chance was impressed. “You really are as good as your mom says, aren’t you?” Derek kept working through the process of hacking Mitra’s protection software. After a few more strokes, he slid back in his chair and pointed to the screen, giving Chance a full view of its file library, which contained Word documents, charts and some obscure symbols. “It may not be a clear path to Mitra’s killers, but there you have it.” Chance looked closely at the screen then touched one of the obscure symbols. “Look at the Dates Modified.” “These were added the same day Mitra was killed. Do you know what they are?” “I don’t have a clue.” “I thought you said you were good.”

179 AVC “Look, Your Highness, I just hacked into a password and encryption protected program in less than sixty seconds. That’s beyond good. But I don’t have any idea what that stuff is, other than something to do with chemistry or physics or both. Do you want me to call one of my buddies in the Chem. department to come over and have a look?” “No.” Chance paused a moment in thought before finishing, “I can’t risk an outsider seeing this until I know what it is.”

180 CARBON COPY CHAPTER 27

9”یعوضوم ویشرآ“ Akmed shouted, as a needle penetrated the surface of his eye. The pain was intense. “Are you sure you don’t want at least a local anesthetic?” a meek voice inquired, pulling out the needle gingerly. “Do I look like I need anything?” Akmed gritted. Akmed’s steely cold delivery almost paralyzed the doctor. Akmed tolerated the pain as he began retracing his steps so he could plan his next move. Public records showed that before going to meet Nasser, Manrique attended a museum’s art event. The time-stamp on a parking ticket showed she left early, several hours before meeting Nasser. That would have given her time enough to have gone to Nasser’s home. Akmed knew whoever destroyed Nasser’s house must have downloaded files and taken anything else of importance before burning the house to the ground. It had to be that bitch, or was it. The question Akmed’s was grappling with was whether or not Manrique had an accomplice. Then she went to the university, killed the professor and destroyed any remaining records in the fire and explosion she set off shortly after Akmed and Yemen arrived. It all made sense. It also underscored the troubling fact that Manrique had the same amount and quality of information that Akmed had. And that disturbed him greatly. After chasing down Mitra and retrieving the technology, Akmed went to the professor’s home to destroy any possible evidence or link to Nasser’s carbon dating technology. Discovering the professor's home had already been destroyed, Akmed went through Mitra's purse and found her hotel keycard. Akmed sent Yemen to Mitra’s hotel, but he found nothing other than two intruders whom he killed, then disposed of their bodies. With Mitra dead and her personal belongings showing no evidence of her “assignment,” Akmed reasoned that Mitra already transferred the

9 “Ffffffuck!” 181 AVC information she retrieved to her accomplice or superior. Unfortunately, this left important unanswered questions looming over the entire operation. Despite the facts that Akmed had Professor Nasser’s document in hand and there was no apparent trail leading to him, his work was anything but over. 10 ”9یعوضوم ویشرآ " Akmed screamed again, as the pain broke through his musings, and the physician hesitated. “No, don’t stop,” he ordered the physician. “Get this over with.” The physician grimaced as he stuck the needle back into this very angry man’s eye.

10 “Ffffffuck!” 182 CARBON COPY CHAPTER 28

“This is as far as I can take you,” Derek stared at the strange symbols on Mitra’s laptop. “This looks like advanced biochemistry, way beyond my pay scale. Is there anyone you trust who can help you figure it out?” Chance struggled but came up blank. “I can’t think of anyone. Let alone anyone who I could trust.” The two continued to stare at the screen like a couple of lost souls until Derek remembered someone from their childhood. “Yes, you do.” “Who?” “The Toad” “No way. Anybody but him.” “Does he still work for your granddad?” “Yeah. But no.” Nervous laughter came over Derek as he began to recount his recollection of the Toad. “Remember when we were kids and we used to go with my mom to get stuff from his drug store? He was the scariest looking person we knew. It was like Halloween every time we went there. Ricky was the only one who didn’t seem to be scared of him. Mitra was the one who gave him the nickname. That was like, almost 20-years ago. If he’s still alive, he’s gotta look even worse now.” Chance was disgusted at the thought. “You’re not helping here.” “Like it or not, he’s probably your best bet if you want to know what that hodgepodge on the screen is all about. Especially if it has to be someone you can trust. He wouldn’t dare cross your family.” They both looked back at Mitra’s monitor as Chance commented on Derek’s logic. “I always hated it when you were right.” “I know.”

183 AVC “Let’s move onto something more familiar and a whole lot more pleasant. I hope. Open one of her Word documents. Maybe there’s something in them that will help.” “Makes sense. Pick one.” “How many are there?” “One.” Chance gave Derek a thump on his arm as he opened the document. “It’s a folder that contains four documents.” As Chance read the title of each documents, she became more and more concerned. “I don’t understand.” “It looks pretty clear to me. Mitra has a file on the University of Chicago, some dude named Professor Nasser, something called ‘Assignment,’ and you. It’s probably things like your mailing address, birthday, favorite diamonds. You know, important stuff.” After another thump to Derek’s arm, Chance pushed on. “It doesn’t make sense that Mitra would have a file on the university or even know Professor Nasser. Open my file.” “No surprise there.” Chance ignored Derek’s sarcasm as he managed to get past the protection on Chance’s file and opened it. The file’s index was set up from her birth all the way through to a few days ago. The body of the report was 93-pages long and, from the depth of detail on the first page, it was exceedingly thorough. Chance was dumbfounded. “Why?” “That seems to be the question of the day.” “Flip to the last page,” she told him. “So, you are one of those.” “One of whose?” “You know, people who read the last page of a novel to see how it ends before reading the novel.” Chance raised her hand, threatening another slap, as Derek winced, cupped his shoulders and opened page 93. Chance started reading. It was an incredibly detailed accounting of her activities on the day that Mitra had

184 CARBON COPY died. It was as though someone had followed Chance around all day, recording everything she did, right down to her thesis presentation. “She knew before she called that I would be attending the art exhibit.” “What?” But before Chance could answer she was struck with another thought. “Her purse and cell phone.” “What about it?” “Mitra’s purse and cell phone weren’t in the articles I looked through at the police station. I have an idea.” Chance took out her cell phone and dialed Mitra’s number. As Chance’s cell phone disconnected from the call, she realized she didn’t have reception. “I don’t have any bars.” “This whole neighborhood has lousy reception. Here.” Derek handed Chance his landline phone. After dialing Mitra’s number, Chance waiting through three rings before her call was answered. “Who is this?!?” Chance froze at the sound of the abrupt Middle Eastern male voice. She had no idea what she had been expecting when she dialed Mitra’s number, and found herself unable to speak. “Who is this?!?” The second abrupt demand frazzled Chance, so she quickly hung up. Derek watched the color drain from Chance’s face. “I think I just talked to Mitra’s killer.” “Talked? You didn’t say a word. What did he say?” “He wanted to know who I was.” “Good time to keep quiet and hang up.” Then another look of horror came over Chance. “Oh no! I used your phone. The call can be traced.” “Lucky for us, I’m me. I’ve layered the phone company’s caller blocking with some pretty sophisticated additional protection. It’s how we keep the solicitors at bay and manage to get our work done. That phone never rings unless it’s a parent. I doubt even the telephone company could figure out where that call originated.” “Thank God.”

185 AVC Chance was relieved to hear Derek was still safe, though a chill shot through her as she tried to process what had just happened while Derek completed his thought. “The good news is that my number is blocked and they can’t GPS a land line. And since he has Mitra’s cell phone, you could theoretically pinpoint his location.” “How do I do that?” “That’s where the theoretical part comes in. You’d have to have information from Mitra’s cell phone, which we don’t have at the moment. But that’s something I can help you with in a day or two.” “Can you really do that?” “No problem?” For the first time locating Mitra’s killers finally seemed a real possibility. Chance was thrilled and frightened at the same time. But Derek’s smile was all the assurance she needed.

* * *

Seeing the telephone number of the incoming call was blocked, Akmed handed Mitra’s cell phone to Yemen. “Find out where that call came from.” Then he turned to the physician who had just finished bandaging up his gouged eye. “Are we done here?” “Yes.” The physician nodded as he reached out with a small plastic pill bottle. “You may want to take one of these if the pain becomes bothersome.” Akmed took the pills with an almost undetectable “thank you” as he and Yemen left the urgent care facility.

* * *

As Chance set Derek’s phone back into its cradle, she tried not to appear as upset as she really was. “Please unlock the other files. I’m going to want to look through them when I have time.”

186 CARBON COPY After Derek finished unlocking the remaining three files, Chance noticed the Assignment file was only a few kilobytes long, so she clicked it open. Then they read it. “Intercept the transfer, destroy any evidence of the technology and kill everyone involved, including Dr. Nasser.” Chance and Derek sat dumfounded. They both knew exactly what they had just read but neither wanted to admit it, let alone talk about it. After a long, awkward silence, Derek was the first to speak. “Okay, I didn’t see that one coming.” Chance deleted the sentence. Then she deleted its folder before turning off Mitra’s computer and putting it back into her handbag. “Neither of us saw that. Is that clear?” “Perfectly. But you understand it’s still on the disk?” “No, I don’t understand that at all. How do I get rid of the darn thing?” “You have to reformat the computer, which means you will lose everything on it. Better, you need to destroy the hard drive.” “I can’t do that. At least, not right now.” “Your call. I’m just telling you, unless you destroy or at least reformat the hard drive, it’s pretty easy to go in and retrieve what you just deleted.” “How do I reformat when the time is right?” “I’ll give you something.” Derek went to one of his computers and downloaded a program onto a thumb drive. “When you’re ready, put this into that computer’s USB port, call up the one and only program on the drive and double click on it. In about 5- minutes the data on Mitra’s computer will be unintelligible to anyone.” “Thanks for everything.” As Chance gave Derek a good-bye hug, he whispered in her ear. “Find them and have your grandfather do the worst thing he does to people. Promise?” “I promise, the worst thing imaginable is going to happen to them.” After a kiss on Derek’s cheek and a final hug, Chance completed her thought. “Call me as soon as you find out the location of Mitra’s cell phone.”

187 AVC “Promise. And you have your grandfather do the worst thing imaginable.” “Promise.” Chance left Derek standing in his doorway with the stains from his tears etched down his face.

188 CARBON COPY CHAPTER 29

Chance’s cab left Derek and the campus traveling east along the causeway. The drive from Derek’s apartment to the Toad’s pharmacy in the business district of downtown Miami took less than a 20-minute. And despite the fact that she hadn’t been along that route in years, it was a familiar path toward the tall buildings of Miami in the distance. As she approached the town center, seeing streetlights wrapped in baskets of hanging purple flowers was a welcoming sight. But it was a mixed blessing when she saw the drug store was still there and open. The moment Chance’s cab came to a stop, a strange feeling shot through her. Sitting there, out front of the pharmacy brought back a flood of vivid childhood memories. Chance remembered the owner of the drug store coming to her grandfather’s estate dozens of times when she was a little girl. Then there were the times Mitra, Derek and Chance would pile into a car with Derek’s mother for a fun drive when she would go to the Toad’s store to pick something up. As much as they hated seeing the Toad, they loved the soft- serve custard ice cream from next door. That was the bribe that always got them into the car. Despite all of those encounters, Chance never knew much about the Toad. She knew his looks gave her the creeps and how she and Derek used to laugh when Mitra called him a toad and made funny faces to imitate his fleshy appearance. Other than that, there was simply an implied association of sort between the Toad and her grandfather- as was the case with so many people throughout Miami. It seemed strange after all those years to be going to his store, alone, for her own reasons, and for the first time. But Derek was right. The Toad was the only person Chance knew that might have the technical knowledge and that could be trusted with whatever was on Mitra’s computer. After a few more moments of procrastination, Chance finally got out of the cab and told the driver to wait- though she had no idea how long she would be. After crossing the sidewalk, she gripped the handle of the store’s front door and paused. She had intent, but no plan. But rather than

189 AVC allow reason and good judgment to run her off, she took a deep breath and then entered the brightly lit store. After so many years, Chance was sure that the Toad would not recognize her. The last time she saw him she was just a young girl playing with her friends. Today she was a lady on a mission as she walked down the drug store’s center aisle straight to the pharmacy section with an air of authority and purpose which was obvious. A short, portly man with fleshy pink skin, in his sixties and a white laboratory coat looked up at her from behind the pharmacy counter. The sight of the pharmacist with his wide, downturned mouth, his pockmarked Henry Kissinger nose, and his reptilian pallor had the same effect on Chance as it did fifteen years earlier. With chills running up her spine, Chance couldn’t help but think to herself just how accurate Derek and Mitra’s childhood description of the Toad really was. After glancing at the clock on the wall, the pharmacist was the first to speak. “Miss Catel? What an unexpected surprise. How can I be of assistance?” Hearing him say her name threw Chance off her game for a brief moment. But she didn’t give up anything as she responded. “Where can we talk?” Everything about Chance, from her stance to her abrupt tone was intended to get the Toad’s attention and cause concern. And it worked. The pharmacist was clearly nervous as he responded in a conciliatory tone. “Here.” He gestured to a door to his immediate right before opening it with his fat, stubby hand. Then he stepped aside to let Chance pass. After entering the modest back office, Chance waited for him to close the door before her next demand. “Lock it.” This was a defining moment for Chance. For her entire life, from birth to that moment, she had been the granddaughter of one of the most notorious and powerful men on earth. The benefits of that fortunate condition were staggering, almost incomprehensible to the average person. Aside from unprecedented political and underworld access, Chance’s infancy saw a staff of around-the-clock nannies, bodyguards and

190 CARBON COPY chefs cater to her every whim. Her childhood featured the poshest private schools, personal tennis coaches and equestrian trainers- along with the finest ponies on three continents. Now; as an adult, there were the private jets, monthly diamonds, and standing tables at restaurants that require 2- month advance booking. Not to mention having instant access to her favorite couture designers or the $250,000 allowance that arrived like clockwork into her bank account the first of each month- since the day she was born. Yes, Chance had life on her own terms because she was Arturo Catel’s granddaughter. But for the first time in her life, everything felt different. She wasn’t there as Arturo Catel’s granddaughter. She was there as Chance Catel. It was as though she had risen above simply being incredibly fortunate to being lethally empowered. And whether it was reality or mere perception, it didn’t matter. That is how she felt and she was playing the part. Confident they wouldn’t be disturbed, Chance took Mitra’s computer from her handbag and held it up for the pharmacist to see. Chance was clearly the alpha presence in the room as she began to lay out her demands. “I want you to look at a file on this. This is not family business. It’s a private matter between you and me. Do you understand?” With the pharmacist’s head bobbing like a dashboard doll, there was a moment when Chance questioned the wisdom in choosing him for this part of her plan. After a quick mentally reaffirm of her lack of options, she demanded a verbal response. “Do you understand?!?” “Yes.” Chance was careful not to let the pharmacist see anything else on Mitra’s computer as she opened the file that contained the symbols that Derek and she couldn’t recognize. “Look at this.” The pharmacist was extremely nervous with the entire situation, and the last thing he needed was to have to think. To help ease the tension, he tried to engage Chance in small talk as he fumbled through a sequence of subfolders to get to the actual content. “I thought you were at school in Chicago.” “Apparently not.”

191 AVC Chance wasn’t interested in small talk. Her indifference made the nervous little man all the more uncomfortable with the situation. Looking frazzled to the point of distraction, the pharmacist clicked on the final folder’s icon. A greeting appeared:

WELCOME TO THE PAST

A sigh of relief followed when Chance saw there was no need for additional passwords. “Thank God.” “I doubt He had anything to do with this.” Chance ignored the pharmacist’s attempt at humor. As the Toad scrolled through the information on Mitra’s laptop, he commented from time-to-time, noting and repeating random bits of the information for no apparent reason. “Binary applications, blah, blah, blah. Carbon dating, blah, blah, blah. Controlled acceleration of carbon-14 molecules.” There was a noticeable change in the pharmacist’s level of enthusiasm. Reading the section about controlled acceleration of 14C clearly got his attention. “Controlled - degeneration, hmmm.” The pharmacist shifted in his seat. It was a subtle move, but Chance picked-up on his growing interest. He leaned forward intently, as though the computer was drawing him in to its content. Within seconds he was fully-engaged, reading the entire text aloud. “By introducing genetically altered host 14N molecules, I have been able to accelerate decay while replicating an imposed antiquity. Detection is impossible as objects are permanently altered at their molecular level. The greatest challenge was finding a way to accurately manipulate time, plus or minus fifty years. Now that I have accomplished this, the process is complete.” The pharmacist looked up at Chance in amazement. “Miss Catel, do you have any idea what you have here?” “Why don’t you tell me?”

192 CARBON COPY Chance’s casual response contrasted dramatically with the childlike enthusiasm of the Toad. “This claims to be able to predate objects by manipulating a process known as carbon dating.” Carbon dating was an important part of Chance’s field of studies. She also understood the implications of what the pharmacist was saying. But instead of providing answers, it only raised more questions. What did any of this have to do with Mitra? Even so, she considered the information for a moment before responding. “So, If I wanted you to make something new appear 800 years old, you could do it with this information?” The pharmacist gestured to the monitor while scrolling through additional text and formulas. “Theoretically.” Returning to the monitor, the pharmacist continued his investigation before completing his thought. “If what I’m reading is accurate, you could add an Eleventh Commandment and no one could prove it wasn’t authentic.” While the pharmacist’s example seemed a bit overstated, he made his point. Imagining its unlimited potential, Chance’s mind rocketed to hundreds of possibilities. The pharmacist slithered over to Chance, placing his fleshy lips disturbingly close to her ear. “The power of what we have here is incomprehensible. This is bigger than anything I’ve ever done for your grandfather. We’ll be...” The pharmacist’s violation of Chance’s personal space and authority triggered something primal inside of her that she had never felt before. Instinctively; using the only weapon available to her, Chance grabbed hold and squeezed the pharmacist’s testicles, causing him to double over in pain as she explained, slowly and deliberately. “Little man. There- is- no- we! And if you’re not careful, there will be no you. I told you this is a private matter that has nothing to do with family business. You- need- to- pay- attention.” Chance squeezed a little harder to drive home her point. “Am I making myself clear?”

193 AVC It was everything the pharmacist could do to groan a faint response. “Painfully.” As Chance released her grip, the pharmacist hobbled away to the safety of his desk. “Good.” Satisfied with her findings, Chance shutdown Mitra’s computer while completing her thought. “I’ll be returning next week. In the meantime, no one is to know about this. No one! Not even my grandfather. Do you understand?” Chance waited for the pharmacist’s nervous nod before making their arrangement perfectly clear. “You have no idea how badly it will go for you if you cross me.” Then Chance left the pharmacy as purposefully as she arrived. After getting back into her waiting cab, Chanse sat motionless. Chills began shooting through her entire body accompanied by involuntary shaking that she had only experienced with a high fever. “Where to?” The cab driver’s question barely registered as Chance tried to compose herself and understand what had just happened. She had never talked to anyone like that in her entire life. And just as she was about to come to terms with her newfound attitude, the image of her squeezing the Toad’s testicles hit her like a freight train. “Oh My God!” Chance looked at her outstretched hand in disgust, desperately in need of a hand wipe at that moment. “Lady, I’m gonna need more than ‘Oh My God.’” “South Beach. The Continuum.” “Now that’s something I can work with.” As the cab drove away, there was a shadow of a man in a nearby alley looking on, talking into a distinctive anthracite device the size of a cell phone.

194 CARBON COPY CHAPTER 30

The pharmacist was acting like an obsessed child with no self-control, if not a death wish. Despite Chance’s dire warning, he couldn’t help but meddle. The first thing he did was search the web for any recent articles on carbon dating. His reasoning, surely a scientific discovery as important as this would have been highly publicized. But it wasn’t. Not a single recent article. It didn’t seem possible that none of the academic journals had reported such a significant finding. The Toad’s next source was Professor Nasser, whose name he had seen throughout the documentation. This proved to be a more successful search. There were pages of entries covering all aspects of the professor’s career and academic accomplishments. The three most recent internet entries were headlines of the professor’s tragic death in the infamous fire at the University of Chicago earlier that week. The name Nasser had not clicked during the excitement of reading the data on Mitra’s computer. Now it was clear. While the Toad had no idea what Chance Catel’s connection was to the events in Chicago, he knew he had gotten himself involved in a situation that already had lethal consequences. The pharmacist started digging deeper into the professor’s entries. But again, no mention of his advanced work in the field of carbon dating. The absence of any public disclosure of such a significant development, coupled with the untimely death of the principal, gave the pharmacist a new level of respect for Chance as he mumbled her praise under his breath. “It appears the Little Princess has grown fangs.” The sound of the front door chime snapped the pharmacist back to the moment. He walked calmly out of his office to attend to business. The man from the alley marched straight to the counter with a strange familiarity, but hard as he tried, the pharmacist didn’t recognize him. Before the pharmacist had the opportunity to extend the obligatory greeting, the stranger presented his demand.

195 AVC “What was Miss Catel doing here?” The pharmacist knew his life was hanging in the balance. It was clear the man standing in front of him had both the opportunity and ability to kill him on the spot. He also knew his demise would be little more than a tucked away piece in the back of tomorrow’s newspaper. The possibilities flashed through his mind like a lightning bolt—the story about a robbery that went wrong, a dead pharmacist and no suspects. On the other hand, there was Chance Catel. If he so much as intimated anything of interest had occurred between him and Chance, the man standing in front of him would take him someplace where he would eventually divulge everything. And even if the people who interrogated him allowed him to live, Chance would find out he gave her up and make good on her threat. Any way he looked at it, this was heading in a bad direction. It didn’t help that the Toad understood that was how things were done within Catel’s operation. Faced with a no-win situation, the Toad stepped in even closer to his would-be assassin, motioning him to come down to his level so he could whisper the information. Seeing that the man wasn’t about to do that, the Toad continued. “Fine, have it your way.” The Toad stepped back and began talking in a loud voice to purposely create an awkward situation. “As you can see, I am a pharmacist. A trusted pharmacist, I might add, who has worked for the Catel family since before Miss Catel was born. Occasionally, Miss Catel has feminine hygiene, birth control, and other…” “Enough!” After slicing through the air with his hand, the stranger turned and left the pharmacy without another word said. Waiting for the door to close, the Toad flipped the man off, full of bravado at having just cheated death. Then he returned to the matter at hand. There were so many questions to answer. And despite the gravity of the situation, the Toad’s excitement to learn more about the carbon dating matter was mounting.

196 CARBON COPY Having recalled the compounds used to achieve the artificially dated results, the Toad went straight to his computer and began keying them into a Google search. There was a liquid scintillator, which the Toad knew was a medium that produces a flash of light when a beta particle of carbon touches it. The formula also called for a special kind of benzene, a solvent called toluene, and an ingredient used to make polyurethane. His search provided thousands of sources with any one of the compounds individually. Many locations had two or even three of the compounds. But there was only one source that had all four. “Bingo.” When the pharmacist clicked on the site, it came up in Arabic with a language selection legend. Clicking on the British flag converted the site to English with a dialogue box requiring personal contact information before proceeding. “Shit. All I want is a little information, not a spam subscription for Viagra for the rest of my life.” Suddenly a boyish enthusiasm came over the Toad. He was bordering on mischievous as he filled in the purchase and shipping information on the site’s computer form. With all the relevant contact information filled in, the Toad clicked the “SUBMIT” button, unwittingly changing the course of many people’s lives. What the Toad didn’t know was that the website was set up for one purpose. Since there was no known application in which the four compounds would have been used together—other than Professor Nasser’s carbon dating process—the prime minister’s team had established the watchdog website as a policing mechanism. While the Toad examined the costs and delivery terms of the compounds, an IT facility in the Middle East was forwarding the inquirer’s contact information to the prime minister’s staff.

197 AVC CHAPTER 31

Chance needed time. She had a lot to work with, maybe a bit too much. So she went to the one place in Miami where she could be alone and completely undisturbed in order to think. When Chance turned 21, she asked her mother for an apartment in The Continuum. The shiny white twin towers stood tall and proud with a magnificent view of the southernmost point of South Beach, Biscayne Bay and the Atlantic Ocean. And for the past two years this had been Chance’s haven, her tree fort in the sky, overlooking one of the trendiest and most exciting locations on earth. Chance needed a sanctuary—and this was the perfect hideaway. She stood staring out her penthouse window at a cruise liner entering the channel from the ocean. The massive white ship was so close to her balcony that she could see the expressions on the passengers’ faces. Thoughts kept racing through her mind. Despite the fact that she had seen the men that murdered Mitra and had Mitra’s computer along with all the information in Mitra’s files, six words kept haunting her. “Kill everyone involved, including Professor Nasser.” As terrible as Mitra’s murder had been, this message and the inevitable thoughts that accompanied it—How is this possible? Did I ever really know her at all? —were tearing at Chance. This was one piece of the puzzle that Chance wished she didn’t understand. But, unfortunately, she understood all too well. Still, in Mitra’s defense, Chance kept going back to the first part of the message, “Intercept the transfer, destroy any evidence of the technology,” desperately hoping that would somehow explain and justify everything, even Nasser’s death. After changing into her black Missoni monokini, Chance made her way down to one of the private cabanas on the beach where she could be alone to sort things out. There was a lot she didn’t know but there was a lot she did. The destruction at the university, the extreme nature of the car chase, and

198 CARBON COPY Nasser and Mitra’s murders—they painted a picture. Significant resources had been committed. It was clear that the stakes were high. There was a great deal to be gained or lost, including her life. Then there was the fact that the two men who killed Mitra were Middle Eastern and her grandfather had no idea who they were. Or at least that is what he said. Chance had access to powerful Americans if she needed them—from Kaffeklubben Island in Greenland to Key West to Águila Islet of the Diego Ramirez Islands. But in Chance’s world, the Middle East was a place to shop, not to do business. It was a region of the world in which she knew she was going to need help. From the files in Mitra’s computer, Chance was sure Professor Nasser’s research was at the heart of the matter and that Mitra’s murderers were either after the technology for its own sake or to use it for something incredibly important. Chance reasoned that based upon her interrogation, the police didn’t find any sign of the technology. And, since Mitra’s instructions were to “destroy any evidence of the technology,” whoever killed Mitra probably had Professor Nasser’s original work and needed all the evidence of that research destroyed. It followed that Nasser’s file on Mitra’s computer could disrupt whatever they were planning. Chance was counting on that as her edge. Mitra’s laptop and cell phone number were the keys to finding Mitra’s murderers. Chance just needed to figure out the best way to use them. Shortly after returning to her apartment from the beach, the initial idea for flushing out the killers came to Chance. She remembered a movie that she had seen when she was younger called Incognito. It was about an art forger. And though she wasn’t interested in creating an Eleventh Commandment, the Toad’s point was well taken. She needed something that far-reaching and obvious if she was going to get the murderers’ attention. And the carbon dating formula gave her the tool to make it happen. While the world marveled, the murderers would either know or at least suspect that it required Nasser’s technology. Regardless, Chance was sure the murderers would investigate, and she would be waiting for them. Chance’s plan was simple—but its execution was anything but. It would require a revolutionary technology, extraordinary talent, and a great

199 AVC deal of public exposure, globally. With Nasser’s technology in hand and Chance’s life experience with public exposure, the only thing she needed was talent, and she knew the perfect source. A sense of control and satisfaction came over Chance for the first time since Mitra’s murder. After taking her cell phone from her purse and powering it up, Chance dialed a number she had committed to memory. “Hello, Doctor Wassermann, this is…” True to form, Wassermann interrupted Chance midstream. “Sweet Chance. How wonderful to hear from you. And please accept my most heartfelt sympathies at the loss of your dear friend.” “Thank you, Doctor. I can’t begin to tell you how devastating the loss of Mitra has been to my entire family.” “I can only imagine.” There was an awkward silence before Wassermann continued. “How can I be of assistance?”

* * *

Chance’s call initiated an alert at Interpol. Operator 38 had been tracking Chance’s activity and placed a call. “Fleming.” “Good morning, Mr. Fleming. This is Operator 38. Chance Catel’s cell phone is currently being used in Miami, Florida.” “Do you have a location?” “Forty South Pointe Drive, Miami Beach. It is a condominium complex called The Continuum. The Catels own a unit in that building.” “I’ll need travel clearance and a Gulfstream from O’Hare right away.” “Done. The plane is available now. Are you going to be needing any additional information on Chance Catel?” “Not for now. I can take it from here. Thanks, 38.” “That’s twice in one week.” A smile came over both of them as their call ended.

* * *

200 CARBON COPY Chance appreciated Wassermann’s concern but she hadn’t called him for condolences. “Doctor, I need an artist, someone as good as Ricardo Cinalli.” “Then why not Cinalli?” “Because discretion is important. He has to be a relative unknown. Someone who can be trusted while performing restorations throughout my family’s collections. The person would have to be extraordinarily adept at several of the masters’ techniques. Does anyone come to mind?” “That’s easy. His name is Joshua Schummer, and in his prime he could have put Cinalli to shame.” “Really?” “Absolutely.” “Then why haven’t I heard of him?” “Because you’re too young. 40-years ago there wasn’t a major restoration project that didn’t consider Schummer if he was available.” “Where is he now?” “I’m not sure. I haven’t talked to Joshua for years. But I know he’s still working because I saw a recent restoration that I found extraordinary. When I asked the collector who completed the work, he said it was Schummer. Though now that I think about it, the collector didn’t say how long ago the restoration was completed.” “Where was the last place you spoke to him?” “I believe it was Atlanta, or just north of Atlanta in one of its suburbs.” “Thank you. I’ll try to track him down.” “Good luck. And if you do happen to speak to Joshua and his lovely wife Rebecca, please tell them I send my regards.” “I will. Thank you, again. And I hope to see you soon.” “As do I.” As soon as Chance and Wassermann hung up, they both initiated new calls. Chance’s next call was a bit old school, but she felt it was worth a try as she dialed 411. “Atlanta. The number for a Joshua Schummer, please.”

201 AVC A moment later Chance was pleasantly surprised with a telephone number and a direct connection to Mr. Schummer. “Hello, Mr. Schummer. My name is Chance Catel. I am a graduate student at the University of Chicago and an assistant to Doctor Michael Wassermann. He suggested I give you a call and he sends his regards to you and Rebecca. I know this is short notice, but would it be possible to meet with you later this afternoon?” “How is the old boy?” “Working eighteen-hour days and loving it.” “Some things never change. What did you say your name was?” “Chance. Chance Catel.” “No relation to Arturo Catel?” “Actually, he is my grandfather.” “Oh my, I was just kidding. It seems Michael is running in the fast lane these days.” Seeing the conversation heading in the wrong direction, Chance reeled it in. “Mr. Schummer, I am working toward my master’s in art history and studying under Dr. Wassermann. I would greatly appreciate an hour of your time to discuss a personal matter.” There was a pause, just long enough for Chance to fear the worst. “Certainly. I would be honored to meet with a friend of Michael. I will be in all day. Take your time.” “Thank you. I’ll be at your home before five.”

* * *

Wassermann’s call was a speed dial to Catel. “I just got off the phone with Chance.” “I’m listening.” Catel’s stern tone put Wassermann on edge. “She said she’s looking for someone to work with her to maintain your art collection.” “That’s crap. What’s she really up to?” “I don’t know.”

202 CARBON COPY “You don’t know? You’re her goddamned handler.” “And you’re her grandfather.” Wassermann was a bit forceful given who he was talking to. The pause that followed was good for both men as Catel continued more calmly. “Fine. So what did you tell her?” “That I knew someone and pointed her to Schummer.” “That relic?” “Listen to you.” Another misguided comment by Wassermann had the good doctor making a quick adjustment. “Joshua is the best in the world. If I didn’t send her to someone credible she would begin suspecting me.” “Maybe. But Schummer is a loose cannon. How do you know you can trust him to even report back, let alone tell you the truth?” “I can’t. But we’re going to have to walk this one out, one step at a time, if you want to find out what she’s up to.” “I don’t like it.” “You have a better idea?” The long silence gave both men their answer. “Call me as soon as you hear from Schummer.” There was nothing left to Catel but to let this next step play itself out.

203 AVC CHAPTER 32

6,600-miles to the east, Akmed and Yemen met just outside the prime minister’s office in response to an urgent call for their attendance, which was never a good sign. Before entering the executive suite, Yemen handed Akmed a note. “The call came from the United States. The person registered to that number is a college student. His name is Derek Mayflower and he appears to have no ties to any organizations outside of his academic circles. Though he used some very advanced techniques to try to block his telephone number.” “Interesting. Find out why someone like Mayflower would have the personal cell phone number of someone like Manrique.”

* * *

The prime minister was perched at an opulent desk to, say the least. Heavy gold gilding accented deep carvings along its edges. His chair was throne-like with golden legs and gold brocaded upholstery. The entire room had an air of narcissism to it. The prime minister was looking over a report. It detailed an internet query into Professor Nasser’s four compounds. As Akmed and Yemen entered the expansive room, the prime minister closed the report, placed it in front of him on his desk then turned his attention to his two soldiers, showing no reaction to the silver guard covering Akmed’s right eye. Akmed had no idea why he had been summoned, but it really didn’t matter. He knew it was little more than a formality because both he and the prime minister had their own agendas. The prime minister’s purpose was always to assert his authority, regardless of the topic, while Akmed was supposed to appear to care. Immense guards stood just behind each of the two visitors’ chairs in front of the prime minister’s desk. The two smaller chairs, while also lined with gilt carvings, seemed modest relative to the prime minister’s gigantic

204 CARBON COPY desk and throne-like chair. As Akmed and Yemen began to sit, the prime minister stopped them. “No need. This won’t take long.” It was the prime minister’s way of telling Akmed something was very wrong. “Your eye, it must be upsetting.” Although the prime minister’s insincerity was apparent, Akmed had no choice but to reply politely. “Yes.” “Yes. Well, imagine how upset I must be. Our nation’s future hangs in the balance because of your incompetence.” The prime minister paused, picked up the report, then tossed it at Akmed. Akmed read through the file while the prime minister looked on menacingly. And though Akmed was annoyed the information had leaked out, he was careful not to show any emotion whatsoever.

Men like Akmed live to serve. They do so with robotic indifference for their employers—regardless of who they are. The prime minister was keenly aware of the disrespect inherent in this situation. He was also aware that this was what made men like Akmed such great soldiers. And what the prime minister needed was a great soldier, even more than respect at this time. As a result, the prime minister was willing to tolerate Akmed’s attitude to a point, so long as Akmed provided him something he valued much more—results. Unfortunately for both of them, Akmed seemed to be having a bad run of luck for the first time in his career.

After a tense pause, the prime minister moved on. “Now everything hinges on the intentions of this character.” “We know his name and where he lives.” “And that he is resourceful enough to have eluded you and your men.” “A momentary setback.” Akmed had always understood his place in the political hierarchy, and the need to maintain at least the façade of respect. Though in truth, he considered his superiors little more than inconveniences. His remark had

205 AVC imprudently lifted the mask on his cavalier attitude, causing the prime minister to jump to his feet and smash his fists onto his desk. “A what?” A sharp nod from the prime minister sent one of his guards into action. With mechanical precision, the guard wrapped his hands around Yemen’s head and snapped his neck, killing him instantly. The sounds of Yemen’s spine cracking away from his skull sent an eerie echo through the room. As quickly as the assault began, it was over. The guard let go of Yemen’s head and then stepped back, allowing Yemen’s lifeless body to drop to the floor. It was a dramatic move, designed to produce fear and compliance. The prime minister wryly commented. “That was a momentary setback.” Unfazed, Akmed considered the show of force of little consequence. Still dismissive in his tone, Akmed looked at the dead body lying alongside him on the marble floor and quipped, “And I was just starting to get used to him.” Akmed’s sarcasm infuriated the prime minister. A vein in his forehead pulsated violently. With things spiraling out of control, Akmed only had a moment to provide the prime minister some degree of assurance. He reached into his inner jacket pocket, produced Mitra’s cell phone, and placed it on the corner of the prime minister’s desk. The prime minister glanced at the sleek, gold-plated device contemptuously. “I’m listening.” “It’s the girl’s cell phone. Shortly after I got it someone called in.” “Who?” “I don’t know. But he did.” Akmed gestured to Yemen’s lifeless body. And even though it was a lie, Akmed couldn’t resist messing with the prime minister’s head. Seeing the prime minister at his wit’s end, Akmed threw him a bone. “But I know where they called from. Between that location and this...” Akmed lifted the prime minister’s report. “...I’ll be able to determine what we are dealing with.” With the file in hand and his direction clear, Akmed returned Mitra’s cell phone to his pocket. “Will that be all?”

206 CARBON COPY The prime minister turned purple with rage. Akmed’s arrogance and the prime minister’s dependence upon him pushing the prime minister to the breaking point. But Akmed knew that the prime minister was too far into his plan to change his point man. “Yes. And I trust our next meeting will bring an end to this matter.” Akmed was tempted to take even the last word from him by commenting on the way out, but thought better of it. Instead Akmed extended the prime minister a conciliatory bow as he backed away, turned, then walked out of the stately office. Outside the executive suite, Akmed was joined by a young soldier who looked like he had been chiseled from a block of solid granite. “Who are you?” As Yemen’s lifeless body was being carried out of the prime minister’s office, the young soldier motioned to the corpse. “His replacement.” “Not a wise career move.” A hint of a smile evaporated as Akmed continued. “We leave for the United States in an hour. I don’t care what it takes.” Akmed shoved the pharmacist’s folder and the note with Derek’s contact information in the young soldier’s hands. “Find them. We need to determine what they know. Then I have something very special planned for them.” Torturing his victims was Akmed’s way of paying them back for causing him to endure face time with men like the prime minister. “Yes, sir.” “What’s your name?” “Yemen.” Akmed’s brow rose as he considered the irony. “Convenient.” The two men headed down the long corridor without further conversation as Yemen began texting the half-dozen individuals and groups needed to get Akmed in the air and on his way to the United States in 58- minutes.

207 AVC CHAPTER 33

Everything Doctor Wassermann had said about Joshua was true, and more. He was a wonderful, kind and engaging gentleman in his eighties with a wife whom he adored. And from the treasure trove of art he had on display throughout his modest four-bedroom home, it was clear that Joshua was one of the most talented artists she had ever met. The many paintings that covered his walls looked so much like the original, authentic masterpieces that even Chance couldn’t tell they were copies. There were Chagalls, Monets, Rubens, Picassos—the list went on and on. Were it not for the fact that Chance knew the whereabouts of many of the original paintings, there would have been no way for her to be certain these were copies. What Wasserman may not have known, and certainly hadn’t shared with Chance, was that the advanced stage of Joshua’s arthritis prevented him from painting any longer. Joshua, his wife Rebecca, and Chance sat enjoying afternoon tea while Chance fabricated a story about looking for someone to perform restorations and other maintenance work for her grandfather’s art collections. “Seeing your extraordinary talent and love for art,” Chance told the old man, “I can only imagine how hard it must be dealing with your arthritis.” Joshua placed his crippled hand on Rebecca’s, then took a moment of thought before answering. The old man had only a few wisps of hair on his balding head, and age spots dotted his face. But in his eyes, there was a gleam that seemed to light up the whole room. “Before I met Rebecca, painting was my entire world. It was what I lived for. After we met, Rebecca became my world, long before the arthritis set in. Throughout our fifty-one years together, art afforded us a wonderful life. I am a lucky man. Most never find one thing to live for. I have had two.” As Joshua looked lovingly into Rebecca’s eyes, Chance’s eyes began to well up. Rebecca’s white hair was covered with a yellow Provencal scarf. She was a tiny woman, weighing probably no more than a hundred pounds.

208 CARBON COPY Her face was unpainted, her hair undyed, and her skirt a simple wraparound. Authentic, real, serene. Chance felt their love as Joshua continued. “If it weren’t for Becca, I doubt I could have made it a single day after the arthritis ended my ability to paint. But it’s funny what love can do. With Rebecca to share and enjoy each day...” After one of Joshua’s bent hands took a broad sweep through the room, across a dozen forged masterpieces, he drew his two crippled limbs in front of him to consider them before finishing his thought. “...aside from the pain, I don’t have cause to give it much thought.” Rebecca put her arms around Joshua, and for that moment the octogenarian couple seemed the very essence of true love. Then Joshua brought the conversation back to the reason for Chance’s visit. “But none of this is much help to you. Obviously, I wouldn’t be able to perform at the level needed for such an extraordinary collection as your grandfather’s. Though, I must admit, after having met you, I have a feeling that would have been a wonderful assignment. I’m so sorry you wasted your time.” “Wasted?” Joshua had no way of knowing how much Chance appreciated seeing such love, stability and dedication between two people. She would have gladly flown halfway around the world if only for the hour she had just spent with them. “Meeting you and Rebecca, seeing your artwork and spending time with the two of you has been an amazing experience that I will cherish.” The glow in his eye made it clear that the three of them had sparked a sincere admiration in the brief time they were together. But now it was time for Chance to leave. “I’ve taken enough of your time.” As the three got up and Chance prepared to leave, she wrote down her name and number on a small piece of paper then handed it to Joshua while petitioning him one last time. “If you think of anyone that you feel would be up to the task, I would consider that a high recommendation.”

209 AVC Though she tried to be subtle, Chance saw Rebecca squeeze Joshua’s arm. And though Joshua did his best to act as though he didn’t notice, he did. Joshua slipped Chance’s note between the open pages of a large dictionary on a stand near the front door, giving Chance the clear impression that it was a place of honor. Comfortably seated in her town car, Chance’s driver was about to close the door. Joshua raised one of his crippled hands, signaling Chance to wait as he began walking toward her from his porch. When he arrived at the car, Joshua reached in and gave Chance a note with a man’s first name, Marc, and the name of a nightclub— “les Bains.” “I can tell you he is as good, maybe better, than I was. He lives in Paris. But he is the freest spirit you will ever meet. Be careful.” The look of concern in Joshua’s eyes as his voice tightened on his two final words caused a chill to run through Chance. Then he turned and walked back to his porch and the loving embrace of Rebecca. After Chance had pulled away, Rebecca turned to face Joshua. “Are you going to call him?” she asked. The look in Rebecca’s eyes spoke volumes to Joshua. “No.”

210 CARBON COPY CHAPTER 34

Fleming was in a taxi on his way to the northernmost part of Fulton County, Georgia. It was one of Atlanta’s more prosperous counties, and though Alpharetta was still a semi-rural town, the roads were beautifully paved and the houses all freshly painted—this was horse farm country. Fleming’s taxi found its way through a thin forest of cedar trees, to Joshua and Rebecca’s ranch house. When Fleming got out he was greeted by the elderly couple walking arm in arm down their driveway on their way to church. “Hello.” There was a polite yet guarded tone to Joshua’s greeting as Fleming stepped out of the cab, presented his Government ID and asked. “Were you visited today by a young lady named Chance Catel?” “Have a good day.” Joshua took Rebecca’s arm and continued their walk to church, leaving Fleming standing curbside with his cell phone buzzing a text message. Annoyed and ready to go after the arrogant old man, Fleming looked at the text message first.

6:25 pm, Chance Catel and two companions, identities unknown, boarded Delta flight 1647 from Atlanta to Paris

“Shit.” Then a second text came through.

I know you didn’t just say that :)

Fleming jumped back into his cab and barked orders to the driver. “Atlanta International Airport.” Then he hit his speed-dial button. “Operator 38,” came the cheerful voice on the other end. “Fleming,” he grunted. “Let me guess. You need travel approval to Paris.” “I’m starting to like you.”

211 AVC “Hopefully you’ll get over it.” A smile came over Fleming as he waited for his approval. After several minutes, Operator 38 returned to the line. “Sorry, Cowboy. The front office said to bring you home on the next flight. Seems you’ve annoyed someone other than me.” “Bullshit.” “At least you’re expanding your vocabulary. And to make things worse, the Gulfstream has already been taken. I’ve got you booked back to D.C. on the next commercial flight, coach no less.” “Any more good news?” “The only ticket was a center seat at the back of the plane. Have a great day.” Fleming slid his cell phone back into his pocket, annoyed as he headed back toward Atlanta.

212 CARBON COPY CHAPTER 35

Regardless of what is going on with the world in general, life at 42,000 feet always seems pleasantly removed from the madness. And though Chance had no intention of going to Paris when her grandfather first recommended the idea less than 24-hours ago, armed with Joshua’s small note and the talk with her mother, the trip suddenly became something she needed to do as soon as possible. Having purchased an entire row in first class, Chance was able to enjoy her privacy—which was temporarily interrupted by the flight attendant as she handed Chance the dinner menu. “Would you like anything before your meal?” “The Cristal, prosciutto and melon that I am hoping were just delivered to the plane, thank you.” The slightest look of surprise came over the attendant as she commented. “How very nice. I’ll be right back.” Chance had just finished settling in when the attendant returned, set up her tray, opened the bottle of champagne and set a menu aside Chance. After a very short sip, Chance took the phone from the armrest, then placed a call on her way across the Atlantic.

* * *

“Hello, Grandpa. I’m taking your advice and going to Paris. I’ll be landing in about 6-hours.” Back at his Miami estate, Catel could see from the display on his phone that Chance was on a Delta Airlines flight. Shaking his head, he tried his best to understand the failings of youth. “Why do you insist on flying commercial?” Catel never understood why Chance, who had a fleet of private jets, helicopters, yachts and limousines at her disposal, took comfort with taxis, commercial airlines or any of the many other forms of public transportation that she used on a regular basis.

213 AVC “Is that what they teach you in graduate school?” he sniped. A smile came over Chance as she chose to ignore her grandfather’s mild discomfort with her choice of transport. Instead she softened the moment with an olive branch. “Mom and I talked late into the night and it’s clearly two against one. You win. I’ll be sleeping in Paris tonight, safe, sound and mindless.” Though Catel didn’t know the real reason for Chance’s visit to Paris, he knew it had something to do with Schummer and a plan she wouldn’t let go of. For now, the best Catel could hope for was a call from Wassermann after he talked to Schummer. In the meantime, Catel was content in knowing Chance was getting out of the United States until the Mitra matter calmed down. Catel could hear her smile through the phone as she shared one of their favorite endearments. “Who loves you too much?” “You.” Now it was Catel who was smiling, content that one of the most important people in his life was safe and sound—if only for the moment. “Will you still be in Paris when I arrive next month?” “I’m not sure. For now, just the weekend. Monique and Élan said they wanted to spend some time with me. I need to be back Monday in time for Mitra’s funeral. Then I’ll probably go back to Paris for the summer.” “Excellent. Be safe. I love you and I hope to see you soon.” “I love you too, Grandpa.” CHAPTER 36

While Fleming was in Washington, DC, having a shouting match over what his supervisor characterized as “frivolous and excessive travel expenditures with no approved plan in place to justify their costs,” one of Catel’s black town cars had just made its way from De Gaulle Airport to Auteuil Passy, an exclusive residential borough in the City of Lights. The town car passed Square Tolstoi, a small park with blood-red poppies and the statue of the long-bearded author. In her youth Chance

214 CARBON COPY had always mistaken the statue for Merlin the Magician. Now the statue served as a beacon to let Chance know she was close to her Parisian home. As they pulled onto her street, she peered out from the back seat at the familiar sight of two large gentlemen in black awaiting her arrival. When the town car came to rest curbside, her door was opened by one of the two gentlemen. Chance got out and walked quickly up the expansive marble stairway that led to the front door of Catel’s magnificent brownstone, accompanied by her other attending guard. Just as Chance and her escort arrived at the front door it opened, joined by two additional guards and Angelique, a matronly uniformed housekeeper who had served the Catel family her entire adult life. A deep sense of relief came over Chance at the sight of Angelique waiting in the foyer of the stately period home. For Chance, the Paris brownstone had always been an enchanted place, filled with wonderful childhood memories of the many holidays and special occasions spent in its elegant hallways, ballroom, parlors and bedrooms. As a child, the four-story in-town mansion had been Chance’s Parisian playground. It was the place she, Ricky, Mitra, and sometimes Derek when he was allowed to tag along, had grown up playing hide and seek. Now it was Chance’s staging area for a much more serious game. The home was wonderfully familiar and peaceful, and Chance allowed it to envelop her within its high level of security. She felt the slow release of the tension that had imprisoned her the past several days. This was the second time she was able to exhale. Looking up she took in the architectural masterpiece’s 20-foot-high coffered entryway as though it was an old friend. High above its magnificent bookmatched granite floors, an exquisite crystal chandelier cast a warm amber glow upon the sixteenth-century paintings and tapestries that adorned the grand old building’s limestone walls. Then, like a favorite melody, the loving sound of Angelique’s voice brought her back to the present. “Good evening. It is wonderful to have you here, Miss Chance.” “Yes” Chance thought to herself, “This is where I belong.” Chance looked lovingly at the petite woman in the traditional French housekeeper’s uniform—black dress with white collar and a white apron at the waist. While Angelique had been devoted to every member of the Catel

215 AVC family for over thirty years, Chance and her twin brother Ricky had always held a special place in her heart. “I’m so sorry about Miss Mitra.” As the two women hugged, they shared a bond that went far beyond staff and employer. “Thank you.” Angelique kissed Chance on her cheek before the two ladies stepped away and Angelique began attending to Chance’s immediate needs. “Shall I have a meal prepared while you settle in?” Chance considered the offer. But even though she had slept comfortably on the flight over, the nonstop adrenaline rush of the past few days had taken its toll. “No thank you. I think I’ll try to sleep for a while. Then I’m going to meet up with Monique and Élan later this evening.” “Will you be wanting anything when you return?” “I don’t think so. And don’t wait up. It could be a late night.” CHAPTER 37

David Stone was standing at a large wall of glass, high above a thick expanse of trees and green lawn known as Sheep Meadow. This was Stone’s magnificent view of Central Park from the penthouse of the Pierre Hotel. Yet despite the beauty and grandeur of his location, his attention was elsewhere. While unintentionally running his finger across the deeply engraved eagle and olive branch that spanned the upper portion of his large gold ring, Stone pondered all they represented. As the fingers of his right hand glided gently over its cloisonné surface, he considered the two most important things on his mind. The first was his mysterious new friend and her propensity for catching him off guard. Two days ago, when Stone was sitting with her in the café in Geneva, he had a plan. He was going to enjoy their evening and then at breakfast get answers to a number of pressing questions, starting with her name. Given her earlier disappearing act, Stone put his staff on alert. Coupled with the Wilson’s extraordinary level of security, he was confident that she

216 CARBON COPY would be present for breakfast. Yet, once again, he awoke and found her gone. This time, his emotions were much rawer and more extreme, ranging from sadness to outrage. But his greatest concern came from the uncertainty. The who, what, and why surrounding his beautiful friend were taking their toll on Stone’s soul. Then there was Bottega’s failed attempt at securing the technology— and lack of a Plan B. It had been a frustrating 48-hours for Stone, a man not accustomed to frustration. So he paused in order to renew his resolve. But that only added to his frustration. With nothing he could do about his new friend, Stone acquiesced by placing his third call to Bottega. “It appears you may have a second bite at the apple,” Stone began without even saying hello. “What apple are we talking about?” “The technology.” “I am no longer interested,” Bottega responded curtly. There was an awkward silence while Stone regrouped. “Then how about vengeance for the death of your agent?” “I am listening.” “She didn’t die in vain. She made it clear to the others that there is a leak that could nullify the technology’s usefulness if it was made public.” “Go on.” “They are going to silence the potential leak to ensure their position. Someone needs to get to him first, find out what he knows, then kill him.” “Where and when?” “Three-seventy-two Main Street, Flint, Michigan, in about 2-hours.” “2-hours. Halfway around the world. Why so much notice?”

Though Stone’s habit of hanging up wasn’t endearing him to Bottega, Bottega cared more about settling the score for the loss of his top operatives than Stone’s impertinence. And Bottega had lied—the mysterious technology continued to intrigue him.

217 AVC CHAPTER 38

Chance and two of her best friends were enjoying the crowd in les Bains, one of Paris’s posh nightclubs. Monique was a tall, slender redhead wearing a piece of silk so small it could have been underwear. Élan, a drop-dead gorgeous blonde, was wearing an even tinier wisp of silk. Prominently seated at Table One, the three stylish, beauties could have made a display window at Victoria’s Secret seem prudish. Just in front of them, manmade clouds and special lighting effects transformed the dance floor into a sea of undulating little black dresses as multicolored strobes intensified the illusion. Despite the heart-pounding volume of the music, Monique tried her best to console Chance, yelling to be heard. “I get upset just thinking about what you’ve been through.” “It’s hard to explain the feeling...” Chance leaned over to give Monique a hug and complete her thought while she was closer to her ear. “...I can’t get the image out of my mind—Mitra’s limp body falling to the ground like a rag doll, and the awful damage the bullet did. I mean, you can’t imagine her beautiful, precious face just...” Her voice trailed off and her jaw tightened, as she tried to hold back the flood of emotions building inside her. Élan grimaced. Then she reached into her purse for a small etched crystal bottle. “Well, I can’t say drugs, sex, and rock and roll are the only cure, but they’ve always worked for me.” Élan reached over to hand Chance the elegantly crafted vial of cocaine. Chance declined the offer with a wave of her hand and a mild look of disgust. “Thanks, but that’s not what I need.” Élan shrugged her shoulders before slipping the small container back into her purse.

218 CARBON COPY Chance looked out across the sea of beautiful people. Not finding what she was looking for, she shouted to Monique and Élan to be heard over the music. “Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back.” The moment Chance faded into the crowd, Monique grabbed Élan’s arm hard enough to startle her as she pulled Élan close to keep their conversation private. “Are you brain-dead? Do you have any idea what would happen to us if her grandfather even thought we offered her drugs? There wouldn’t be enough left to identify us from our dental records.” Monique’s chilling message cut through the festive atmosphere like a sword. Despite their friendship with Chance, there was a reality to that relationship that could never be forgotten or minimized, and both girls understood that. Élan mumbled a weak but sincere apology before Monique ended the conversation. “Don’t let it happen again.”

* * *

Having made her way through the sea of night crawlers to the upper level of the club, Chance found the manager holding court with a pack of barely legal groupies. Clearly outclassed, two of the girls leaned back, allowing Chance to approach the manager. “I’m looking for someone named Marc.” The manager looked at Chance with a blank, glazed expression. “Marc?” For effect, he looked over the second-floor railing, down onto hundreds of Paris’s beautiful people, blending together into a rising and falling mass while not revealing a single face. “You’re kidding, right?” Unfazed, Chance took five crisp $100 bills out of her small clutch, placing them on the table, then continued. “He’s supposed to be some hotshot artist.” After slipping the bills into his pocket with a discretion born from years of practice, the manager pointed through the open atrium to the other side of the balcony at a private table.

219 AVC “See across the way? The tall guy standing with his back to us. White shirt with long wavy hair.” Chance left the manager as if their meeting had never taken place while the manager returned to his adolescent entourage with the same indifference. After making her way around the second-floor loft, Chance walked up very close behind the gentleman in the white shirt before calling out his name. “Marc?” Marc turned in the direction of the caller. For a moment they were both caught off guard. Chance was startled at the effect this perfect stranger’s rugged good looks had on her. The feeling was mutual. And even though Marc had an amazing way of looking as though whatever was happening was exactly what was supposed to be happening, seeing Chance threw him slightly off his game. “A mutual friend said I should look you up the next time I was in Paris.” “And to whom do I owe a very special thank you?” Staring into his piercing green eyes, Chance found herself almost uncomfortable under his gaze. After a brief pause, she was just about to explain her meeting with Joshua Schummer when a tall lanky man in a wrinkled, dark-blue suit abruptly stumbled between them, throwing his arms around their shoulders—tying the three of them awkwardly together. In addition to being grossly unwanted, the man had been drinking—a lot— and smelled of alcohol, bad breath and body odor. Sarcastic and drunk, the unwanted intruder planted his face within inches of Marc’s. “Besedka, how good to see you.” Marc fanned the air to cut the assault of the man’s foul breath. “Mal—fete.” While Marc did his best to deal with the unfortunate situation, the combination of the Frenchman’s odors and closeness were more than Chance was willing to tolerate. She instinctively stomped down hard on his foot with her Louboutins, bringing an abrupt end to their threesome. Malfete screamed out in pain and jumped straight up in the air as he let go of both Marc and Chance. “Mmmmerde!”

220 CARBON COPY Malfete quickly hopped away from his attacker, continuing with a string of expletives. “Merde, merde, merde, merde…” While Malfete widened the gap between himself and danger, Chance moved closer to Marc as if the incident never happened. “Do you live around here?” Marc was enjoying Chance’s approach to crisis management. Watching Malfete hopping around on one foot had Marc distracted to the point that he didn't hear Chance's question. “Hel-lo,” she said, with emphasis on the second syllable. Chance grabbed Marc's chin and turned his face toward her, dragging his attention away from the hobbling drunk. “Sorry,” he apologized, “but that was amazing.” Finally refocused, Marc answered Chance’s original question. “Not far.” “What?” Marc drew Chance close and gave her an unexpected hug, mostly of appreciation, as he whispered in her ear. “I don’t live far from here. I’ll show you.” The warm breath of Marc’s whisper inside Chance’s ear sent a delicious chill through her entire body. Though completely distracted for that moment, she quickly recovered when Malfete, mad and in pain, limped back over. “You bitch!” Malfete spat. “You’d better pray you didn’t break my foot.” Unfortunately, Malfete had no idea just how far down the food chain he stood relative to Chance. Chance, on the other hand, was more than willing to give the drunken Frenchman an orientation in social positioning as she raised her high heel for a second time, threatening to stomp on his other foot. It didn’t matter if he was a garbage collector or the president of France, he was in her way and she wasn’t willing to spend another second pacifying the intruder. Alarmed, Malfete jumped back as he waved his fist at Marc, needing desperately to get in the last word. “Besedka...you…you… cockroach.”

221 AVC A broad smile came over Marc as he watched Malfete hobble away for the final time—and Chance became curious. “Friend of yours?” “No.” Chuckling, Marc watched Malfete limp in pain out of the nightclub. “Now he’s not a friend of yours either.” Marc pulled Chance by the hand to a seat at his table then leaned toward her and began his explanation as though he and Chance had known each other their entire lives. “Malfete is an inspector with the French police.” “Do tell,” said Chance as she leaned closer. “We’ve been bumping heads for the last couple of years. You never know when he’ll pop up. But whenever he does, I usually wind up taking a ride down to the police station for a chat.” “Not tonight.” A warm, disarming smile came over Marc as he agreed. “Not tonight. Thank you for that.” Between the piercing volume of the music and distractions like Malfete, Chance knew she couldn’t have a productive conversation with Marc in the club. So she improvised. “Can we get out of here?” Without missing a beat, Marc stood up, extended a hand to help Chance to her feet, then gave his friends a look of resignation that they knew was irreversible. As they passed Monique and Élan’s table, Chance waved goodbye, leaving both beauties stunned, mouths open and looking at each other with questioning eyes. “Well,” joked Monique, “I guess that’s one way to drown your sorrows.” Élan let out a breathy sigh of agreement as they both fixed their eyes on the nightclub exit, watching Chance and the handsome stranger disappear into the night. Élan chimed in, “I thought we were supposed to be consoling her. So much for girls’ night out.” “Can you blame her? Did you get a look at him? I’d let him comfort me anytime.”

222 CARBON COPY “You would. But I know her. I’m betting on blue balls.” “What a waste.” “Totally.”

* * *

Outside and away from the club’s sensory assault, the mild, calm spring air created a relaxed feeling of peace. Marc looked deep into Chance’s eyes, searching for some advantage, but there was none to be found. Chance was the picture of confidence. “Now that I can hear myself think, let’s start over. I’m Marc.” Chance was caught up in the moment as Marc’s deep-set eyes penetrated hers. Instead of words, she unconsciously reached for Marc’s hand as she tried to sort out her confusion. “I’m Chance.” “Chance…” Marc repeated her name, giving it a meaning she’d never experienced before that moment. Part of her wanted to drink in his gentle emotional intrusion, to be transparent and share the part of her that was so deeply wounded. But she knew she couldn’t. There was too much at stake. “Focus,” she thought to herself. “So, tell me about yourself.” “Well—I am an artist. I’d love to tell you I sell my work for obscene amounts of money, but the truth is, I spend most of my time doing restorations for private collectors and museums just to get by.” “Museums trust you with their masterpieces? I’m impressed. You must be pretty good.” “That’s what they say, but enough about me. I have a feeling your story is a lot more interesting. Are you from around here?” “Ugh,” she thought aloud. The last thing she wanted was to talk about herself. But as anxious as she was to move her plan forward, she knew this was a process and she would have to see it through. “Not really. But I am studying art history, so we have more in common than you might think.” “Oh, really?”

223 AVC Time flew by as they talked about anything and everything that came to mind, as if they had known each other for years and were just catching up on old times. Chance was intrigued, even smitten with the handsome stranger. But now she needed to get down to business and set things in motion. “So where is your work? I’d love to see it.” “If I told you, I’d have to...” Chance delivered a playful backhand across Marc’s chest, cutting his cliché short. “Seriously.” Marc playfully grimaced in pain. But Chance knew from the pleasure in his eyes that he enjoyed her touch. “Easy, tiger,” he said, putting up his dukes and weaving to one side. “I saw what you’re capable of back there with Malfete.” They laughed, enjoying the memory of their first moments together. Chance gave Marc a serious “come on” look as she tried again. “I’m waiting,” said Chance with a sexy pout. There aren’t many men who could resist Chance when she was on, not even a guy as confident as Marc, and she was on that night. Though he buckled, he managed to maintain a semblance of inscrutability. “Just my luck.” Marc tossed his hands in the air then slapped himself on his thighs before explaining his frustration. “I’ve been working on a Chagall for the past five days. Alone. Now it’s back in the Louvre. What the hell, I know how to get in. Let’s go have a look.” Marc took Chance’s hand in his, turned, and started to walk toward the famous French museum. Chance held her ground, pulling free from Marc’s hand, which spun him around. After flashing Marc a look, Chance wrapped her arms around her shoulders in an attempt to stave off a sudden chill as the temperature of the spring air started to drop on both the night air and their conversation. “Not up for breaking and entering?” he teased. The last thing Chance needed was to get busted for breaking into a museum, not that she thought that was really an option.

224 CARBON COPY “Don’t you have any of your work in a less adventurous location?” “Only my studio.” “Then how about coffee there?” “You call that less adventurous?” “Don’t worry, I won’t take advantage of you.” Chance knew it was a bold move. The real surprise came with Marc’s pushback, which Chance immediately sensed. Fortunately, the awkward moment was shattered by familiar voices. “Shouldn’t you two be someplace else?” “Yeah, like a bedroom doing something else?” Though still looking quite elegant, it was clear from the way Élan and Monique were walking and holding onto their evening catches that they had finished their first bottle of champagne and then some. Chance flashed Monique an impish smile. “Like what?” But it was Élan who provided the answer. “This.” Élan let go of her young suitor, sashayed up to Marc, wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled his face to hers with an air of ownership. In a steamy display, she kissed him hard, deep and long. “You better leave something for Chance,” quipped Monique, annoyed at her friend’s drunken disregard for Chance. After Élan broke away, Marc was aglow. And though an unwitting participant, Élan’s comment sealed his guilt. “Great kisser.” Seeing one of her friends wrapped around Marc like a second layer of skin banished whatever strange feelings for him that had been emerging in Chance. Instead, she squeezed Marc’s hand in a grateful gesture. “I really enjoyed meeting you,” she said, adding in a soft feminine tone, “When will I see you again?” Marc was a mix of emotions. On the one hand he was dying to jump Chance’s bone, though he knew that wasn’t going to happen. Then there was the extremely uncomfortable feeling that he had just been busted. For what? He didn’t owe Chance anything. And what the hell, it certainly wasn’t

225 AVC his fault Élan decided to jump down his throat with her tongue. Still, it was what it was. And Marc knew he only had a moment to make things right. “The whole gang will be at Au Pied de Cochon next Tuesday night, around ten.” “Tuesday night?” “It’s when we start planning for the weekend.” “Tuesday, night?” “Yeah. Give it a try. You can see how the other half lives.” “Could be fun.” Chance threw her arms in the air seeing Élan and Monique were still draped on their two boy toys. “Don’t they qualify as catch and release?” The two ladies took one look at their escorts, then back to each other in unison. “Totally.” After letting go of the two young men Élan and Monique followed Chance into Catel’s black town car. Chance turned to catch a last glimpse of Marc through the rear window. She marveled at how attracted she was to this man. But she was even more amazed at the loneliness she felt seeing Marc standing in the roadway, watching her disappear into the night.

226 CARBON COPY CHAPTER 39

It was the start of the 33rd lap at Circuit de Barcelona-Catalunya, and the yellow flag went up. The remaining Formula 1 cars slowed and held formation. Fireworks lit up the infield, drawing everyone’s attention upward. There in the cloudless sky, a large checkered flag the size of a football field with M&M #33 blazoned across it in gold was flown over the Spanish Grand Prix by the Red Bull bi-wing plane. It was an exhilarating sight as tens of millions of fans from around the world watched in reverent silence, saddened by the loss of one of racing’s most beloved celebrities. Due west 3,800-miles, in an unusual gesture, the General Assembly at the United Nations paused for a moment of silence to honor Mitra’s life. Though she was the daughter of one of their most respected members, it was for much more than that. Mitra was an international enigma, a true superstar. She awed men with her talent and disarmingly sultry stature, and was revered by women for her sheer audacity to infiltrate and conquer the testosterone-charged racing world. That alone would have been enough to warrant celebrity. But it was the way she won that captured the world’s admiration. The press had loved her— rocketing the M&M brand to extraordinary heights, which in turn elevated the sport immeasurably—in ratings and revenues. Mitra seduced the entire racing world as it witnessed her perfectly choreographed ascent from the celebrity of beauty and pedigree to world- renowned respect as a role model who would pave the way for women for generations to come. Then, like a volatile gas gathering strength and mass only to ultimately explode into utter nothingness, it was over. No one could quite reconcile her short life and especially her untimely death. There were countless such tributes being paid in Mitra’s honor as her casket slid into its vault, but none more extraordinary or profound than the single tear that fell from the eye of Carlos Bottega. And though only a few understood the significance of that tear, lives were about to be changed and lost.

227 AVC Mitra Manrique was the adopted daughter of Ambassador and Mrs. William Manrique. Unable to have children, the Manriques turned to the place of their childhood, Azure, a principality on the western coast of South America, for assistance. Within Azure stood The Monastery, an extraordinary facility that provided exemplary care, education and guidance to orphaned children from around the world. Mitra was one of those children, and she was adopted by the Manriques the day she was born. The match couldn’t have been better. For her entire life, Mitra was loved and cared for at a privileged level. Her education and training were outstanding and her God-given abilities were amazing. Mitra lived a charmed life—until the day she died. There was never a reason to question her lineage. But as the stone was placed, sealing her vault, the quiet truth was revealed within the souls of the few that knew as Bottega mourned the loss of his daughter. A light mist hung in the air as thousands of people made their way to the National Cathedral. Mitra’s funeral was by invitation only. And great care had been taken to ensure the security and privacy of her family. The arrival of international celebrities who had traveled from around the world to pay their final respects seemed endless as the procession filled the massive structure to capacity. Though grand in scale and memorable, everything to that point could have been anticipated—until Carlos Bottega took the pulpit. That was the real reason that no form of audio or video recording was permitted inside the cathedral and though few outside the cathedral would have recognized the Latin recluse, those inside the cathedral who had been pirating hidden video clips knew to turn their devices off at the sight of Bottega. Though few had ever seen Bottega in person, it was the first time anyone saw him dressed in anything but his signature white linen suit. There was an unmistakable air of power and authority as the stately, sixty- year-old gentleman in his smartly tailored black cashmere suit kissed the head of the closed casket before taking the pulpit. It was one of those rare times that saying you could hear a pin drop wasn’t cliché…you truly could. Bottega stood silently, with his hands gripping the side of the pulpit and his head bowed for what seemed an interminable moment. Then just

228 CARBON COPY as the collective tension and grief throughout the cathedral was about to reach critical mass, Bottega looked up, surveyed those in attendance, and said, “Thank you.” It was the first time anyone could remember him saying those words. As if choreographed, a single shared breathy sigh from the thousands in attendance provided a glorious homage as it paid the ultimate tribute to Mitra and all she meant to Carlos Bottega, those in attendance, and the world. Among the sea of mourners, Chance held onto her brother Ricky’s hand, as did her mother and grandfather, listening to Bottega’s stunning eulogy. After the service, Chance kept her distance from the grieving family, which included a friend from Chance’s childhood, Mitra’s brother Blake, whom Chance noticed had grown tall and handsome. She politely embraced Mitra’s parents in the reception line, but did not stay for the meal at the Manrique residence afterwards. Chance’s sorrow and anger were too intense, as was her frustration at the apparent lack of response on anyone’s part to avenge Mitra’s murder. The only way Chance felt she could deal with her overwhelming sense of grief and hate was to get out of Washington and the United States as quickly as possible. 2-hours after witnessing her best friend being sealed in a cold, lonely vault, Chance was boarding a plane returning to Paris. Sitting quietly, staring out the window, Chance made a vow to herself and to the memory of her best friend, ‘Your death will not go unavenged.’ CHAPTER 40

Alec Golisinski was a bully. In fact, Golisinski had been a bully his entire life, from preschool through both his failed marriages. He was also a classmate of the Toad and had tormented his short, fleshy fellow student throughout college and grad school every chance he got. Ten years after graduation, the Toad and Golisinski were at a class reunion. True to form, Golisinski went out of his way to belittle the Toad in front of his old classmates, comparing the size and success of his pharmacy to that of the Toad’s much smaller operation, emphasizing the fact that he

229 AVC was a past president of the American Pharmacists Association and the Toad a mere member, and on and on. During the reunion, Golisinski posted his business cards on one of the college bulletin boards. The Toad took Golisinski’s business card and had been using its information ever since. Whenever the Toad needed to supply contact information and didn’t want to use his own, he used Golisinski’s. God only knows how many magazine subscriptions, internet spam ads, charitable solicitations and the like had been forwarded to Golisinski over the years, vexing him mercilessly. That was exactly what had happened a few days earlier when the Toad was searching the internet for the carbon- dating compounds. Rather than supplying his contact information, the Toad had entered Golisinski’s. Golisinski was also a creature of habit, wearing the same uniform he wore every day, a blue button-down shirt and a matching blue tie under a white lab coat and always keeping the same schedule. Every evening at exactly 8:55 p.m. the six foot-two, 250-pound man would walk from the pharmacy department in the back of his drugstore, up and down each of its six aisles, and end up at the front door in order to lock up for the night at exactly 9:00 p.m. That day was no different. At precisely 9:00 p.m. Golisinski bent down with some difficulty to set the lower lock of his drugstore’s glass entry door. As always, he jiggled the lock as it reached its usual sticking point. With clock-like precision the moment before the bolt set, two smartly dressed men in black tailored suits flung the door open, smashing the top of Golisinski’s balding head—forcing him backward onto the floor. Golisinski was stunned. While lying on the floor, he tried to make sense out of what had just happened. He found his glasses cocked sideways on his head and a warm damp feeling as a trail of blood ran down his face from the gash the edge of the metal door had left in his forehead. There was nothing graceful about Golisinski. As he rolled around on the floor like an inflatable punching bag, he tried desperately to right himself while addressing the two men who caused the collision. “I’m sorry, but we’re closed.” “Let me help you.” Akmed reached out, took Golisinski’s hand and helped him to his feet.

230 CARBON COPY Yemen engaged the deadbolt, locking the three unlikely companions in the empty store. The moment Golisinski was back on his feet, Akmed drew his gun from his shoulder holster and pressed its barrel directly between Golisinski’s eyes. The barrel’s cold steel against Golisinski’s face sent a shock through his entire body. Golisinski’s brain tried desperately to process the shockingly unexpected image of his impending death as his mouth blurted out reflexively: “Christ!” It was a response that always baffled Akmed. “What is it with you people? Do you honestly think He is going to be of any help whatsoever?” Golisinski looked flabbergasted but managed to utter a frantic response. “It’s just a figure of speech.” With lightning reflexes, Akmed smacked Golisinski across the side of his head with his gun, then replaced the barrel back between Golisinski’s eyes before he knew what happened. The blow to the side of Golisinski’s head was painful, but his senses were dulled from the sheer horror and shock of the ordeal. All he could muster was a groan. “Well, my friend, you’re about to meet your maker so let’s hope for your sake He turns out to be more than ‘just a figure of speech.’” Golisinski was beyond confused. So he reverted to what came naturally—babbling. “I don’t have much money. But whatever I have is yours. Take it and please leave. I swear, I won’t tell anyone.” “Do I look like someone who needs your money or even cares what you do?” “Then what do you want?” “It’s simple. You tell me why you are interested in this.” Akmed reached into his inside jacket pocket and took out a copy of the internet page that the Toad had filled out using Golisinski’s contact information. “If not, I pull this trigger.” “WHAT?!?”

231 AVC Instinctively, Akmed whipped his gun across Golisinski’s face for a second sharp blow, opening another large gash, this time above his right ear. Golisinski winced, fighting to hold back the tears of pain and fear as the barrel was shoved back between his eyes. “Pay attention. I don’t like repeating myself. Hesitate and I’m going to start with your right foot, then continue to shoot my way upward through your body parts until I get to your head.” Akmed looked to Yemen. “What do you think? My guess is I’ll hear what I want by about his second foot.” “I’d shoot off his toes one at a time before moving on to the other foot. Then shoot your way up to some serious screaming. Why rush? We have some time to kill.” Yemen had a grin on his face as he looked over at Golisinski, who was white as a sheet. “Time to kill. I made a joke. Get it? Time to kill.” While Yemen enjoyed himself, Akmed studied the look of utter horror and confusion on Golisinski’s face as Golisinski pointed to the paper in Akmed’s hand. “I swear to God, I’ve never seen that thing!” Akmed felt there was a good chance Golisinski was telling the truth. But, unfortunately for Golisinski, Akmed had to be certain. Without hesitation, Akmed shot Golisinski in his right foot then smacked him across the side of his head for a third time. This time the blow knocked the already unstable, screaming Golisinski to the ground, yelling out in pain and horror, holding his injured foot. “AUGH! SHIT! I swear! I swear! I’ve never seen that thing, whatever the hell it is! I don’t know who you are or what you want! But for God’s sake, PLEASE stop whatever it is you’re doing and believe me when I say I have no idea what you want from me!” Akmed helped Golisinski back up, though Golisinski could barely stand on his injured foot. Over the years, Akmed had been at this point in his interrogations countless times. And if there was one thing he had come to know, it was when someone was lying. Everything about the situation told Akmed that

232 CARBON COPY Golisinski was somehow just an unlucky victim. Still, he had come this far, and it was worth a couple more bullets to be sure. “Not good enough.” As Akmed aimed his gun at Golisinski’s left foot the drugstore’s glass entry door shattered open and four of Bottega’s men stormed through. In the time it took Akmed to swing around and level his gun, two of the men were inside and under cover. The last two men were less fortunate. Akmed’s speed and accuracy always pushed the limits of natural human capability. Firing two precise fatal shots in half a second evened the playing field to two on two. With the steely coldness of a seasoned assassin, Akmed rotated back a quarter turn and shot Golisinski through his heart then between his eyes to ensure his secrecy. Before Golisinski’s body even hit the ground, Akmed joined Yemen who was battling it out in a firefight with Bottega’s two remaining soldiers. CHAPTER 41

The Toad was watching late-night television when a breaking news story interrupted the show. “This just in. The Flint, Michigan police department and their SWAT team have surrounded a building on the east side of town. This is a developing story. Details are sketchy at this time. Jena McGee, our correspondent in Flint, is at the scene. Jena, what can you tell us?” “Chad, as you can see, we are being held back from the scene. We were just told that the incident occurred approximately 30-minutes ago and involved a great deal of gunfire that took place over a relatively short period of time. Accounts have ranged from a few dozen to hundreds of shots in the course of as little as 2-to-3 minutes. There have also been conflicting accounts about the aftermath of that shootout. “I am standing here with Gerald Brightman, a resident of this usually quiet, peaceful neighborhood. Mr. Brightman, please explain what you saw.” Brightman was a middle-aged man of modest appearance and disposition with a beer belly that was straining the buttons on his blue and

233 AVC grey plaid flannel shirt and jeans. He was haplessly out of place in front of the camera and lights, but when the microphone was held close to his face he began recounting the event. “I was on my way to the drugstore, running a little late but hoping they would still be open. Just before turning into the parking lot I heard a gunshot. So I stopped right there in the middle of the street.” Brightman pointed to an area of roadway now occupied by a number of police cars and cordoned off with yellow crime scene tape. “I looked over at the drugstore and saw four men blast their way through the front door. And that’s when all hell broke loose. I don’t know how anybody could count how many shots were fired over the next couple of minutes. But I’m tellin’ you, there was a lot of them. When the shootin’ stopped, I turned off my lights and drove into the gas station across the street and waited to see what would happen. And that didn’t take long. It wasn’t fifteen seconds before these two guys started carryin’ out one body after another and puttin’ them into the trunk of one of the cars that were parked in front of the store.” The newscaster interrupted Brightman. “Jena, we’ve just received word that the inside of the store was nearly destroyed from the gunfire. We are being told it is a very grisly scene with an extraordinary amount of damage and blood throughout, but no bodies.” While the newscaster continued his presentation, an image of Golisinski appeared on the screen. “This is a picture of the owner of the drugstore, Alec Golisinski. He is reported missing at this time. We will continue to follow this developing story in Flint, Michigan and keep you updated as information becomes available.”

* * *

The Toad stared blindly at the commercial that followed the special report while his mind raced. There was no way this could be a coincidence. Professor Nasser’s death and the disappearance of his college nemesis made it clear just how dangerous the situation had become. Yet despite the severity of it all, the question haunting the pharmacist was, “How much do I tell Ms. Catel?”

234 CARBON COPY CHAPTER 42

It was 6-hours later. This was an interesting time for Stone, others would say tumultuous. Stone was sitting in front of his morning coffee, looking out across the Long Island sound. He was agitated and concerned. And though he was directly responsible for the fate of 5 billion people, that wasn’t at the top of his mind…she was. Somehow, she had managed to disappear for a second time before he woke up, and without his guards or the hotel staff seeing her leave. Then there were the looming questions. “How? Why? What is she up to? Could this have anything to do with my plan?” Stone had been careful not to divulge any aspect of his plan to anyone other than Bottega. Even so, something was wrong- very wrong. Regardless, Stone was committed, so he shook off his demons as he placed his fourth call to Bottega. “I don’t suppose you caught the evening news,” Stone began, again without a preamble. Seeing this conversation wasn’t going any better than their previous three, Bottega decided to take the initiative. “I watched it live off the pharmacy's security system.” Now it was Stone who was intrigued, having thought he and his comrades were the only ones that were able to invade and pirate any surveillance system at will. “Then you know your men put up a good fight.” “Not good enough. So where do we go from here?” “That’s an interesting question,” Stone mused. “If they got what they came for, we sit back and wait for the world to change for the worse, the likes of which can barely be imagined.” “And if they didn’t?” “Then we should get one more time at bat.” “When will you know?” “Just before I tell you.”

235 AVC * * *

At least Bottega expected the dial tone that time. He also got the answer to a very important question. Which of the twelve members was calling him?

236 CARBON COPY CHAPTER 43

Akmed was in a foul mood at the prospect of a third transcontinental trip back to the Middle East in as many weeks. The excessive travel was making a bad situation worse. Even in the comfort of a private jet, the relatively short first leg of his flight from Michigan to Miami seemed interminable. Having landed in Miami International Airport to refuel and tie up another loose end before returning home, Akmed searched in vain for some distraction to amuse himself while he and Yemen drove along the Don Shula Expressway south on their way to the University of Miami. Finally, the black sedan pulled up and parked in front of Derek’s apartment building. Akmed and Yemen walked past a row of palm trees through the complex until they arrived at unit 18. “Go Hurricanes!” was written on the door under an orange and green letter U. Akmed shook his head. “What is wrong with these people? They celebrate devastating wind and rain storms." After knocking on the front door of Derek’s apartment, the two men waited a reasonable period of time before a second more forceful attempt. “Coming.” As he opened the door, Derek’s heart felt like it shot straight up into his throat at the sight of the two threatening strangers. Even though Derek had never seen the men in Chance’s story, her description of the sinister Middle Easterners dressed in black, with a damaged right eye, was so compelling and complete that there was no doubt in Derek’s mind. The men standing in front of him were Mitra’s murderers. Still, as horrified as Derek was, he attempted to control his emotions and pass off his startled reaction as early morning jitters. “Good morning. How can I help you?” “We’re lost. I’m looking for my niece’s apartment.” Akmed extended his cell phone with NO SERVICE displayed to support what he was about to say.

237 AVC “But I don’t seem to be able to get through. Would you be kind enough to let me use your phone to call her?” “Sure. Come in.” Derek felt a warm steady stream of sweat dripping down his back. Nervous and uncertain, he had no idea how to protect himself against the threat standing in front of him. As Akmed and Yemen entered Derek’s living room, they found four other students sleeping on anything that could double as a bed. “Sorry about the mess but this place always looks like this. With the way things are, we all have to pitch in to make ends meet.” “You mean these boys all live here?” “Oh yeah, them and another four guys who are in the lab this morning. They’ll all be back any time now. Derek figured Akmed had tracked the location from Chance’s call. His only hope was to put some doubt in Akmed’s mind about which of the apartment’s residents could have placed the call. Derek handed Akmed the phone and then went back to the front door to appear to give Akmed his privacy. He also hoped his not-so-subtle message was clear that he was ready to show the stranger out as soon as he finished his call. “Hello, Mitra, this is Ali. I seem to be lost. Could you tell me how to get to your apartment?” Hearing Mitra’s name cut through Derek like a knife. He kept his head slightly downward to mask the flush of heat he felt overcoming his face, but he was careful not to show any response. After a moment, Akmed looked to Derek. “Where am I?” “Tell her my apartment is in Building Four on Ligura Ave.” After a few more moments of exchange between Akmed and his fictional niece, Akmed hung up the phone and started back to Derek’s front door, commenting to Derek as he approached. “Thank you. As it turns out, Mitra is off campus.” Akmed passed right alongside Derek, so close he brushed against him. Derek was a mass of confusion. On the one hand, he was outraged at the men who had killed his friend then had the audacity to show up at his

238 CARBON COPY apartment. On the other hand, Derek realized just how dangerous these monsters were. And for that, Derek was grateful they were about to walk out of his life. That was the last thought Derek ever had. It was so quick that Derek didn’t see it coming. Akmed elbowed Derek hard to the side of his head, instantly knocking Derek out and onto the ground. “We finally have someone to interrogate. Pick him up and put him in the car.” “What makes you think he knows anything?” Yemen listened as he executed Akmed’s order. “I didn’t expect him to recognize me the instant he saw me—or even know who the Mitra girl was.” “And you got all of that out of what?” Yemen motioned over his shoulder, back into Derek’s apartment to the remaining three young men still sleeping. “His eyes, the fact that he was sweating like a marathon runner and a bit more.” “His eyes, and a bit more.” “Like what?” “He isn’t working alone.” “You’ve got my attention.” As the two men walked back to the black Mercedes, the trunk popped open while Akmed explained the source of his revelation. “The person that called me was a girl.” “I thought you said she didn’t say anything.” “She didn’t have to. I heard breathing. It was a girl’s. And there weren’t any girls in the apartment. But this one will give her up.” Yemen was impressed as he dumped Derek into the trunk then closed the lid.

* * *

It was 6-hours later at 40,000 feet somewhere near the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. One of the prime minister’s G650s was on its way back to the Middle East from the United States. Yemen was jettisoning body parts

239 AVC into the still, deep waters below, leaving the sea life to ensure there would be no evidence to connect anyone to the six murders.

240 CARBON COPY

241 AVC CHAPTER 44

The quaint floral veranda, scarlet canopy entrance, and smell of fresh baked bread and braised pork couldn’t have been more French. For decades, Au Pied de Cochon had been a favorite haunt for locals and seasoned tourists alike. And for the past two years it had also become a regular watering hole for Marc and his posse’s weekly get-togethers. Amid panels of Toulouse Lautrec style ladies painted on illuminated glass, and beneath the shimmering chandeliers, his friends sat at extended tables on long red leather banquettes doing what bohemian Parisians do best—drinking and shouting at each other. Their meeting was rife with loud opinion and laughter, reminiscent of the coffee houses of the ’60s without the afros, polyester bellbottoms and lingering scent of marijuana. It was their private sanctuary, a time when they sat together, escaping the global madness that had gripped their social networked generation. Regardless of the trivia or mayhem that had invaded their lives, every Tuesday night Marc, Jean-Claude, François and Leoné managed to walk through the front door of 6 rue Coquilliére right around 11:30 p.m. to welcoming smiles—and that night was no exception. Rather than java, Marc and his group ran on bold red wine that typically kept flowing until eggs Benedict, French fries, lattés and fresh squeezed orange juice arrived at their table at precisely 2 a.m., signaling the last call. They were an eclectic blend of some of Paris’ more interesting characters. François, the prodigal son of a wealthy industrialist, was a young, talented, bohemian artist complete with chiseled features, cropped mustache, and beard. To his right was Jean-Claude, one of six siblings of a loving bourgeoisie family, an extremely handsome, blissfully gay male model whose every mannerism screamed fabulosity. To François's left and across the heavy, rustic oak table from Marc was Leoné. There was no way not to be attracted to Leoné. She had that special something that was often referred to as star quality. She was a gorgeous radical punk rocker with the soul of an ’80s valley girl, complete with rainbow hair and feathered bangs.

242 CARBON COPY Together, Leoné and her mother had managed to eke out a respectable existence ever since her father was killed in a mining accident when she was four. And for the past three years she had been the group's strong and only female presence. Marc was a renaissance man and the clear leader of the pack. Orphaned at birth, this free-spirited, self-styled anarchist possessed an extraordinary collection of God-given talents, a few of which even his best friends had barely begun to understand and most of which they would have never comprehended. Then there was Chance, the neophyte of the gang. Throughout her life there was never a venue, event or clique which Chance couldn’t gain access, though she rarely ever cared. But this was different, for both Chance and the four musketeers. This was a clique Chance genuinely wanted to be part of. At first glance this wealthy, beautiful, American granddaughter of two of the most powerful men on earth would have seemed out of place, sitting among these hipsters in her Versace sweater, custom Bvlgari bracelet and Harry Winston necklace. However, if the other four only knew Chance’s true motives—love and vengeance—they would have understood and welcomed her with open arms. But that couldn’t be—at least not for now. So Chance gained access through the oldest trick known to man. She seduced its leader. While the friendship the five shared was obvious, it was enhanced by the warm atmosphere, good conversation and a great deal of excellent wine. By the time the waiter replaced the fourth empty wine bottle, no one at Marc’s table was feeling any pain. By 1:00 a.m. the five were deeply involved in one of François’ stories. While he had a firm grip on everyone’s attention, his main focus was Chance. She was the “newbie.” And they were looking for anything that would explain her abrupt entrance into their lives and the hold she seemed to have on their leader, other than, of course, the obvious. François’ story was about Marc. For effect, François used gestures and the third person, as if Marc wasn’t sitting right there with them. “We would all love to have such a high-class problem. But first one must be as good as Marc, and that is very difficult.”

243 AVC Marc waved his hand along with a quick retort. “It’s just that I don’t like people seeing my work until it’s finished. That’s the only reason I don’t like working outside of my studio.” Unfortunately for Marc, his explanation only made things worse. François completely ignored Marc’s attempt at humility, staying squarely focused on Marc’s extraordinary talent. “And despite the enormous security issues it presents, leading galleries and private collectors from around the world are willing to put up with Marc’s eccentricities so that their paintings can be touched by the hands of God.” François rolled his hand and took a slight bow in Marc’s direction for effect. And though François’s metaphor was admittedly over the top, it produced the desired result with Chance. “Whoa. God, no less.” Chance couldn’t believe her luck. Unsolicited, François’s story was confirming what Joshua had told her—that Marc was a painter capable of doing the difficult job she had planned for him. Now all she had to do was keep the conversation going. “Alright, Marc, why do museums and private collectors seek you out?” Marc took a shot at playing down François’s lofty assessment of his talent. “I do a little touchup work from time to time. That’s all.” Bursting out with his hands waving in full animation, François ratcheted the conversation up to the next level, ending any hope on Marc’s part of derailing it. “A little touchup work!” François flailed his hand in disgust as he dismissed Marc’s second pathetic attempt at humility. “You Americans. The last ’little touchup’ Marc performed was the restoration of Goya’s The Third of May, 1808, for the Prado Museum in Madrid, probably the most important restoration of the decade. Just last month a Monet was delivered to Marc under heavy guard. Hell, the owner’s security force camped out in limousines for a week around Marc’s apartment until the ‘little touchup’ was completed.”

244 CARBON COPY François’ animated quotation marks and exaggerated accent added the perfect touch. “Our Marc is the best. His work is an exact duplicate of the masters. In another age, Marc could have been the most talented forger of all times.” BAM! There it was—the final corroboration. Still amazed at her luck, Chance couldn’t afford to lose the momentum. So she played the entire group. “Forger? Why forge art? If you’re that good, why not just paint your own?” Chance was full of questions but held back, appearing to just be going with the flow. “Anyway- with the internet and its instant global access, what can you forge in the art world nowadays without getting caught by noon?” “You’d be surprised,” chimed in Jean-Claude in a singsong manner. Chance was on a roll, playing the crowd and controlling the conversation. “Look, if a painting already exists and everyone knows who owns it, what good is it to forge a copy, no matter how good it is?” “You’d be surprised,” repeated Jean-Claude. Even Chance couldn’t help but smile as she continued. “I mean, it’s not like forging $100 bills. Now that’s something you could put to good use.” François was passionate about art and evidently no stranger to the ins and outs of Paris’ elite. “Sweet Chance, there are many reasons for not wanting to display a $100 million piece of art in plain view. Why not get the same pleasure looking at one of Marc’s little baubles with no risk?” “But can you do that and really get away with it?” Chance said in the most naïve inflection she could muster. “I mean—if I was going to display a fake and pass it off as part of my collection, it would have to be...so...perfect.” Chance’s words were longing and hopeful before she caught herself and toned down her enthusiasm. Seeing her passion, François was happy to regale her. “It depends upon what you mean by ‘get away with it.’”

245 AVC Marc’s positioning in the story shifted abruptly. Now that he was no longer the target of his friends’ admiration, his response bordered on clinical. “Painting a Picasso or a Renoir to fool people is one thing, and yes I can do that. However, no one, including me, can trick the testing done these days. So to answer your question, it’s worth it, as long as you know who you are trying to fool.” Marc looked over at François, dealing him a bit of attitude. It was obvious to everyone at the table that Marc wanted to bring the conversation to a close. “And that, my friends, is the end of the story.” “Putain!”11 Leoné wasn’t the only one who didn’t want the story to end. Chance wasn’t about to let that happen, especially when the conversation was delivering critical information that she needed. “Come on, not just when things are starting to get interesting.” True to form, Jean-Claude reentered the conversation right on key. “Oops. It appears our Marc is about to bare his soul.” Marc went from defensive to annoyed. “Jean-Claude, you can be such a dickhead.” Puzzled, Jean-Claude searched for some meaning. “Dickhead? What is this ‘dickhead’ thing?” Jean-Claude was genuinely comical in his innocence and mannerisms. François and Leoné nearly choked on their drinks, struggling to keep their wine in their mouths. Even Chance couldn’t help laughing and enjoying the moment while Jean-Claude was left as the odd man out. Despite Marc’s annoyance, he was quick to come to his friend’s aid. “It’s not important. I’ll explain some other time.” Concerned that Jean-Claude’s faux pas may have ended the conversation, Chance jumped right in. “Come on Marc, why would you want to keep something a secret from me?” “Oh, God…” As Marc acquiesced, Chance was confident the final answers she needed were close at hand.

11 Familiar French interpretation “damn-it!” 246 CARBON COPY “It looks like I’m telling this old story, one last time.” “Rrrockaaa!” Leoné was ecstatic at the prospect of hearing one of her favorite stories again. “I love this one.” Marc shot Leoné a look as everyone at the table settled in to listen intently, like preschoolers about to hear their favorite fairy tale. “About three years ago, a stuffy Brit shows up at my studio. He said his name was Sir Clayton Lewis, he owned a Rembrandt, and he was paranoid someone might steal it. He wanted a copy made so he could safely store the original in a vault while still enjoying the painting. So he wanted a copy—an exact duplicate of the original.” Marc paused. Seeing Chance was hanging on his every word, he had no choice but to continue. “Hell, the price was right. He seemed respectable, said he was referred by the Louvre, and I could see the Rembrandt was authentic. So I took the commission.” Marc shifted to an apologetic tone. “It’s done all the time with high-worth paintings and jewelry.” “You mean my secret is out?” Leoné flashed a grotesquely large cubic zirconium ring at Marc, enjoying a moment of teasing. After shooting Leoné another look, Marc continued, barely missing a beat. “Anyway, he pays me, I make the copy and that was that. Next thing I know the police haul me in.” “Malfete?” Chance was so caught up in the story that she couldn’t believe she had unintentionally interrupted it. “Yup, our old friend Malfete.” Fortunately, Chance’s interruption didn’t break Marc’s rhythm. “Turns out, Sir Lewis worked for a security vault company where the real owner was storing the painting while his mansion was being renovated. The knucklehead switched my painting for the original just before they delivered it back to its real owner.”

247 AVC Seeing there was no stopping the conversation, Chance started some serious probing. “So, hotshot, you got busted. Not as good as you thought you were, huh?” Jean-Claude jumped into the conversation before Marc could answer with all the flair that only Jean-Claude could bring to the moment. “That should be Marc’s problem. Truth is he’s too good. Marc’s Rembrandt was a perfect copy. Unfortunately, the original had been slightly damaged sometime back, which only the collector and Marc knew. And since Marc wasn’t about to duplicate the damage, that was the tattletale.” Jean-Claude became extremely animated as his voice dropped to almost a whisper for effect. “Can you imagine the collector’s surprise when his painting was returned to him, undamaged?” “Wow.” Chance was genuinely impressed, and content as another piece of her plan fell into place. She had found her talent. “I told you. Our Marc is the best.” After François vindicated himself, Marc took back control of the story. “It turned out, Sir Lewis was really Louie Clayton, a petty conman with a history of that kind of thing, just never with merchandise as valuable as a Rembrandt. “When the police checked out my story and found I was telling the truth, they let me go. But Malfete never believed I was that naïve. To tell you the truth, I think he just doesn’t like me.” Marc looked at Chance with exaggerated innocence. “Can you even imagine someone not liking me?” Chance rolled her eyes while softly shaking her head as she waited for Marc to go on with his story. “Anyway, Malfete told me I’m the first one he’s going to drag in anytime something like that happens. And he does.” As interesting as Marc’s story was, Chance was having a problem. Something just wasn’t ringing true, so she jumped back in.

248 CARBON COPY “Why didn’t old Louie just tell the owner he thought the painting was damaged in storage, so he had the storage company commission the repair?” “Smart girl.” Now it was Marc who was impressed. “That’s exactly what happened. Unfortunately, Louie didn’t have a very good poker face and the owner sensed something was wrong.” Jean-Claude was confused, interrupting again with impeccable timing. “This ‘poker face,’ is it anything like the ‘dickhead’?” The table erupted in laughter, leaving Jean-Claude feeling like the odd man out once again as Marc turned his attention to Chance. “And you think it’s easy having friends like this?” Once the laughter settled down, Marc was back on point while Jean Claude quietly agonized over his second unanswered question. “Unfortunately for Louie, guys who can afford Rembrandts don’t think twice about having them tested at the drop of a hat.” This was the last bit of information Chance needed. Even though she was well aware of carbon dating testing, she wanted to know just how much Marc knew. “That’s the second time you’ve mentioned testing.” “Every forger’s nightmare.” It was clear from the look on Marc’s face that he’d fallen prey to testing in the past, one way or another. “It’s called radiocarbon dating. Scientists use a particle accelerator and an electromagnet to—” “Bo-ring,” interrupted Leoné. “Skip the Einsteinism, Marc, puhlease, and get to the good part.” “Fine. But this is important. By measuring the amount of carbon14,” Marc continued, “these boring scientists can pinpoint the precise age of an object. In the case of art, radiocarbon dating tells you when the piece was created by dating whatever media was used. It works on everything, charcoal, painting, sculptures, anything.” Chance had her answers. “So, if it weren’t for that carbon thing, you’re good enough to forge any famous artist and no one could tell the painting wasn’t authentic?” “There isn’t a person alive who could prove the piece wasn’t an original work.”

249 AVC Marc went from authoritative to melancholy. “But alas, none of that matters because Mr. Carbon exists, and Malfete has me at the top of his wish list. So even if I wanted to have a go at it, I’d be the first one they’d haul in. You see, the problem with being good is the better the forgery, the guiltier I look.” Marc raised his wine glass in a self-toast. “Together, carbon dating and Malfete have brought an end to my illustrious and short-lived career in the glamorous, high-stakes world of creative simulation.” Marc drank down the last of his wine, joined by everyone at the table, bringing an end to his tale and the fifth bottle. Chance was faced with a dilemma. On the one hand, Joshua was right. Marc definitely had the talent to pull her plan off. On the other hand, Marc came with baggage—Malfete and the French authorities. And Chance wasn’t sure she wanted to take on that liability. As their waiter replaced the empty wine bottle, Leoné started up a new story about a one-legged hooker, a casket and two midgets. And on it went until about 2:30 a.m. when they had finished their eggs Benedict and pommes frites and the lights in the restaurant began to flicker on and off. Marc placed both hands squarely on the table in front of him, as much to stabilize his ascent as for effect. Then he rose purposefully with the evening’s salutation. “It appears we have, once again, overstayed our welcome.” After a bit of grumbling, then a series of goodnight smiles, hugs and kisses, all five of them eventually got up and headed for the front door. Outside, Marc and Chance slipped into the lead cab in a short line of waiting taxis while Leoné took hold of Jean-Claude and François’s arms as the three musketeers headed off in the opposite direction. Marc’s thin, lanky taxi driver with a copper complexion and jet-black hair turned, flashed a set of pearly whites that no Caucasian could ever pull off, and asked. “Où?”

250 CARBON COPY It took Marc a moment to drag his attention away from Chance and focus on the driver’s question before giving him the address of his apartment. “Numéro un, rue de Petite.” It was clear from the expression on the cabbie’s face that he had no idea where the address was, so he asked again. “Où?” This time Marc was more descriptive. “Numéro un, rue—de—Petite, entre Laizer et Pontu.” Though the cabbie still looked less than assured, he pulled away from the curb and headed down the street. As they made their way to Marc’s apartment, Marc turned back to Chance to explain the cabbie’s confusion. “It’s the shortest street in Paris. It’s only got one door. Even the cabbies have a hard time finding it until I explain it’s between Laizer and Pontu.” Armed with the Laizer/Pontu information, the cab driver managed to find the quaint apartment building in what seemed like no time at all. Getting out of the taxi, Chance was struck by the unusual convergence of streets and how they created Marc’s neighborhood of one building. “I like it. It’s like your own private island in the middle of the city. A small island—but your island nonetheless.” “It’s the best kept secret in Paris.” Perched on one of Paris’ finest vantage points, midway between the Seine, the city lights below and the famed Black & White Chapel above, Marc’s apartment had a spectacular head-on view of the best Paris had to offer. Marc lifted his outstretched hands to the starry sky, then turned to Chance. “This ends my story. So, tell me, what brought you to Paris?” Chance’s subtle sexy smile set an inviting tone, then she settled onto Marc’s front stoop as if it was her own home. She began her story, which was all it was—a story, totally fabricated. It played double duty by captivating Marc while moving her plan another step forward. “My father was a doctor in Florida. He and my mother died in a small plane crash a few years ago. I got a large settlement. I was an only child...”

251 AVC 20-minutes later Chance ended her tragicomic opera, “So, I just had to get away.” “I know what you mean. I’ve been through some stuff in my life, enough to know that getting away can be a good thing. Hell, I’ve moved-on more times than I can remember, Paris being my current stopover. Though I have to admit, it’s going to be hard leaving this place.” Chance’s deception seemed to have worked. Marc appeared to be distracted. So Chance began fishing for more information. “What made you leave the States?” “Panem et circenses.” “That’s going to take a bit of explaining.” “It’s a long story.” “I’ve got all night,” she said sensuously, injecting an air of intrigue into their conversation. Despite having had more wine in one night than she normally drank in a month, Chance was still in control and wanted to delve deeper into Marc’s past. But he suddenly took her hand, lifting her to her feet. “It’s getting late.” Chance was confused. He was handsome with a magnetic personality, but he didn’t do anything to try to impress her. She knew he was a player, but he never once made a pass at her. “Exactly my point,” she purred, certain that would get a rise. Marc continued to resist. “It’s past your bedtime. Mine too.” Chance was becoming annoyed. It didn’t make sense. She had never been rejected in her life. Now for the first time she was the aggressor and the sting of wounded pride wasn’t sitting well with her. Marc had a captivating presence that was on one hand warm and inviting, and on the other, strong and provocative. It created a powerful allure that made him almost irresistible, so she pressed forward one last time. “How about that coffee you promised?” “What—and ruin five bottles of good wine?”

252 CARBON COPY Chance almost flinched—this rejection thing was sending her into a state that resembled shock. Marc hailed her a cab. Dumbfounded, she slid into the back seat. As the cab sped off, she couldn’t bring herself to look back. Marc headed inside, more frustrated than he had felt in years, but relieved to be out of trouble for the time being. When he got to his apartment things got worse. Marc received terrible news from the one person who meant more to him than anyone else in the world—Joshua Schummer.

253 AVC CHAPTER 45

Early the following morning, the prime minister sat impatiently listening to Akmed’s debriefing. Both men had become weary of the uncertainty of the situation, though for very different reasons. About halfway through Akmed’s report on the gunfight at Golisinski’s drug store, the prime minister lost what little patience he had. “Why must you kill everyone that could provide valuable information to us?” “It’s complicated.” “What could possibly be complicated about locating someone and then bringing them here alive?” “I had no way of knowing the kid had a plate in his head that could cause a simple blow to kill him. And I am confident the person in Michigan had no knowledge of the operation.” Akmed’s decision not to answer the question infuriated the prime minister. But the issues at hand were more important to the prime minister than his disdain for Akmed. “Then how did we get Golisinski’s contact information?” “Someone else supplied it.” “Which means we still have two problems.” The prime minister rose slowly to his feet so that he could look down on Akmed as he continued to make his point. “Without certainty, the entire plan must be put on hold. And this is already May. If I do not release the book by November, we will have to wait until next year—which will cost us dearly. You more than I.” The prime minister’s fatal warning was clear. “I will do my best to serve you.” “I don’t want your best. I want results. Let’s be clear. I want whoever ordered the compounds found and brought to me alive. He will undoubtedly lead us to whoever sent the Manrique girl. I want that person brought to me, also alive. They will tell us whether they are working alone or with others. They will also tell us how they came by the information

254 CARBON COPY about the book. At that point we will know whether or not to proceed. However, we have no hope for success if you continue killing everyone. Have I made myself clear?” Without a word, Akmed bowed, turned and left to complete his assignment.

255 AVC CHAPTER 46

Cool, dark and dead silent. It was the perfect place to sleep off a hangover. The architecturally impressive bedroom was magnificently appointed with deeply handcrafted mahogany millwork, sixteenth-century antique furniture, paintings and tapestries. And somewhere under the massive, down-filled, hand embroidered, silk comforter that blanketed the intricately carved, gold leafed canopy bed, Chance was dead to the world. Even without a sleep mask, the room’s heavy lined damask draperies, pulled and overlapped, barely let in enough light to distinguish furniture placement. Not that Chance had any intention of trying to get out of bed and move around. A knock on her bedroom door solicited a pleading objection from under her comforter. “Angelique. Please go away. At least until tomorrow.” Having delivered her decree, Chance retreated back into the contentment of her isolation, albeit short lived. A moment later she heard her bedroom door open, the sounds of the draperies being thrown back and footsteps approaching from across the room. Chance sat up with an attitude, ready to deal with her unwanted visitor. Frustrated and in pain from her hangover, Chance began scolding the intruder even before she emerged from under the comforter. “Angelique, pleeeeasssse!” As Chance emerged from her quilt, she was greeted by a tall figure with long honey colored hair and similar features to her own—only much fairer skinned. A second later it hit her—it was her mother Alyse, with her arm around her brother Ricky’s waist. Despite her throbbing headache, Chance couldn’t have been more excited. “Mom! Ricky!” Chance was so overcome she forgot her discomfort just long enough to spring up straight out of bed and throw her arms simultaneously around the necks of her mother and brother. But the painful reminder of

256 CARBON COPY her hangover cut the trio’s family hug short. Chance shrank back trying to steady herself, climbing back into bed and speaking as softly as possible. “What are you two doing here?” “We live here,” smiled Alyse. “Well, sometimes we do.” Alyse’s tone was almost apologetic. Though the rooms in the family’s Parisian brownstone were always impeccably maintained, they were rarely ever used. “Anyway—what is today?” Alyse asked. “Mom, I’m in no shape for a pop quiz.” After a brief moment the light in Chance’s very painful head lit up. “Oh my…gosh!” Chance reached over, grabbed Alyse and squeezed her with as much strength as she could muster. “Happy birthday, Mom.” “Thank you baby. Don’t feel bad about forgetting. You can make it up to me by delivering the opening remarks to my party at the end of this year, remember?” Chance looked at her blankly causing Alyse to remind her. “The big party! I made it to 50, which is something to celebrate. And what could be better than the Waldorf on New Year's Eve? Everybody will be there. For today it’s just family. Now let’s get going. Ricky and I want to pick up a very special painting, shop for my present, and treat you and Monique to an early dinner. Then I want to take off before dark.” Chance gave her mother a half-hearted smile. Though she was suffering from a hangover, there was much more than that bothering her. Joy. Grief. Pain. And Chance knew she couldn’t hide her emotions from her mother. She never could. Alyse looked at Chance sympathetically. “I know honey, I really do. This is hard for all of us. I just think keeping our traditions will help us through this. We will mourn Mitra for the rest of our lives. But just think about what she would want. She would want us living and laughing and...” Chance joined the end of her sentence. “...shopping!” They both smiled and batted their eyes lightly to keep the tears back.

257 AVC Still, a full day of shopping and socializing was the last thing Chance wanted or even thought she could handle at that point. All she really wanted was eight more hours of peace and quiet, under her quilt. But despite her condition, emotionally and physically, time with her mother, Ricky and Monique was just too hard to pass up. “Okay, so you’re not kidding?” Alyse went parental. “I never kid about my art collection or shopping, and we all have to eat. Your grandfather said anything that you pick out will be my birthday present from you and him, his treat.” Chance did her best to hold back a pout, with no success. “Really? No limit? His treat? He doesn’t do that for me anymore.” “Guess he really didn’t want to own Worth Boulevard or the Miami Dolphins.” “Oh, yeah—that. Anyway, whatever happened to forgive and forget?” The two ladies shared a knowing glance over a few of Chance’s more outrageous indulgences. Chance resigned herself to enjoying the short visit with her mother and Ricky. She crawled out of bed, moved slowly to swallow 3-Advils and got ready.

* * *

Ever since Monique spent a year living with the Catels as an exchange student in high school, Alyse had treated her like one of the family. Whenever Alyse was in Paris or Monique was in the States, they would get together, if only for lunch or to keep Alyse company on her way to the airport. But almost two years had passed since Monique’s last visit, and she was missed. It was dusk when the black, long-wheelbase Rolls-Royce pulled up to a private jet on the tarmac at Orly Airport. As the limousine stopped, three large men in black who were waiting alongside the plane and an equally imposing gentleman who stepped out from the front passenger’s side of the limousine secured the area with choreographed precision. After notifying Alyse’s driver that the area was secured, he opened the rear passenger door. Tall, slender and luxuriously draped in Chanel, Alyse was a stunning beginning to the procession of wealth and privilege that followed behind

258 CARBON COPY her like a row of aristocratic ducklings. Ricky looked immaculate as usual with his white polo shirt and tan khakis. Monique came out next in a bright pink top, black leather skinny jeans, knee-high boots, and her hair pulled up in a chignon. Chance was last in a flowing maxi dress and Louboutins. Once Chance, Ricky and Monique had exited the Rolls, Chance stepped away from the pack and spun around with her arms stretched out to the heavens. “And before dark. Mom, you lead a charmed life.” Alyse had a wonderfully satisfied look as she acknowledged Chance’s comment. “I love seeing cities from above just as the sun is setting and their blankets of nightlights come on. It reminds me of the wonderful model train garden my friend’s dad used to put together for the holidays when I was a child.” That flashed Chance back to her own childhood. Those charmed and magical holidays seemed so pure and uncomplicated now, but so far in the past. Her innocence had ruptured irreparably when she held Mitra’s lifeless body in her arms. The gnawing fear bubbling inside her was that life would never be the same. She fought the melancholy that was threatening to overtake her. It had been too good of a day to dampen everyone’s spirits now. Seeing the driver take a wrapped package from the trunk of the limousine, Chance pulled herself back into the moment, using it as her diversion. “Well, Mom, I can only imagine how pleased you are. But for what that little painting cost, you could have owned the Dolphins with change in your pocket. And they’re so much more fun.” “But they’re so much trouble. You have to feed them, buy them uniforms, and send them all over the country for their games. And, in the end...” Alyse held up a small turquoise box as she continued her thought, once again bringing perspective to her daughter’s life. “...they get the rings.” Alyse considered the twelve-carat solitaire inside the box. “Where would we be if your grandfather thought like you?” “At the Super Bowl, watching our team win?”

259 AVC “Perhaps. But next year your investment could tank if your team wound up in the cellar.” Alyse pointed to the painting as the driver placed it in the plane. “Dead artists have been very good to us. My way, your child could own the entire NFL, and I believe the Dolphins are in that package.” “She’s got a point,” Monique weighed in as she moved closer to Alyse. “Ms. C., you can be my business manager any time you like. I can’t think of a single stock I ever bought that didn’t tank or a bet that I ever won. I could use a couple of great paintings in my portfolio right about now.” Monique gave Alyse a hug as she completed her thought. “Thank you for dinner and a fun day.” “My pleasure. It’s the only way I get to see you anymore. When are you going to come back to the States to spend time with us?” “I don’t know.” Alyse picked up on the concern in Monique’s voice. “What’s wrong?” “It’s hard to explain.” “Try.” “It’s strange. In the last few years, America has gone from being the number-one place to visit to being totally off the radar. It’s as though it turned from a safe haven to ground zero overnight.” “I understand, though I don’t necessarily agree. Miami is a long way from America’s problems and our home on the island is its own world. You’ll be entertained and safe, and we’d all like to see more of you.” Monique could tell from Alyse’s insistence that it was more an instruction that an invitation. “Okay, this summer. I promise. I’ll stay for at least a month.” “Excellent. Let me know exactly when and I’ll send a plane for you.” “You’re the best.” After giving Alyse a grateful hug, Monique turned her attention back to Chance. “She’s right. Ditch the Dolphins.” Chance smiled as she acquiesced.

260 CARBON COPY “I can see there’s no winning this one.” The three women laughed, then enjoyed a hug and their good-bye kisses. Chance gave Ricky a hug and kiss as he stood perfectly still with his arms at his side, staring comfortably off into his private world. As Chance hugged Alyse and gave her a final kiss, Alyse whispered in her ear. “I didn’t want to upset your day but I can’t leave without telling you something Maria shared with me yesterday.” “What?” “She said she hasn’t heard from Derek for a couple of days, which is unusual since he calls every night. When she called around to his friends, they said no one had seen him since Saturday night.” Chance became sick to her stomach. She remembered that ill-advised phone call she had made from Derek’s landline to Mitra’s cell. But Derek had assured her that the landline couldn’t be traced. A chill went through Chance as she considered that Derek might have been wrong. Alyse looked at her daughter gravely. “What’s happening?” It was everything Chance could do just to answer her mother. “I don’t know.” And though that was the truth, Chance had a very strong suspicion that Derek’s disappearance was her responsibility. “I want you home this week so we can talk.” Chance nodded while Alyse and Ricky started up the boarding stairs. As they were about to enter the jet, Chance called out. “Mom, wait! I’ve got an idea.” Chance ran up the stairs and took Ricky by the hand as she explained. “Let Ricky stay with me for a couple of days. I really miss him. We’ll go to the zoo and the Louvre. He loves that. Then we’ll fly back a week from Friday. That way I can visit you and Grandpa for a couple of days before going back to school.” “That’s wonderful.” Chance knew that despite a lifetime of privilege and excess, her mother still considered her children’s closeness one of her greatest blessings. And they both knew that despite his condition, Ricky was most

261 AVC happy when he was with Chance. “You kids have fun and be careful. We’ll all get together next week in Miami.” Alyse kissed Ricky on his forehead then whispered in his ear. “I love you. Have fun and I’ll see you soon.” All the while Ricky stood content and motionless, staring off into space like a well-dressed mannequin. There was no mistaking the two were twins. Though towering over her, Ricky was the male version of Chance, with the same striking caramel colored eyes and high cheekbones. After kissing Ricky one last time on his cheek, Alyse entered her private jet. Chance led Ricky back down the boarding stairs and joined Monique alongside their limousine. Huddled together, the three watched Alyse waving to them through a window of the sleek custom-painted Bombardier as it taxied away.

262 CARBON COPY CHAPTER 47

After dropping Monique off at her flat, Chance and Ricky returned to the Catel townhouse. Though it was still relatively early in the evening, Ricky was tired from his flight earlier that morning. Chance was completely depleted after a daylong hangover. So they both went straight to bed. When they were young, Chance and Ricky always slept together. Chance was afraid of the dark and Ricky wouldn’t fall asleep until Chance was in the room. As they got older, Chance grew out of her fear of the dark. But Ricky would still lie in bed awake, sometimes for hours, before falling asleep. When they were together, all Chance had to do was hug Ricky and sit on the side of his bed. And even though he wouldn’t say a word, or even look her way, he would always fall asleep in less than a minute. That night was different. It wasn’t Ricky who couldn’t sleep, but Chance. She tossed and turned all night while her mind raced with the possibilities. Chance knew all she had to do was dial Mitra’s number and she’d be in touch with the murderer. But rather than feeling empowered, she felt enormous guilt. She had hoped keeping Ricky with her might have staved off those anxieties, but it wasn’t working. The more she thought about it, the more she was convinced that Mitra’s killers had tracked down Derek through the call she made from Derek’s phone. And not even her twin brother’s presence next to her could help Chance reconcile herself with that awful guilt.

* * *

As Alyse’s jet arrived at her private hanger at Miami International Airport, a customs official approached. After providing his credentials to Alyse’s advanced team, he was allowed to approach Alyse. “Good evening Mrs. Catel. Could I have a moment with you, in private?” “What is this about?” “It is a sensitive matter, calling for the utmost discretion, I’m afraid.”

263 AVC Alyse would not normally deal with a customs official directly. But given his introduction and the fact she was surrounded by her staff, she acquiesced. “This way.” Alyse had the agent follow her into a private meeting room inside the hangar. Once inside, she left the door open, sat down then continued their conversation. “Time to be specific.” “Let me start by saying I am not a customs official.” “Then you have one sentence before this becomes a very bad day for you.” On the surface it all seemed quite normal. He was clean-cut and appropriately dressed in blue blazer and gray slacks with a starched white shirt and tie. Still, there was something very wrong about him. As Alyse got up to leave the room, she saw something in his eyes that stopped her in her tracks. It was pure evil. Though he was young, only about 25, it was clear that what he lacked in years, he more than made up for in experience. Persian, Alyse guessed. His hair was black as ink, causing Alyse to imagine he had a soul to match. After a quick moment of reflection, she noticed something else. He had a look of utter disdain. This was a man who no longer cared for the things of this world. This was a man who had already moved on to the fantasy of a better place. Alyse could actually feel the brutal scourge of fanaticism as he spoke. “I am the only person on earth who can prevent you and the majority of your family from being killed within six months.” Alyse turned and closed the door before motioning to the man to have a seat at the conference table. “You have my attention.” “I have been contracted to carry out an operation that will kill you and the majority of your family. Not directly. You will merely be collateral damage. I also have the ability to remove you and your loved ones from harm’s way.” “And why would you do that?” “For profit.”

264 CARBON COPY His smile became slightly more pronounced. It was as though he was going to enjoy whatever it was that he had planned. And that concerned Alyse more than anything as he continued. “In return for $50 million I will provide you the information you need to save yourself and those who are most dear to you.” “What prevents me from disposing of you when I have the information?” “I am but a cog in a very, very powerful wheel. Doing anything to me will alert them to you. Trust me when I say even you, with all your wealth, power and position, don’t want to get on their radar. You will never mention this meeting or anything I say to you again, to anyone. If you do, you, Chance and Ricky will die quickly.” Alyse bolted out of her seat. “Don’t you dare threaten me!” she screamed as she swung her open palm toward him. He deftly lifted his hand, catching her wrist and preventing the blow. “I’m not threatening you,” he said firmly, squeezing her wrist as he enunciated the syllables slowly. The young man remained frightfully calm, which only made his familiarity with pain and resolve all the more alarming. “I am providing information. How you choose to take it is your business. But so much as raise your voice to me again and this meeting is over.” It took Alyse a moment to process the man’s message—and a bit longer to acclimate to his composure. Both told her he was genuine. “What if I determine the information isn’t worth $50 million?” “It is,” he said as he released his tight grip on her wrist. There was a moment of reconciliation as Alyse unconsciously rubbed at her wrist while drawing on everything life had taught her as she continued. “When will the information be available?” The young man knew he had a deal. “Right now, and only now.” “You expect to be paid now?” “Correct.” They spent another few moments simply looking at one another in silence. Alyse could have him killed right there and then. But she needed

265 AVC the information to protect her family. Family came first. Pride was a close second. But without family, pride was pointless. Alyse reached into her purse and took out her checkbook. “Who do I make the check out to?” “Cash will be fine.” After writing a check for $50 million, Alyse stopped short of signing it. “Your turn.” “You have planned a New Year’s Eve celebration to commemorate your birthday.” “That information has been in almost every high society publication around the world. I hope you can do better.” “I can. You and those dear to you don’t want to be within a 100-miles of New York City on New Year’s Eve, 300-hundred miles if they are downwind.” “And why is that?” “Even you don’t have enough money to pay for that information. Suffice to say, stay away. Now please sign that.” A chill ran through Alyse as she placed her signature on the check. It wasn’t the money but rather the implications of the message that troubled her so. For she knew that in her silence she was most likely culpable for the deaths of many of her acquaintances who would be in New York on New Year’s Eve. And though she knew the answer, she still had to ask. “Is it only my family or should I direct others to avoid New York that evening?” “The only way you and your family can be truly safe is if the powers that be have no idea that you know anything. Any kind of general notice or unusual activity on your part will put you and your family at great risk. I suggest you merely change the venue of your birthday celebration for some practical reason to, say, Miami—because you simply decided you didn’t want to be old and cold.” Under any other circumstances that comment could have gotten the young man’s jaw broken. But given the situation, it seemed a reasonable suggestion. “I’ll take it under advisement.”

266 CARBON COPY Alyse picked up the check and handed it to the gentleman. As he took hold of the check Alyse held on to it, completing her thought. “You do understand. If New Year’s Eve proves to be uneventful, there isn’t a rock big enough for you to hide under—any place in the world. I— will—find—you.” “One second after New Year's Eve, you will be satisfied this was money well spent. It was a pleasure doing business with you, Mrs. Catel.” Alyse released the check. The young man stood and then walked out of the room. On his way through the terminal he was met by his girlfriend. They were the couple whom Zulle’s operatives had contracted to steal the nuclear backpack and then use it to incinerate New York City on New Year’s Eve. The young man had scoured a list of New York’s finest hotels to determine the ten wealthiest individuals who had planned New Year’s Eve events. He reasoned that ten cancellations throughout the city would go unnoticed, but any more might draw attention. He approached all ten prominent parties exactly as he had Alyse. And like Alyse they were all perfectly willing to write him a check. With $500 million to leave to his family, he felt better about his impending martyrdom.

* * *

When Alyse returned to her home on Star Island, she placed a call. “Keep her out of and away from New York on New Year’s Eve. Understood?”

267 AVC CHAPTER 48

A week ago, Marc received a troubling telephone call from Joshua Schummer insisting upon Marc’s immediate return to the United States for an urgent five day stay. The trip was a traumatic experience leaving Marc drained and emotionally tense. Having been home for less than an hour, Marc was standing in his studio, staring at a magnificent Dali that he had been commissioned to repair. But he wasn’t painting. Instead, he was wiping his paint-stained hand on his faded Doors T-shirt and tattered jeans. His other hand was waving a paintbrush in step with an intense conversation he was having over his speakerphone. Marc was frustrated at the predicament he found himself in, especially since he didn’t feel it was his doing. And the options the caller gave Marc made him even more frustrated. But there was nothing he could do, given the power of the person he was talking to. The best he could hope for were concessions. Unfortunately, they weren’t forthcoming either. The doorbell rang. It was a particularly awkward point in his conversation, further taxing Marc’s patience. And to make things worse, the caller could tell Marc had lost control of the situation and began giving him an ultimatum. “Marc, whatever she's up to, she's getting ahead of you.” “I said I’ll take care of it! And I will.” Cutting the caller off was a gutsy move on Marc’s part. Flinging his paintbrush across the room and bouncing it off a wall wasn’t. Marc had lost all patience at that point, especially with the person at his front door as he yelled out, “Qui est-il?” “Chance.” Like magic, the velvet sound of Chance’s voice soothed the savage beast. “Come on in.” Still annoyed with his phone conversation, Marc grabbed the receiver to mute the speaker. “I said I’ll handle it. You have nothing to worry about.” “I never worry.”

268 CARBON COPY The caller’s message was cryptic yet crystal clear, followed by a click then a dial tone, as a chill shot through Marc. Marc slammed the phone into its cradle for some small measure of relief. After taking a moment to compose himself, he went back to cleaning his hands and putting his paints and brushes away. Chance, with a grocery bag in one arm and Ricky on the other, found the living room empty. “Where are you?” “In the studio.” “Is someone else here?” “No, that was just me on the phone. Give me a minute to clean up. I’ll be right out.” “Take your time.” Chance and Ricky walked through the living room into the kitchen. After putting the grocery bag on the counter, she began unwrapping and spreading out its contents. It was a beautiful array of meats, cheeses and delicacies. ‘This is good,’ she thought to herself before calling out to Marc. “Are you hungry?” “Starving.” The echoed response from somewhere beyond the kitchen brought a smile to Chance. “Great. me too and it looks wonderful.” Through the course of setting up for lunch, Chance lost track of Ricky. She knew he couldn’t wander far. Still, she wasn’t used to letting her brother out of her sight, even for a moment, so she called out softly. “Ricky?” Chance heard the faint sound of Marc’s voice in the distance. Walking through the apartment, she peeked around the open door to Marc’s studio and found Marc and Ricky standing side by side. Marc had moved over to an easel with a large blank canvas. Both he and Ricky had paintbrushes in their hand and had already placed a stroke of paint on the canvas. A flood of images flashed through Chance’s mind in that brief moment. There was Marc, ruggedly handsome, with his full mane of disheveled hair and a two-day beard, paint-stained T-shirt, tattered jeans and tennis shoes that should have been thrown away long ago. Looking like he didn’t have a

269 AVC care in the world. Then there was Ricky, impeccably groomed, freshly shaved and motionless, his caramel eyes staring intently onto the canvas as if it were the most important thing on earth. The two men created an amazing visual, but the dynamics of that moment went much deeper. Though the two young men couldn’t have appeared any more different, they shared two very important qualities. One was Chance’s affection. The other was more elusive. Throughout his entire life, Ricky had never related to anyone other than Chance, Alyse, and their butler Xavier. Yet that day, for some inexplicable reason, Marc and Ricky had connected. Marc’s voice was calm and gentle as he tried to determine exactly who the young man was. “What’s your name?” There was no response as Ricky became one with the canvas and his slow, deliberate strokes. “Are you able to talk?” Still no response as Ricky continued to paint without as much as a nod to acknowledge Marc’s question or presence. None of this seemed to bother Marc as he lifted up a palette of paints with his free hand and continued to paint and question the stranger. “Would you like this?” Ricky took the palette, though he never looked at Marc or provided any other form of acknowledgment. Marc was intrigued by the quality of Ricky’s work, so much so that he stopped painting long enough to study the young man’s technique. Marc became even more intrigued when Ricky stopped painting at the same time. It was at that point that Marc first realized Ricky had been imitating Marc’s technique. “So you like company?” Marc started painting again to test his theory, and Ricky followed. Then Marc stopped, and so did Ricky, who continued staring straight ahead at the canvas, motionless, until Marc began to paint again. Ricky followed, matching Marc’s strokes, producing a perfect mirror image of Marc’s work. Marc was flattered and astonished at the stranger’s ability to exactly duplicate his every move, including some of his most advanced techniques.

270 CARBON COPY “You’re pretty good.” Marc couldn’t be sure but he thought he saw a faint smile wash over the stranger’s face in response to his compliment. But Chance was certain about the fleeting smile, and deeply touched by the unusual bond the two men had established. Chance was so touched by the moment that she walked up behind Marc, kissed him on the back of his neck, and whispered softly into his ear. “I see you’ve met Ricky.” “Actually, I think Ricky and I have known each other for a long time. Today’s just the first time we’ve actually spent time together.” Marc continued painting as he finished his thought. “Who is he?” “My twin brother.” “Twin brother?” Marc repeated, raising his eyebrow at Chance. “I thought you said you were an only child.” Shit. Too late, Chance recalled her tragic opera about the plane crash. “Well,” she uttered. “I don’t usually like to...talk about Ricky and his...condition.” Chance’s adroit effort to redeem the lie seemed to be working. “He’s never spoken and he hasn’t raised his hands from his sides, other than to eat, since we were toddlers—except to do artwork. We used to color, paint and shape clay together for hours on end when we were kids.” Chance took a moment to study the canvas. “Do you think he knows what he’s doing?” Marc ran his brush through his palette then across the canvas creating a dramatic patch of crimson. Ricky methodically dragged his brush through his palette and duplicated Marc’s bold move, creating a mirror image of Marc’s crimson patch on Ricky’s side of the canvas. Chance gasped. Ricky was communicating and it was beautiful. And though Marc's connection with Ricky was inexplicable, yet very real. “So you can talk.” Marc smiled broadly at Ricky as he created a large yellow semi-circle, which cut through his crimson patch.

271 AVC Effortlessly and with robotic precision, Ricky produced a mirror image of the yellow semi-circle on his side of the large canvas, almost as though he were showing off. “Ah. And you have a sense of humor.” Tears welled in Chance’s eyes. It was the first time she had ever seen Ricky this engaged, and she was grateful beyond words. “Do you think he understands what you’re saying?” “I don’t know. But we’re definitely communicating.”

* * *

4-hours later, Chance was beaming as she held Ricky’s hand in the main terminal of Orly Airport. It had been one of the best days she could remember in quite a long time.

* * *

At that moment, on the other side of the Atlantic in Washington, DC, Fleming’s cell phone rang. “Fleming.” “I can’t believe I’m doing this, Cowboy.” Operator 38 was putting her job on the line, if not risking criminal prosecution, by stepping outside of protocol and giving Fleming information on a matter that he was told to leave alone. “Your girl is on the move. She, her brother, and two unidentified companions are boarding a commercial flight from Paris to Miami, arriving Miami International on United flight 1394 at 10:00 tonight.” “Thanks, 38. I owe you.” “You got that right.”

* * *

Ricky was content holding his painting, which had been block-wrapped to allow the semi-wet painting to be transported. And though he stared off absently, Marc could tell he was proud of his possession.

272 CARBON COPY Just before Chance and Ricky were about to go through security, Marc wondered about the logistics of transporting the painting. “It’s big and too wet to place anything on it. Where are you going to put it on the airplane?” “Across the aisle from us, see…” Chance held up two tickets as she continued. “On the floor of 3D and E. Ricky and I are right across the aisle in 3A and B.” “It’s got its own seat?” Then two additional pieces of the image fell into place. “Seats…First class, an entire row?” “I didn’t want to risk the painting being damaged or lost. This makes it easy to keep an eye on it.” Chance couldn’t have been more nonchalant. “Of course.” Marc thumped his forehead in sarcasm. “What was I thinking? I always pay over $20,000 to ship a $50 canvas.” Then Marc’s cheekiness dissolved into disappointment. “I hate seeing you go.” Chance had no idea how strong Marc’s feelings were for her or how much he had to struggle to keep his distance. She was baffled by the comment. After all her failed attempts to seduce him, he finally decides to come around in the middle of International Departures? A warm glow came over Chance as she thought to herself, ‘You have got to have the worst timing in the world.’ Chance was battling with her own emotions. Yes—there was no doubt that she had feelings for this man. But she was obsessed with avenging Mitra’s murder. To do that she had to stay focused. And that meant deceiving and using him—not the best foundation for a meaningful relationship. She also needed to get back to the States in order to put her plan in motion. Even so, at that moment, she had to push back the urge to cancel everything, stay here with Marc in order to see where their feelings took them. “I’ll drop Ricky off, take care of a couple things stateside, then be back before you know it.”

273 AVC “Right.” Marc considered Chance’s early return a long shot, and it occurred to him that this could be a permanent good-bye. He was shocked at the aching feeling that the thought evoked. “I’m serious. I give you my word.” “Tell you what.” Marc grabbed onto the glimmer of hope Chance offered. “My birthday is Friday, next week. Dinner at Le Cab. My treat.” “It’s a date, money bags.” Chance gave Marc a quick kiss on the cheek, then hurried to get through the security line with Ricky and the painting in tow. Marc let out a sigh as the many pieces of his situation flashed through his mind as he agonized, “This is going to end badly.”

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There was no way Fleming was going to get anywhere near Chance as her small army of guards, chauffeur and handlers surrounded and attended to every aspect of her and Ricky’s arrival. Baggage, customs and transport to Catel’s Star Island compound, she was unapproachable. With nothing left to him, Fleming took a cab to his hotel.

* * *

After getting Ricky to bed and asleep, Chance and Alyse spent an intense evening together. They went through every detail, from Mitra’s murder up until the present moment in hopes of uncovering something new. Chance shared almost everything with her mother, stopping short of telling Alyse she had Mitra’s laptop, what she had learned about Nasser’s discovery and that she could get the murders on the phone anytime she wanted. Her reasoning for holding back was the same as with her grandfather. Alyse appeared to be extremely sympathetic and concerned about Mitra’s death and Derek’s disappearance, but Alyse wasn’t willing to commit to doing anything about either. Instead, Alyse kept insisting Mitra’s death was some bizarre mishap and Derek’s disappearance had nothing to do with it, merely an unfortunate coincidence. But Chance knew better. And she knew her mother was much more intuitive than their conversation would imply. Chance was becoming very concerned about her mother and grandfather’s attitude. It was as though they wanted Mitra's murder and Derek's disappearance to just go away rather than dealing with it. And that was so unlike them. In the furthest reach of her imagination, for a fleeting moment, Chance wondered if her mother and grandfather were somehow involved. Chance knew Mitra and Derek’s fates were absolutely tied to a single man with a damaged eye. She wouldn’t be able to change her mother’s view of things by doing anything short of handing over Mitra’s laptop and

275 AVC revealing what she had learned about Nasser’s work. But Chance wasn’t ready to do that. The one thing that both Alyse and Chance agreed on was the change of venue for Alyse’s fiftieth birthday celebration. Alyse’s reasoning was that since both Alyse and Chance preferred Paris to New York, and there were so many guests flying in from Europe and the Middle East, why not simply move the party to the Ritz in Paris? With that decision behind them and the evening growing late, exhaustion took over both mother and daughter. The two ladies agreed to give the events surrounding Mitra’s death some time to sort themselves out. And, in the meantime, it would be best if Chance went back to Paris to distance herself from Chicago and Miami for the time being.

* * *

The next morning Chance, Alyse, Ricky and Catel were standing in the foyer of their Star Island villa, just inside its deeply carved mahogany entry doors. It was a lovely spring morning, even for the Sunshine State. Chance was on her way to pick up a few important items from school before returning to Paris. Ricky stood alongside Alyse, perfectly groomed with his arms by his side, staring at his painting which was prominently displayed in the rotunda between a Rembrandt and a Monet. “And this is your idea of a visit?” Catel was upset that Chance had only spent the night and was already leaving. Fortunately, the years of living with her grandfather taught Chance not to engage him. Rather, it was best to kiss Catel on his cheek while giving him a big hug and ignoring his question. “I’ll call you when I get to school.” After she hugged and kissed her mother, Chance turned back to Catel, who always got choked up whenever Chance left him, regardless of how long her visit was. “Be safe, Mijita.” “I will, Grandpa.”

276 CARBON COPY Chance’s departure that morning without so much as a mention of Mitra concerned Alyse. It wasn’t like Chance to simply drop something that important, so Alyse tested the waters. “Are you sure you’re okay going back to Chicago alone?” Chance knew Alyse was fishing for something, anything. So Chance was careful not to give her mother or grandfather any reason to be concerned or suspicious. “I’ll be fine. Like Grandpa said, those men are long gone. I’m going to be at school just long enough to button things up, say good-bye to my friends and ship my things back here. I’ll probably be back in Paris within the week.” “That’s what we have staff for.” Catel took a sweep through the air, acknowledging the dozen or so staff present that morning who were available to tend to Chance’s beck and call. “What—like say good-bye to my friends or know what to take and what to give to certain people close to me?” “Fine—but I’ll have a couple of men help you along the way.” That was Catel’s way of saying, “They will be keeping an eye on your every move.” And Chance couldn’t have that happen. As Catel started to raise his hand to summon two guards, Chance took hold of his wrist. Then she placed his hand between hers. “Grandpa, thank you, but I’m a big girl and the last thing I want right now is a couple of 200-pound shadows. I’ll be fine.” After hugging and kissing Catel, Chance hugged and kissed Alyse one last time. “I love you.” Then she gave Ricky a big hug and whispered in his ear while Ricky continued to stare at his painting. “It’s magnificent.” A hint of a smile came over Ricky, though Xavier, Catel’s butler in morning tails and white gloves, was the only one with a vantage point to see it. Xavier was a tall man with a pronounced shock of grey in his widow’s peak, highlighting his salt and pepper hair. He stood silently in service as he had since Alyse first came to live with Catel. That was 23-years ago when

277 AVC Catel’s son, Remy, was killed in a tragic explosion. Back then, Alyse was Remy’s pregnant girlfriend whom Catel had never met before the day she showed up at his Miami estate. Over the years the bond between Catel and Alyse deepened to the point that they both considered each other family, the only remaining family that either acknowledged—other than Chance and Ricky. Xavier was managing Chance’s departure, anticipating the family’s next move and in command of the highly skilled staff ready to serve. Sensing it was time, Xavier opened the large front entry doors, letting in a flood of bright morning sun and fresh salted air. Alyse, Chance, Ricky and Catel moved outside under the porte cochere as a dozen staffers from chauffeurs to gardeners awaited Xavier’s subtle nods and hand signals. While waving good-bye, Chance hurried down the steps onto the motor court and then jumped into a cab that had just pulled up. Catel became upset the moment he saw the cab, complaining to Alyse while gesturing in the direction of the two chauffeur-attended Rolls-Royce limousines in waiting—also in his motor court. “Why does she do that?” Alyse couldn’t help but smile as she searched for a reason that would help ease Catel’s frustration. “I suppose it’s her way of feeling independent.” After considering the departing cab and then the two stretch limousines, Alyse found herself as bewildered as Catel, albeit a bit more tolerant. “Though I can assure you, a cab would not have been my first choice.” While it was true Chance had always been relatively indifferent to the various modes of transportation she took throughout her young adult life, today’s taxi had nothing to do with her cavalier attitude. In fact, the cab was an absolute necessity in order to maintain her cover.

278 CARBON COPY CHAPTER 50

30-minutes later, Chance was standing in front of the pharmacist in his private office. Her implied authority commanded a level of respect far beyond what would normally be accorded any other young woman. Taking a thumb drive from her purse, she held it up for the pharmacist to see. “This is the information that was on the computer that you looked at the other day.” The pharmacist looked nervous in Chance’s presence. Chance attributed his sheepish demeanor to their last ball-crushing session, not knowing just how nervous he really was after learning of Professor Nasser and Golisinski’s fates. “I’ll have four canvases and painting supplies delivered to you, along with instructions. You’ll backdate them to four different times, ranging from seventy to four hundred years ago. I’ll supply the exact dates. Then the canvases and supplies will be picked up from you along with anything and everything that is associated with this matter.” Chance’s cold, penetrating gaze sent a chill through the short, round man, reminding him just how dangerous she could be. And as if all of that and the Golisinski incident weren’t enough, the financial aspects of the matter had yet to be discussed. Although he was afraid to ask, he had no choice. “That will cost a great deal of money,” he blurted out. “How much is ‘a great deal?’” “Two, maybe three hundred thousand dollars.” “Along with the canvases and supplies, you’ll be given $400,000 to produce the dated materials. Complete the work for whatever it takes then keep the balance. But listen again—so there is no misunderstanding. You will hand over all documents, equipment, even scrap materials. There is to be no record of this matter, and especially no copies of this drive or any portion of it. Do you understand?”

279 AVC Disappointed with what he considered a meager compensation relative to the value of what he was producing, the pharmacist mumbled a less than convincing yes through his fleshy pink lips. Though $100,000 would have been an excellent week’s pay by most standards, the Toad understood the potential value of what he was about to hand over, reducing his share to the equivalent of spare change. Chance had no patience with his attitude. So she stepped toward him with a cupped hand slightly extended, indicating another testicle-crushing could be on the way. “Do—you—understand?” “Yes.” The sorry little man’s answer lacked enthusiasm. “Do you have any problems with our arrangement?” “No.” Though they both knew he was lying, that ended his opportunity to try and negotiate. So Chance pushed forward. “Then here’s the deal.” Chance extended her hand so the Toad could take hold of the thumb drive. “Four hundred thousand and your life in exchange for your participation and discretion.” Chance paused, looking hard at the pharmacist while they both held onto the thumb drive, making certain he understood. “Don’t make me have to take them both back.” Chance noticed his fearful reaction and it pleased her, reassuring her that he understood the threat and Chance’s ability to have it carried out. After releasing the thumb drive, Chance turned and left his office confident that this piece of her plan was in place. She had control of the technology. No sooner had the pharmacist put Chance’s thumb drive into his safe than Fleming walked in the Pharmacy and straight to the Toad. The combination of Fleming’s aggressive demeanor, Chance having just left and the pharmacist’s experience with the goon after Chance’s last meeting prepared him for another inquisition. But when Fleming flashed his Interpol credential, it caught the pharmacist off guard. “How can I help you?”

280 CARBON COPY “Tell me what the young lady that just left was doing here?” “You can’t be serious.” “Now or downtown?” “We’re already downtown, you meathead.” The idea that it worked once flashed through the pharmacist’s mind as he began his delivery. “As you can see, I am a pharmacist. A trusted pharmacist, I might add, who has worked for the young lady’s family since before she was born. Occasionally, she has feminine hygiene and other medical issues, which are privileged. I’m sure you understand.” “Now or at the station?” Unfortunately for Fleming, the Toad had been seasoned by people who had real power and he wasn’t about to be intimidated by the likes of Fleming. “My car or yours?” Without so much as a reply, Fleming turned on his heel and slammed through the front door of the pharmacy as each man mumbled the same retort. “Asshole.”

281 AVC CHAPTER 51

With her plan finally taking shape, Chance was so excited to finally get it in motion that she couldn’t wait another minute. As soon as she got out of the cab, she pulled her cell phone from her purse, pressed her grandfather’s speed dial number and began her pitch. Catel was on a speakerphone in his study. Unbeknownst to Chance, her mother was pacing in the background as Alyse secretly dictated the parental guidance that Catel was dispensing. Chance was hoping to put the third piece of her plan in place, its funding. This meant she needed $500,000 from Catel, but Catel wanted answers. “What do you need that kind of money for?” he demanded. Chance could tell from his tone that he would not support her plan, and the only thing that came to mind was a fairly lame excuse. “What, Grandpa, just some spending money,” Chance lied and they both knew it. “Harry Winston just created a lovely bracelet. Keep my next two months of allowance and we will be even.” Alyse was shaking her head while mouthing a silent, emphatic, “NO!” “Wonderful! Send me a picture and a model number. It’s yours.” Chance sat in stunned silence. “No more fooling around! I want you to tell me exactly what you’re up to.” Catel was the dutiful surrogate with all the authority and attitude necessary to pull it off. “But Grandpa, don’t you trust me?” Alyse was becoming increasingly intense, to the point of agitated, slicing the air with her hand, which caused Catel to cut Chance off mid- thought. “You don’t really want me to answer that, do you? Listen to me. It— doesn’t—matter. We’ve been through this already. Your mother and I agree, you’re just not cut out for this kind of thing.”

282 CARBON COPY Confident Catel had the matter under control, Alyse resumed her pacing as she listened on. “Look, I know you still miss Mitra, but don’t try to fill that void by rushing off and doing something you’re not equipped to handle. Enough of this nonsense. Go...live...be happy.” “FINE!” Dejected and frustrated, this pretty much told Chance where her mother stood on the matter as well. It was also clear that any further discussion would only put her plan at risk. So it was time to end the call but in a way that would alleviate her grandfather’s concern. “Well, I’m sure glad everyone has my life all figured out for me.” Alyse stopped pacing then stared intently at the phone as Catel wound the conversation down. “What else is family for?” Catel ended the matter with his usual salutation. “I love you, Mijita.” Resigned to Catel’s authority and stubbornness, even Chance felt it was best to back off, at least for now. As she ended the conversation, Chance was careful not to lie, though she had no intention of abandoning her plan. “I love you too, Grandpa.” As Chance hung up, she arrived at the first-class ticket counter to purchase her flight to Chicago. But without her grandfather’s financial assistance she needed another source for the $500,000. The simple solution was patience, if Chance waited two months she could self-fund her plan from her allowance. But with all her virtues, patience wasn’t among them. No, whatever the solution, it had to be immediate and that meant a loan or; better, a gift. After a quick review of her options, it was an easy decision since there was only one other person on earth Chance could trust with something this important, but he didn’t live in Chicago. After tossing her cell phone into her purse Chance looked up to address the ticket agent behind the counter with a smile. “When is the next flight to Santiago?” Scrolling through her monitor the agent came back with a quick response.

283 AVC “It departs at 10:15.” “I’ll take two first class tickets, side by side.” The ticket agent looked at her watch. “That’s 45-minutes from now. I’ll call ahead. If you hurry, you just might make it.”

* * * As soon as Catel hung up the phone, Alyse addressed the matter in a controlled calm. “Why didn’t you tell her we would give her the money? Then at least we would know her plan.” “You said no.” “And you choose NOW to start listening to me?”

* * *

Fleming looked at the ID of the incoming call before answering. “Now where?” “Santiago, Chile. And, no, it’s not going to happen. You still seem to be on the front office’s naughty list.” “Old news. I’d love to know what the hell she’s up to. Call me when she heads back this way. Thanks, 38.” “You’re welcome, Cowboy.”

* * *

While the massive 747 climbed through 40,000 feet, Chance stared out her window, lost in thought, with Catel’s message replaying over and over in her mind. “Don’t try to do something you’re not equipped to handle.” Under her breath, Chance reaffirmed her resolve. “We’ll see who’s not equipped.”

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12-hours later, Chance and her “uncle,” Carlos Bottega, were sitting side by side on a wicker love seat, sipping espresso while looking out across the shoreline of his magnificent estate on the west coast of South America. Carlos Bottega and Arturo Catel were contemporaries, business associates and very close friends, as were Chance’s many “uncles.” Though the years had been much kinder to Bottega than any of the other international tycoons that Chance called “uncle.” Bottega was impeccably groomed and stylish in his signature white linen suit, contrasting silk shirt and matching custom woven leather shoes. He possessed an air of confidence and nobility that eclipsed the many royals, heads of state and other global luminaries that Chance had met throughout her life. Whenever Chance thought about what is was that made Bottega special, the same word always came to mind, “panache.” He was a man with a feather in his hat. Or, at least he would have if he ever wore a hat. Bottega’s youthful appearance and vitality were typical of a man thirty years his junior. Even as a child, Chance knew Bottega was different. As she matured, she came to understand that what she considered to be different as a child was actually extraordinary as an adult. It started with his incomparable estate. There was nothing on earth like it—or even close. Then there was the way Bottega interacted with the rest of the world. Though Bottega rarely if even left his estate, Chance had never seen anything her uncle couldn’t have happen or an object he wanted that he didn’t eventually own. It was as though God placed the other seven billion people on earth to serve him. Never having married, Bottega always treated Chance like a daughter, bestowing all of his admiration while assuming none of the responsibility. The result of this perfect relationship had become mutually rewarding, especially for Chance, as Bottega’s devotion to her was unconditional. Chance and Bottega spoke at length about Mitra’s murder and how deeply it affected her. It was one of the few times Chance was able to tell

285 AVC someone everything about that night, cry, and bare her soul. However, as with her mother and Catel, Chance stopped short of revealing the laptop, Nasser, Derek and the pharmacist’s information. And while Chance was pouring out her heart, unbeknownst to her, Bottega was probing. Bottega was certain Chance didn’t know Mitra was working for him. He also knew Chance had information she wasn’t sharing. But to press any harder would raise suspicion and could even point to an association between Bottega and Mitra, which he wasn’t willing to risk. If Chance found out that it was Bottega who had gotten her best friend killed, she would never forgive him. Instead, Bottega decided to wait for a more appropriate time to dig deeper and, for now, lightened the conversation. “How about school? You should be about ready to graduate?” “This is the last semester of my master’s program.” “How are you doing?” “Not bad.” “Not bad? You were magna cum laude of your undergraduate class. Where does ‘not bad’ put you in line?” “So far—at the front of the line. But I’m told the doctoral program is a whole lot harder. We’ll see.” A glow came over Bottega as though he were a proud father. “Excellent. Have you thought about what you would like for a graduation present?” “Interesting you should ask.” Chance was wondering how she was going to broach the subject of funding her plan. But with Bottega opening the door, she decided to have a go at it. Giving him an “I’m-just-adorable” smile, she continued. “How about a $500,000 loan, a partnership in a project of mine, and no questions asked?” There was an uneasy pause as Bottega’s brow rose. “Why do I feel I’ve been set up?” “Because you were. But you did it to yourself.” Bottega nodded at Jason, his butler, who turned and left the room while Bottega continued. “A loan?” “A loan.”

286 CARBON COPY “No questions asked?” “That’s the deal.” “Why me and not your mother or grandfather?” “No questions.” Bottega took a few moments to consider Chance’s intriguing request. Her involvement with Mitra’s death and the timing of her plan suggested the strong possibility it may have something to do with the anonymous caller, the disappearance of four of his operatives and the undisclosed technology. For that alone, Bottega would have said yes. But from the time she was born, Bottega had never been able to say no to Chance for anything, and this was no exception. Lifting his espresso, he pressed on. “Two deal points.” Chance tipped her head. “What are the terms of the loan?” Bottega asked. “Six-month duration, a minimum of a 100% return on your investment at that time.” “Not bad. What would my participation be?” “Auctioning a painting.” “Whose painting?” “Ours.” Jason returned carrying a briefcase, walked over to Bottega’s side, and stood quietly while Bottega considered Chance’s proposal. After taking the last sip of his espresso, Bottega underscored the deal. “That’s all?” he asked. “That’s all.” A nod from Bottega caused Jason to place the briefcase on the floor alongside Chance and then retire to a far corner of the room. “Thank you, Uncle Carlos. I promise, you won’t be disappointed.” Bottega’s smile was disarming, knowing and powerful—the very essence of control. “I am never disappointed.” There was an awkward moment and a chill in the air as Bottega’s meaning rang clear. Bottega was one of those rare individuals who created destinies rather than being subject to them. And though he and Chance

287 AVC were extremely close, it was understood that Bottega was devoid of conscience, holding all people accountable for their obligations regardless of who they were or what that may require. After waiting a moment to underscore his message, Bottega eased the tension as quickly as he created it. “I have great faith in your ability.” “Thank you. That means a lot to me.” “Of course, until someone finds out who killed Mitra or the killers find you, my investment is at risk.” Bottega’s left brow rose, underscoring the depth of his concern. “Be very careful.” Chance smiled while reaching over and hugging Bottega, providing all the assurance he required. “I’ll be careful. And remember, this is between us.” Bottega was expressionless, which was his way of saying he understood, did not approve, but would allow things to go forward as Chance requested— for the time being.

288 CARBON COPY CHAPTER 53

It was a magnificent, warm, star-filled night in the City of Lights—to the point of distraction. Spring has a way of doing that in Paris. The streets were unusually crowded as an endless sea of automobiles frantically battled for position and recognition along the Champs. The sidewalks were equally chaotic as pedestrians and pigeons engaged in their own turf wars, undaunted by the danger posed by the speeding vehicles, often less than a meter away. Dense crowds of faceless patrons waited impatiently to be seated and then served at the street side cafe. The goal was to commandeer a sidewalk table at one of the many establishments along the avenue, positioning oneself squarely in the middle of the madness. Their reward was an uncomfortable chair and exhaust fumes. Then, while being violated by the urban chaos, they would try desperately to enjoy a 6€ cup of mediocre espresso and a day-old croissant. Though it all seems amazingly random and inexplicable to an outsider, that’s what makes Paris...PARIS. Like a fine soufflé, it’s the perfect balance of order and chaos, and one of the only places on earth that manages to never go flat. While four ounces of java so thick it could stand up a spoon managed to content one segment of Parisian nocturnals, others were willing to stand alongside them, waiting in line for hours for the opportunity to pay dearly to enter one of the city’s many nightclubs, only to have their senses further assaulted by brain-crushing sound systems, wall-to-wall cologne-soaked patrons and overpriced, watered-down drinks. Then there was Le Cab. Despite, or perhaps because of its queue that stretched halfway around the block and a cover charge that could give an unsuspecting tourist a nosebleed, it was one of the city’s premier nightspots to see and be seen. Packed to capacity, the dance floor was a sea of undulating bodies that moved in unison. Every square centimeter of the club was occupied by its

289 AVC eclectic collection of beautiful people, each desperately trying to stand out in the city that defines eccentricity. At the far end of the chic Parisian haunt, tucked away from the nightclub, was its dining room, an enigmatic isle of tranquility and refinement secluded in the midst of the madness. An oasis of calm and exclusivity for those few in the know. One of its prominently positioned tables was occupied by Marc and his friends. They were the true children of the night. Their pedigrees had been earned through years of familiarity with everyone from the maître d’s and chefs to the valets and bouncers. That night they were enjoying the fruits of their labors in the form of a comped $1,000 table courtesy of the management for Marc’s birthday along with their second bottle of wine as their appetizer plates were being removed. Leoné, Jean-Claude and François were deep in a spirited conversation, barely noticing the exquisite service. Marc, on the other hand, appeared to be preoccupied in thought as the tempo of his friends’ conversation intensified almost to the point of frenzy. Leoné flipped Jean-Claude off as she discounted his opinion. “What? Because you’re a man you think you know best? Ridiculous.” “My friend,” said François, ever the calming influence in the gang, putting his arm around Jean-Claude’s shoulder in a gesture of support and sympathy. “Actually, you may not be the most qualified to speak on this subject.” Jean-Claude brushed François’ arm away as a show of defiance as he berated his best friend. “Says you. Anyway, when was the last time you went bobbing for cherries?” Their argument was disrupted by the servers who began placing everyone’s main course in front of them. Satisfied with his staff’s presentation, the head chef turned to return to the kitchen. Suddenly it hit Leoné. “Wait a minute! We have an authority in our midst. So let’s get the definitive answer once and for all.” Leoné stood and yelled out to the chef. Her spiked purple and blonde short-cropped hair and extremely form-fitting skirt grabbed everyone’s

290 CARBON COPY attention in the dining room. Her velvety smooth, sexy voice had the entire room hanging on her every word. But it was Leoné's message that caused the patrons to question their hearing. “Jean-Louis. What goes best with pussy?” Leoné’s question resonated through the room, bringing an absolute hush to the few remaining conversations, suspending everyone in anticipation of the world-class chef's culinary guidance. True to form, Jean-Louis was the consummate showman, wafting his hand through the air as he turned his head ever so slightly to deliver his answer. “White truffle oil, you silly girl. Everyone knows that.” No sooner had the chef delivered his proclamation then he passed through the double swinging kitchen doors and out of sight. Jean-Louis’s revelation jolted Marc out of his trance. Thumping his head, Marc repeated the chef’s information in numbed acknowledgement. “White truffle oil. Who knew?” Marc’s entire table, along with all of the patrons in the restaurant, listened on as Leoné responded. “Do you have any idea what a bottle of that stuff costs?” “No.” An impish smile came over Jean-Claude as he completed his thought, which was accompanied by a chain of over-the-top mannerisms. “But I’d bet a month’s pay you’ll know before the weekend is out.” Leoné bounced a dinner roll off Jean-Claude’s head in response to his reference to her bisexuality as everyone in the restaurant broke out in applause and laughter. As the adulation died down, Chance entered the restaurant. Unnoticed, Chance walked up behind Marc and put her hands around his face, covering his eyes. “Guess who?” “Chance! You made it.” “Of course, silly. Did you really think I’d miss your birthday?” “I was hoping not.”

291 AVC Having missed Jean-Louis’s endorsement of white truffle oil, Chance attributed the upbeat tone of the gang to Marc’s birthday celebration. His sexy smile further blurred that reality. Chance removed her hands then turned her attention to François, Jean Claude and Leoné. “Hello, everyone.” One by one, each of Marc’s friends returned the greeting while Marc scooted his chair back to allow Chance to sit on his lap. Sliding into place, Chance hugged Marc and kissed his ear while whispering in it. “Can we get out of here?” Without missing a beat, Marc went from spending the evening with his friends to Chance’s better offer. “Thought you’d never ask.” Picking Chance up in his arms, Marc addressed his table. “Children, play nice and don’t stay out too late. Dinner is on you, and, God willing, I’ll not be returning.” Though everyone in the restaurant was quietly staring at the lovely young couple’s departure, it was Jean-Claude who provided the observation on all of their minds as he shouted Marc his recommendation. “White truffle oil.”

292 CARBON COPY CHAPTER 54

As Chance and Marc arrived at his car, which was parked directly in front of the restaurant in a no-parking zone, he casually snatched a parking ticket off his windshield as though it was something he did every night. After attending to Chance’s door and then getting into the driver’s seat, Marc flipped open his glove box, then shoved the parking ticket on top of the thirty-plus stack of parking tickets that already filled the small compartment. Seeing Chance’s look of concern, Marc made light of the situation. “It’s a kind of hobby.” “Interesting choice. I had a friend who used to collect them.” While Marc closed the glove compartment, a flood of emotions shot through Chance at the image of Mitra plucking the parking ticket from her car outside the museum in Chicago the night she was murdered with the same lack of concern as Marc. Just as quickly, Chance shifted the conversation as much for self-defense as to get it back on track. “It was great seeing everyone again.” “For about a New York minute.” “Yeah, well, even so, I really like being with them. And it’s good to see they’re all fine.” “You’d need a psychiatrist to confirm that, but on the surface they always appear to be.” Chance had come to appreciate Marc’s sarcasm and understood just how important his friends were to him. As near as she could determine, they were the only people he really cared about. Now it was Marc who shifted the direction of the conversation. “How about you? What’s new?” “Funny you should ask.” Chance was beaming, so much so that Marc knew something interesting was about to happen. “I managed to line up four commissions for you.” “Four?”

293 AVC Marc turned his head in surprise toward Chance as he pulled up in front of his apartment building—misjudging the distance in the process and running into the parked car in front of him. Marc and Chance were jolted forward—not enough to hurt them or the two cars but plenty hard enough for Chance to throw her hands onto the dash to brace the impact as she reeled Marc in. “Wooooaah. Easy, big fella. You’re not gonna get anything if you kill us both.” Marc banged his steering wheel in excitement. “Four commissions. How did you do it? Who are these guys?” “You can’t be serious. Haven’t you ever heard of client confidentiality?” “Fine. But what’s the subject matter? How much do I get paid?” “I can work with that.” Chance shifted in her seat, squaring off with Marc as she began her explanation. “The collectors know about your talent and knowledge of art history, courtesy of moi. They want you to create the most believable subject matter. They don’t care what it is, only that it is believable. Surprise them. There are to be four original paintings, one Rubens, one Rembrandt...” “What do you mean, ‘original’?” “Each of the paintings must appear authentic in technique and style, and original in subject matter. All four paintings need to be convincing to the point that no one can tell they’re not authentic.” “It doesn’t work that way. They can be tested. Remember? I told you about testing.” “Who cares?” “Who cares? The paintings will be worthless.” “I hope not. Not at $25,000 each. That’s a 100,000 total.” “Oh yeah. I can do the math,” Marc said. “But this sounds too good to be true.” “Forget the old adage. It gets even better. The hundred thousand is net. Each painting will be hung in a very specific location, which has already been carefully planned for. So you’ll be supplied the canvases, sized to fit each location, and paints to complement their décors. You don’t even have to buy supplies.”

294 CARBON COPY Chance reasoned that if she kept Marc focused on the technicalities of the paintings, like color, size and the like, he would be less inclined to question why Chance was providing all the supplies. Seeing her strategy was working, Chance perfected her deception by snapping from light- hearted to emphatic. “But! Do—not—mix—supplies. This is very important. You’ll be given one canvas and a set of paints at a time, along with a $10,000 deposit. When each collector receives the painting and you give me whatever supplies are left over, you’ll receive the $15,000 balance.” Seeing Marc wasn’t having any problem with her requirement, Chance’s tone went back to playful and excited. “Assuming all goes well, another canvas and set of paints will arrive a couple of days later, and on and on until all four paintings are finished. You even get to work in the privacy of your own studio.” “When do I start?” Marc glowed with the enthusiasm of an eight-year-old in a toy store. “Tomorrow,” Chance told him. “Your first canvas and supplies arrive in the morning.” Chance’s tone shifted from playful to seductive. “Would it be okay if I spend the night so I can be here when the first supplies arrive?” Suddenly Marc’s enthusiastic face turned anxious. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” That was the last thing Chance had expected to hear from the first man she asked to spend the night with. “I promise to be good.” An impish smile came over both of them as they headed up to Marc’s apartment. CHAPTER 55

Marc was sleeping uncomfortably on the sofa in his living room, but even that was disturbed when his doorbell rang at 8:00 a.m. along with shouting just outside his apartment.

295 AVC Marc was hovering between startled and pissed off as he threw his blanket aside and sat up, only to be assaulted by the painful glare of the bright morning light and a groggy, disoriented feeling of complete bewilderment. For a few moments he was lost, adrift between sleep and consciousness. Then it hit him as he began recalling the long night of superhuman restraint it had taken to remain on the couch with a goddess in his bed. Seeing his closed bedroom door brought the situation into sharp focus, causing Marc to collapse back onto his sofa. No sooner had he resigned himself to his unfortunate condition than another more forceful knocking on his front door echoed through his apartment, disturbing what small measure of peace he’d cobbled together. That final assault wiped out any hope of going back to sleep—or being in a good mood. He ran his fingers through his hair, cleared his throat and yelled back, “J’arrive.” Chance, on the other hand, had been sleeping comfortably in Marc’s dark, cool, quiet bedroom—up until the moment Marc yelled. She pulled the covers over her head, grumbling a protest as a flash of her mother disturbing one of her recent Parisian mornings shot through her fragile consciousness. “Doesn’t anyone sleep-in in this town?” Back in the living room, it was everything Marc could do just to stand up. After steading himself alongside the sofa, Marc found stared blindly at his pants in one hand and his T-shirt in the other. He would have probably stayed that way for quite a while if it wasn’t for someone banging on his front door. With the fantasy of Chance naked in his bed blurring all reason, Marc was unable to decide what to do next. Torn between the confusion outside his front door, answering Chance or figuring out what to do with his clothing, Marc finally opted to answer Chance first. “It’s some god damn delivery.” Marc’s words shot through Chance like a major adrenaline rush, causing her to yell out. “Delivery!” Chance grabbing a piece of clothing from Marc’s closet, flew out of the bedroom then tore through the living room passed Marc, and straight

296 CARBON COPY to the front door. After swinging the front door open, she stood face to face with a man in a familiar brown cap and shorts. There were two packages at his side and a clipboard extended, awaiting a signature. With the second of Marc’s early morning dilemmas resolved, the only thing left was to figure out what to do with his pants and shirt. But Chance managed to cloud even that simple task. Marc and the deliveryman were awestruck. The sight of Chance wearing nothing but one of Marc’s paint-splattered cotton work shirts was captivating. Fleeting glimpses of portions of her naked body as she closed the front of the shirt and fastened a single, strategically positioned button further complicated any meaningful concentration. Her wonderfully disheveled morning hair, long sleek legs and bare feet completed the distraction. It was almost impossible for the deliveryman or Marc to focus on anything but Chance as she began speaking English to the French deliveryman so quickly and with such excitement that even Marc barely understood her. “Terrific. Thanks. I’ll take these.” Chance was ecstatic as she pulled at the two packages. The deliveryman was totally conflicted. On the one hand, he didn’t want to let go of the packages until someone named Marc Besedka signed for them. On the other hand, he couldn’t care less about the packages or the signature, totally mesmerized as he stood so close to this enchantress that he could smell her lovely perfume. “Mademoiselle …D’abord. Vous devez signer.” Chance shifted from English to French trying to reassure the deliveryman that everything was okay and that the packages were hers. “Ça va. Ce sont les miens.” The delivery man checked his log and then Chance’s cleavage as he confirmed that she was definitely not Marc Besedka. “Mademoiselle…Vous—n’êtes—pas—Marc—Besedka.” Marc dropped his shirt to the floor and finished pulling on his pants as he began solving the last of his morning’s challenges. “Chance...Chance...calm down. Give the guy a break.”

297 AVC Marc’s intercession had a calming effect on everyone, though Chance was still very anxious. “He doesn’t believe you’re me.” Marc reached out and took Chance’s hands off the packages. Still distracted by her seductive beauty, Marc tried his best to complete his thought. “Silly as that might seem. He just doesn’t think you’re a guy.” Annoyed, Chance put both her hands on her perfectly formed hips, ignoring Marc’s humor while handing the matter over to him. “Fine, take care of it.” Chance stood by anxiously waiting for Marc to take receipt of the two parcels. Marc’s tone was apologetic as he approached the courier to ask where he should sign for the packages. “Où dois-je signer?” The deliveryman pointed to a line at the bottom of a form on his clipboard while still fixated on Chance’s cleavage. Then he mentioned to Marc how incredibly lucky he was. “Juste ici, vous êtes incroyablement chanceux.” Marc looked up with an obligatory smile while he was signing, knowing no one would have believed the truth. The deliveryman returned the smile as they both kept peering back and forth between the receiving log and Chance’s magnificent form. After signing the log, Marc reached into his jeans pocket, gave the deliveryman a tip along with his thanks. “Bonne journée.” The deliveryman appreciated the tip and well wishes, then commented one last time on the terrific day Marc obviously had in store for himself. “Merci. Et je sais que vous allez avoir une bonne journée.” “Don’t I wish?” Unable to understand English, the deliveryman had no idea what Marc was referring to. There was a moment just before Marc closed the front door that a thought flashed through his mind. “How could three adults, involved in the exact same situation, have such different perspectives?”

298 CARBON COPY The thought vanished as quickly as it materialized as he closed the door and carried the packages into the center of the living room. Chance was beside herself, jumping all over the place. “C’mon, c’mon. Open them up.” Marc got down on one knee alongside the packages and was about to open them. He stopped and looked up at Chance with a loving expression. “God—you’re beautiful.” For the first time since she ran out of Marc’s bedroom, Chance felt the vulnerability of her near-nakedness, transforming her excitement into an uncharacteristic shyness. She turned slightly away from Marc’s longing gaze, raising a finger before excusing herself. “Be right back.” While Chance ran back into the bedroom, Marc went to his studio to get a knife to open the packages, teasing Chance along the way. “I’ve got the box cutter.” Pausing for effect, Marc called out again. “I’m on my way back to the packages.” He continued his teasing half way through the living room. “I’m...” Just as Marc arrived back at the packages, Chance dashed out of his bedroom wearing a pair of his cotton pajamas. Though fully covered, she looked every bit as provocative as before. Pleasantly stunned for the second time that morning, Marc stated the obvious. “Do you ever not look sexy?” Chance was playfully animated, placing a finger to her lips and looking upward as she feigned consideration of Marc’s question for a moment before answering. “Hmm. No.” Marc enjoyed Chance’s humor as he continued the process of opening the first package. After discarding the wrapping and the top of the box, Marc removed a single blank canvas, which instantly grabbed his attention. “Damn. Where did you get this? It looks like something straight out of the 16th century.”

299 AVC “Funny you should say that, because your first piece is going to be a Rubens.” Lost for an explanation, Marc examined the stretcher and canvas in detail as his amazement grew. “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear this was the real deal.” “Great.” Needing to move Marc off his fascination with the canvas’ authenticity, Chance planted a more compelling thought for him to deal with. “Because we don’t even want to think about disappointing these clients.” “Tell me they don’t have bent noses.” Chance’s diversion appeared to have worked but she needed to be certain. “You’re so cute. Only guys in those old gangster movies have bent noses. These clients had their noses straightened when they were kids.” “And that’s supposed to make me feel better?” “Maybe not.” Chance ran in and out of Marc’s bedroom in a flash, holding up a bound stack of $100 bills as she completed her thought. “But I’ll bet this will.” Marc faked a revival, as he snatched the stack of bills. “Oh, Lord. I’m healed.” CHAPTER 56

Simon Fleming, the Chief of Interpol’s Organized Crime Task Force, had been chastised by his immediate supervisor for his “excessive and unjustified expenditures” in pursuit of his investigation of Arturo Catel. It was true. Fleming had become obsessed with bringing Catel down from his lofty position as the world’s most powerful international crime boss. Fleming was told, in no uncertain terms, to confine his investigation into Arturo Catel’s criminal enterprises to US soil.

300 CARBON COPY Fleming believed the weakest link in Catel’s chain of criminal enterprise was his granddaughter, Chance Catel. Fleming’s problem was that Chance had been spending very little time on US soil, which had become very frustrating for him.

* * *

Standing alongside his desk in Interpol’s Washington, DC, headquarters, Fleming was looking on with interest while one of his agents started laying ten photographs in front of him, one at a time, along with an introduction to each. “Last but certainly not least, the money shot.” “Hello!” A broad smile came over the agent as he completed his presentation. “Thought you’d like seeing that one.” “Nice. You doing a spread for Maxim on the side?” After shuffling through the stack, Fleming came back to the “money shot”, which was a provocative image of Chance bending over to pick up her passport, which she had dropped on the terminal floor in Istanbul. “God, I love legs that go all the way to heaven.” Now both men were smiling as Fleming started shuffling back through the images for a second time. There was something in the stack of pictures that was tugging at Fleming, even more than Chance’s perfectly formed legs and thong. He just didn’t know what it was as he searched and continued to comment. “If I had a daughter that looked like that I’d lock her in a closet until she was fifty.” Pausing back on the photograph, Fleming started his inquiry. “Where did you say these were taken?” “Airport surveillance over the past week, Paris to Miami, Miami to Santiago and then Istanbul, Santander, Athens, then back to Paris. She flies more than most pilots.” “Tell me about it. I tried to keep up with her a week before these were taken and it was more of the same.”

301 AVC Shuffling through the stack of images for a third time, Fleming finally came across what had been bothering him. It was a picture of Chance being met at the airport in Istanbul. At first the large contingent of guards distracted Fleming from noticing a very distinguished heavyset Mediterranean gentleman with a fat stump of a cigar in his mouth. It was Angelo Gogola, one of the most notorious crime lords in the world. The sight of Gogola was Pavlovian, turning Fleming’s sarcasm to anger. “We’ve had 3-teams trying to get to this guy for over 4-years. He’s a total recluse with his own private army.” Fleming took a large magnifying glass from his desk to study the picture closer. “I was beginning to think he was dead.” Fleming could see, magnified, a small turquoise package Gogola was handing Chance. “Until Little Miss Priss shows up and—BAM, there he is, out in public in all his glory. Like he’s the friggin’ welcome wagon, handing out diamonds.” Fleming tossed the picture back onto the stack. “And look who’s providing princess parking.” Fleming picked up another picture that caught his eye. Michael Gogola, who practically owned Greece, picked Chance up from the Athens airport in a Rolls-Royce. “How many warlords does this chick have access to?” Fleming was beyond livid. “Where is she now?” “You mean—right now?” Fleming wasn’t the kind of man you start a conversation with unless you’re prepared. And since the agent didn’t have a clue where Chance was at that moment, he knew he was in for an ass chewing. “No, last week now, you moron!” The agent could feel it coming, but there was no place to hide. “We...don’t know, sir.” Fleming’s expression tightened as he began looking back through the pictures.

302 CARBON COPY “Find her, and find out what she’s up to. Chicks like this don’t globetrot in the off season for no reason.” As the agent left Fleming’s office with his tail between his legs, Fleming picked up the picture of Chance and Gogola, considered it for a moment, slipped it into his inside jacket pocket and then walked out to his reception room. “Kathy, where is the director?” “He’s at the summit in Paris.” Fleming’s expression tightened for a second time. “Make an appointment with him for tomorrow, then call Andrews and have one of the G6s readied. Tell them I’ll be there in less than 30-minutes.” Kathy grimaced for a moment before speaking. “Do you think that’s a good idea, given the director’s instructions?” “You’re right, I wouldn’t want you to get in trouble.” Fleming reached over, picked up Kathy’s phone and hit the speed dial for Andrews Air Force Base. “This is Simon Fleming. Have the Department’s G-6 ready and set in a flight plan for Paris. The director wants his dog delivered to him. I’ll be there in 30-minutes with it.” Fleming’s total disregard for his director’s orders to confine his investigation of Arturo Catel to US soil was typical of his cowboy attitude. It was what made him the department’s most successful agent. It’s also what had made him the department’s most difficult agent to control. Everything about Chance and her recent activity told Fleming she was the key to bringing Catel down. And orders or not, he was going for her. After Fleming hung up the phone, Kathy provided her observations. “A few things to consider.” “I’m listening.” “We both know the director doesn’t have a dog.” “True, but Andrews doesn’t know that.” “True, but if you show up at Andrews without a dog they will call the director and that plane will never take off.” “Then I have 30-minutes and 12-miles to get a dog.”

* * *

303 AVC Not far from Interpol’s headquarters in Lyon, France, a covert field office was housed in the lower area of the Powers Hotel, lined with flags of Interpol’s member nations. A large mahogany conference table with the Interpol crest commanded the center of the room. Ernie Buck, the director of Interpol, was the man who had told Fleming to stay in the United States. He and two other men were sitting around the far end of the large conference table. Buck was a gray-haired bureaucrat with an off-the-rack blue suit that screamed polyester. When he agreed to take the meeting, he assumed it had something to do with Catel. And given the urgency and distance Fleming had traveled, Buck was counting on a major breakthrough in the Catel case. Instead, it was a review of Chance’s recent excursion, which Buck considered to be nothing more than another one of Flemings long shots. The meeting wasn’t going well for Fleming. And to make things worse, the pit bull puppy Fleming brought with him wouldn’t stop its high-pitched yapping, grating on everyone’s nerves but Fleming’s. Even so, Buck was trying his best to placate Fleming. “Simon, we all want Catel. But look what you’ve got. A rich brat who did a bit of sightseeing. Extravagant maybe, but in the end it’s nothing more than tourism. By the way, tell me you didn’t take the G6.” “Okay, I didn’t take the G6.” Fleming went from dismissive to angry as he pounded a fist onto the table, as much out of frustration as determination. “Focus, Buck. I’m telling you, the granddaughter is the weak link we’ve been looking for.” As Fleming got up and started pacing, the tension in the room became even more pronounced. “Christ, there’s a member of the Catel’s syndicate living in every one of those cities!” he exclaimed. Unfortunately, Fleming’s additional information only weakened his case and brought Buck to his feet. “Great, so on top of sightseeing she has relationships in each city, which gives her a legitimate reason for being there.” Fleming was furious as he stopped pacing and squared off with Buck.

304 CARBON COPY “You’re not helping.” “I’m trying to help.” Buck took a folder from his attaché and dropped it on the table in front of Fleming to look through while Buck continued. “I had the Bureau run an updated background check. She’s still squeaky clean. A graduate student, Magna Sum Laude, who’s never had so much as a parking ticket. Her father, Catel’s son, died before she was born and her mother has no blood ties to the drug cartel. She’s not even Spanish, let alone Colombian.” Buck gave Fleming a moment to leaf through the dossier before continuing. “In addition to being a model citizen and honor roll student, Miss Catel also happens to be the granddaughter of two of the most powerful men on earth.” “Two?” Fleming looked up from the folder with a contorted expression that begged for good news. “You can’t be serious,” Buck said. “You mean to tell me you don’t know who her other grandfather is?” “Should I? If he’s not a member of a cartel family, which I know he isn’t, I couldn’t care less.” “Trust me, you’re going to care.” Buck appeared genuinely sympathetic. “Tell me it’s not Juan Valdez.” “Worse. Edward L. Cane.” Fleming’s head dropped, causing his chin to collide with his chest, as Cane, the world’s foremost media mogul, was added to the equation. “How the fuck is that even possible?” “Don’t feel too bad. The mother has been estranged from the Cane family since she was in college,” Buck continued, almost conciliatory. “I don’t think there’s hardly anybody that knew of the relationship. I didn’t until recently, and it appears Catel has spent a lot of muscle and money to keep it that way.” “That’s—just—great.”

305 AVC A deep sigh of resignation escaped just before Fleming finished his thought. “New drugs and old money.” “Leave her alone. She isn’t our concern. It’s time to let it go, Simon. Look at what this obsession has cost you already.” Fleming bristled at the reference to his wife leaving him. Buck realized he had gone too far, but it was too late so he moved on. “Now do us both a favor, take the Gulfstream and that little shit...” Buck was referring to the yapping pit bull puppy. “…back to Andrews and focus your investigation on Catel’s US activities.” Without so much as an acknowledgement, Fleming picked up the puppy and left the secret meeting room on his way back to the airport. CHAPTER 57

Chance had been sitting on the large tattered leather sofa in Marc’s living room for the better part of the afternoon, fidgeting with magazines, scrolling through her social media and generally trying her best to kill time. She was extremely frustrated at not being able to look at the first painting until it was completed. It was one of Marc’s idiosyncrasies that drove everyone crazy— especially Chance. “Ta-daa.” Chance perked up at the sound of Marc’s expletive echoing from his studio into the living room. “Can I see it now?” Tossing her magazine to the far side of the sofa, Chance bolted straight for the doorway of Marc’s studio, waiting impatiently for his permission. “Hmm. Well…” Marc teased. That was all the approval Chance needed as she rushed into the studio then squared off right in front of Marc’s painting. Chance was speechless, taking the next fifteen seconds before she managed to even breathe, let alone comment. “It’s…incredible.”

306 CARBON COPY Mesmerized—she admired the painting for another fifteen seconds. In those few moments it all came together for her. The painting was that good. Chance knew it would attract the global attention she needed to flush out the maggots who killed Mitra. “When will it be ready for shipping?” From Chance’s reaction, Marc knew he hit this one out of the park, so he decided to have a little fun at her expense. “To begin with, this is a painting, not an it. This painting will take at least a week to dry enough to be handled. Speaking of which, where will the painting be shipped to?” Still captivated, Chance’s tone was clinical and distant as she answered him while staring in admiration at the painting’s beauty. “Initially to a curing facility that will accelerate the deep drying cycle and then off to the client.” “Whoa, whoa...back up, sweet cheeks. What do you know about deep drying?” Chance’s matter-of-fact presentation of such specialized information was disarming and could have tipped her hand. Without so much as missing a beat, she pulled herself away from the painting and went straight to damage control. “I am an art history major. Of course I know about the production of a painting. When I decided to help out, I needed to know what I was getting into. So I did a bit of research and secured a few key resources. A curing facility being one of them. Impressed?” “Absolutely.” Though Chance’s explanation made perfect sense, Marc was still taken aback by her unexpected expertise and found himself stuck on the concept. “Without proper drying, there’ll be a smell of wet paint for months, sometimes as long as a year. The painting would never pass as authentic.” They were both quietly staring at the painting, which gave Marc a moment of pause before finishing his thought. “So—how are you going to dry it?” Chance needed to end this inquiry before it went any further. So she used the oldest trick in the book, she went straight to seduction. “First of all, this is a painting, not an it.”

307 AVC Marc blushed, bearing an unguarded side that Chance hadn’t experienced until that moment. “Touché.” An uncharacteristic shy smile graced Chance's face. Drawn to him, she stepped closer. “Did you know touché means to touch?” As Marc nodded, Chance slipped her hand under his T-shirt, then moved upward settling on his heart, creating a warm, welcome bond between the two of them. Standing completely still, looking deep into Chance’s eyes, Marc felt Chance reach down then took hold of his hand. He was surprised when she guided his hand under her blouse, placing it on her heart, providing his first intimate touch. As soon as he felt her warm, soft skin his resistance melted— he could not hold out any longer. They both felt the other’s heart beating faster as they closed the small gap between them. Drawing even closer, Marc slowly leaned his head down to gently press his lips against hers. Soft and warm, their first kiss lasted several moments before their lips spread. Sharing the same breath, their tongues touched as their eyes opened to look deeply into each other’s souls. There was no turning back as their kiss melted into pure lust. Chance turned her hand that had been resting on Marc’s chest so she could grip his shirt and pull him down to her for an even deeper, more passionate kiss. Marc was lost in the taste of Chance’s full, moist lips. At first Chance was nervous, she had never experienced the intense feelings that had overtaken her. But all that vanished as she inhaled his scent and the taste of his lips around her tongue, devouring her very soul. The excitement of unfamiliar hands on flesh removed the final barriers that separated them, sending clothes flying while they kissed frantically. Chance pulled instinctively at Marc’s leather belt, shocking herself with her forcefulness. The snap of his jeans and zipper opened his pants in a fluid movement of excitement—causing them to fall to the floor. As her hand wrapped around him, Chance was consumed with the overpowering feeling of “Mine!"

308 CARBON COPY As her hand continued to work its magic, Marc’s lips moved from her mouth, down her jaw line then gently licked up to her ear where he whispered, “God you taste incredible.” Chance’s mouth opened at the words and after a sharp inhale, she began to pant heavily. Suddenly she needed more. She let go of her prize and ran both hands through Marc’s hair as she kissed him ravenously. Unable to wait any longer, she pulled back just enough to exhale. “I need you in me. Now!” Chance was pure sex, making Marc feel as if her words could make him explode, but he wanted so much more than words. He started by kissing her gently on her mouth then he moved slowly downward, kissing every inch of her body, making her breathing erratic, eliciting sudden gasps and moans of pleasure along the way. As their breathing accelerated and their pulses rose, the sweet taste of pheromones took control. They found themselves in freefall, spiraling away from a lifetime of control to a place neither was familiar with. Chance was on fire. Marc’s hands and mouth moved hungrily over her entire body, leaving her breathless and drenched. Chance moved on top of Marc putting him just inside her wet, full fold. Then she wrapped her arms around his neck, driving hard onto his full length, giving him her innocence as he filled her with wide-eyed wonder. The taste of his tongue mixed with his deliciously painful girth created an intense release. She felt light-headed, about to pass out as their intertwined bodies mingled with the still wet paints of Marc’s palette that had fallen to the floor with them. Chance experienced the unstoppable power of true love while Marc was lost. He was unable to understand, let alone control the unrelenting force that was drawing him to his inevitable demise, and could cost him is life. In that moment they found themselves in pure abandon. Everything changed—and they knew they would never be the same again. Marc lifted Chance up off the floor into his strong loving arms, then carried her into his room, laying her gently into his bed. He had expected Chance’s worldliness to translate into a torrid sexual experience, but found himself even more captivated by her surprising innocence and vulnerability. As he lowered himself into her for a second time, they stared into each

309 AVC other’s eye and kissed softly, neither of them planning to leave that bed for the rest of the night.

* * *

As the early morning sun inched its way over the cityscape, it found Chance draped in a flowing white bed linen, standing motionless as she stared at the painting. Still mesmerized by its beauty, each time she saw the painting it excited her as much as the first time. Laced within the soft filtered morning light, Chance’s silhouette appeared to be that of a Greek goddess, carved from a block of marble, with a contemporary twist to the classic image. Long flowing colorful streaks of paint traveled through Chance’s hair, across her body and down to her feet, testifying to her rapturous encounter with Marc as they rolled through his palette of fresh, wet paints the night before. Soft and silent, Marc’s sleek, chiseled body walked up from behind. His naked form matched hers perfectly. As he wrapped his arms around Chance, the two quietly enjoyed the painting and the essence they had become. Content in Marc’s embrace, Chance mused. “It was worth waiting for.” “Last night or the painting?” “Both. And they’re both amazing.” Marc was at a loss. Unlike Chance, he had many conquests, but they had never meant anything beyond their physical pleasures. The truth was— last night left Marc shaken and confused. He had been drawn to that place where reason and control gave way to instinct and emotion—for the first time in his life. And though he didn’t know it at the time, he had fallen in love and felt the need to share something very personal with Chance. “I want to show you something else that’s amazing. Something I’ve never shown anyone.”

310 CARBON COPY CHAPTER 58

Early the next morning, Chance was wrapped in the same type of bed linen with Marc snuggled up from behind with his arms wrapped around her. Except for the paints that had been showered away from their bodies, they appeared exactly the same as the morning before. There was one other significant difference, their location, which had changed 600 kilometers to the east. They were in a mountain cabin looking out a pair of large open glass doors. It was a magnificent aerial view from high atop the Swiss Alps. Perched on the face of a snow-capped peak, they were looking down onto the valley below, ablaze with spring’s blossoms of yellow bellflowers and vivid blue heather. “It’s breathtaking,” she sighed. Marc had impressed her for a second time in as many days, which wasn’t an easy thing to do. Then he brought perspective to the view. “Makes the work of man pretty pathetic by comparison, wouldn’t you say?” After a long pause, Chance’s tone became prophetic. “Marc—do you believe we can change who we are—what we are?” It was a simple enough question. One that could have easily been answered with a yes or no at any other time. But this wasn’t just any other time. The setting and emotions were extraordinary, coming together to form the perfect storm. Rather than simple, Chance’s question cut deep, baring demons and angels Marc had been grappling with his entire life. Issues he desperately wanted resolved. But for guys like him, finding that one special spirit, that perfect stranger to share and search with, had been an elusive lifetime pursuit. But there she was, without warning, tearing through his barriers like a hot knife through butter with a simple question, straight through to his very being. What occurred to Marc was that he felt exposed for the first time in his life. And in response, eloquent and unexpected, the answer to Chance’s question rolled off Marc’s tongue, surprising himself while revealing his soul.

311 AVC “I believe we are all works in progress. We come into this world like blank canvases. But fate and circumstance quickly paint their marks on us. By the time we’re old enough to realize what has happened, our paints have started to dry. “But if you have a vision, a dream of what you want to be, I believe you can keep reworking the paints, the colors and the hues, until you fashion a new creation, one that is uniquely you, one that you can be proud of.” While Marc’s thoughts trailed off to a private place in his past, Chance found herself captivated by the depth of his spirit. Like so many things that had happened between the two of them over the past 24-hours, Marc’s insight left Chance wanting even more. “Is that always a good thing?” In the few moments that it took for Marc to consider Chance’s question, he became saddened at the thought of those in his life who had allowed fate rather than self-determination to shape their destinies. And for a second time in as many minutes, a short, simple question from Chance touched the very core of what Marc had been searching for his entire life. “I’m not sure if it’s good or bad. But I know it’s the only thing in life that can’t be delegated or blamed on anyone else. When all is said and done, what we ultimately make of ourselves is all that really matters.” And with that, the last of Chance’s defenses melted away as she drifted deeper into Marc’s loving embrace and their two spirits continued on their inevitable journey toward solidarity.

* * *

Later that evening, after having been naked the entire day, Chance wrapped herself in a blanket before stepping out into the cooler night air to sit on the front porch steps of Marc’s wonderful mountain top hideaway. It was enchanting and so different from the life she had known. She could hear the cow bells in the distance in a lulling, persistent rhythm as they made their way back to their barns. She marveled at the twinkling lights of the small town nestled in the valley far below, as she began the difficult process of trying to reconcile her premeditated plan to use Marc with the deep emotional bond that had formed between the two of them.

312 CARBON COPY She knew what she was doing to Marc was wrong. Her rationale was that she had no choice. But deep in her heart she knew there is always a choice, especially for her. At this point the best she could hope for was that he would never find out or, when the time came, that he would forgive her. As he opened the glass doors and walked out of the cabin, she smelled the comforting aroma of pine crackling in the fireplace. Feeling him sitting down behind her, she leaned back against his chest as he handed her a cup of hot chocolate then wrapped his arms around her. Content in the warmth of Marc’s blanket and embrace, Chance was enjoying a level of peace and comfort she had never felt before. Far beyond its physical pleasure, she could actually feel herself changing deep within her soul. They sat quietly for a while, savoring the marvelous view and one another. Finally, Chance took a sip of the cocoa and wondered aloud. “How did you find this place?” “It found me.” “How so?” “It belonged to an old man. He was very special to me. Unfortunately, he recently passed away.” “An old man?” Chance suddenly had the chilling idea that she knew who he was talking about. “He grew up down there.” Marc pointed to the twinkling lights of the small town far below while he explained. “In that cluster of homes to the right. And even though he loved that small village, he felt the need to strike out and find an even better life for him and his wife. “Can you imagine how hard it must have been to leave a place like that? So he built this cabin for them just before they moved to America.” “He left this for America? Why?” “I don’t know. But he risked a lifetime of peace and stability because he believed in himself, in their love, and in the hope that something even

313 AVC better might be waiting for them just around the next bend. This cabin was their secret place. A place only the two of them knew about.” “How did you meet him?” “It was back in the States, when I lived there.” “I didn’t know you lived in the States.” “I’ve lived in a lot of different places.” Marc paused a moment to gather his thoughts. “Tell me about him,” Chance asked. “The old man?” “Yeah.” “He was a great old guy. He moved in two doors down from me shortly after I arrived. He used to restore damaged paintings.” The mention of restoring damaged paintings increased the pain in Chance’s stomach. “And he was best.” “Better than you?” “Much better. The problem was, he couldn’t speak English very well and needed someone to bridge the gap of living in a new place until he could teach himself.” “And that’s where you came in.” “More or less. One day he was trying his best to talk to the postman while I was walking by. I stepped in and translated for both of them and that was that.” “You never told me you spoke anything other than English and French. What language was it?” “German.” It was as though someone punched Chance in her stomach, knocking the wind right out of her as Marc rebuilt Joshua in her mind, piece by piece. “You speak German?” “Yeah.” “Anything else?” “You know.” The way Marc chose to tell Chance about Joshua and Rebecca opened a strange, personal door in which answers could be gained. So Chance pressed on.

314 CARBON COPY “Actually, I don’t. How many other languages do you speak?” “A few.” “Name them…all.” “Spanish, Italian, Russian, Portuguese, Chinese, Arabic, Hebrew, a half dozen African dialects and a bit of Latin that’s left over from The Monastery.” “The Monastery?” Then, as quickly as the door opened, it slammed shut. There was no mistaking that something had just happened. But Chance couldn’t be certain if it was Marc’s mention of The Monastery or a sudden awareness of just how personal things had gotten. Whatever it was, the change was sudden and profound. Rather than lose what they had gained to that point, Chance preserved it all by quickly lightening the conversation. “You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?” “No big deal.” It was clear Marc didn’t want to talk about how he came to learn that many languages and definitely not about The Monastery. And though Chance was dying to ask about both, she wasn’t willing to risk the appearance of meddling into his private space. So she decided to leave those discussions for another time. As curious as Chance was, Marc was even more dumbfounded. He was a seasoned player, always in control. Never once had he slipped or inadvertently let out anything even remotely connected to The Monastery. His correction was instantaneous. “Anyway, after that day, I started teaching the old man English and he taught me how to really paint. I’d always been pretty good but nothing like him.” “He obviously kept his end of the deal. You can paint. How about you? How long did it take him to learn English?” “Not long. I’ll never forget, one of his proudest possessions was this huge dictionary. You know, one of those leather-bound books that’s so big it needed its own stand.” “I know just what you mean.” Chance remembered with a sting where Joshua had placed her card that day when she had visited, in its place of honor in the dictionary.

315 AVC “Yeah,” Marc continued. “He loved hearing a new word that he didn’t know. He’d head straight for that dictionary. Sometimes when he needed a break from painting he’d go over and just start reading it, like it was a novel or something. Eventually he had the largest vocabulary of anyone I’ve ever known.” Marc paused for a moment before going on. “That’s how he was—great at anything he set out to do. Even his work ethic. We’d spend countless hours working together on assignments. That’s where I learned my most valuable techniques, and just about everything else that’s had any real meaning in my life. During our marathon sessions we’d talk, about everything—love, freedom, self-determination, history, truth.” Marc became very intense. “Not the textbook versions that I had been spoon-fed up until then. He lived by his rules, and they were good. There was a purpose to his life, a genuine respect for others and the earth that had nothing to do with dogma or pretense. “When things went wrong, and they did, ‘I’m sorry,’ was the first thing he’d say. Then making it right was the next thing he’d do. And he would never, I mean never, do anything to anyone that he wouldn’t want done to himself. “It sounds simple, but it’s not. Once I understood that, it changed my life for the better.” “He sounds like a great guy.” “He was.” Marc’s use of the word was sent a chill through Chance as he continued his story. “One day we were working on a tough, major restoration. I had tried for hours to get a small area right, but it just wasn’t happening for me. Finally, I got so frustrated that I threw my brush across the room and yelled out, ‘This is impossible.’ “He walked over, picked my brush up off the floor then told me to go look it up in the dictionary. “I said, ‘Look what up?’ “It was one of the only times I had ever seen him disappointed with anything, and it was me. He was always such a positive guy.

316 CARBON COPY “I was totally confused, and he could tell that I had no idea what he was talking about. So he took me by the hand and walked me over to the dictionary, flipped to the I section and continued turning pages until he got to a page with one word crossed out. He treated that book like it was sacred. I’d never seen him so much as put a mark on one of its pages, let alone cross a word out. When I looked to the right of the crossed-out word and saw its phonetic spelling and definition: im-,’pä-sə-bəl\ adj. 1. a: incapable of being or of occurring b: felt to be incapable of being done, attained or fulfilled.

“He told me that it was the only word in the book that shouldn’t be there. Then he handed me back my brush and said, ‘Nothing is impossible.’ And we went back to work on the restoration.” “The impossible one?” “Yup. And when he was done you couldn’t tell where the painting had been repaired. His restoration was perfect.” “What an amazing guy.” “That’s for sure. He had a firm grasp on life. And I miss him.” “But you said he died?” “A couple of weeks ago, the old man and his wife were walking home from church when a drunk driver jumped the curb, ripping his wife off his arm.” Marc’s eyes began to well. “Rebecca!” cried a distraught Chance. “You knew them?” a surprised Marc inquired through his tears. “Joshua...he gave me your name...he told me to look you up in Paris. I was about to tell you that the first time we met but Malfete got in the way of the conversation and I guess I just never got back to it.” “I see. I think.” Marc was confused. as he tried to make sense of it all. “So, it wasn’t fate that brought us together?” “Oh—it was fate alright. But it came by way of Joshua and I can’t believe he was killed.”

317 AVC “No. He was left standing there without a scratch, watching as the car dragged Rebecca away then smashed into a telephone pole, crushing her to death.” Marc paused to regain his composure. And for those few brief moments, through her own grief, Chance felt a connection as close as when they made love. “A friend of mine from the neighborhood called with the news. I flew back the next morning to help the old man with the arrangements. When the funeral was over he handed me an envelope with his crippled hand, went back to his home and put a shotgun in his mouth.” Marc felt Chance go limp in his arms. “So much for dreams.” “Why would he do that?” “Without her, his life wasn’t worth living. Can you imagine being so completely in love with someone that you couldn’t live without them?” “In fairy tales, maybe. But outside of family, I’ve never seen it in real life.” “It was my only time.” The two sat quietly for a few moments of reflection, both struck by the same unsettling feeling. Though neither wanted to admit it, and certainly not talk about it, Chance and Marc felt something very special for one another. And it felt awkward. Especially having only known each other for such a short time and never having had experienced true love until now. Fortunately, the awkward moment came and went in an instant as Chance moved the conversation along. “Tell me about this place.” “Even though he never spoke of this cabin, he used to tell me how important it was that everyone had a secret place that no one else knew about.” Marc looked around as he took stock of his surroundings then finished his thought. “Isn’t it great? No electricity, no phones, no neighbors. Now you and I are the only two that know it exists.” A glow came over Chance as she realized just how important it was for Marc to have shared his secret with her and she wanted to know more. “What was in the envelope?”

318 CARBON COPY “Envelope?” “Yeah, the one Joshua gave you?” “A map to here, the deed to the property, and a Thank You note for being the grandson he never had.” Softly shaking her head, a tear fell from Chance’s cheek as Marc continued and her thoughts drifted off to her special relationship with her grandfather and the loss of Joshua and Rebecca. CHAPTER 59

It had been an intense week but Marc was finally back in his studio, packaging the first painting into a shipping container while Chance paced nervously around him. After glancing at the clock on the wall and then her watch and seeing it was exactly noon, she tried to hurry Marc along. “Think you’re cutting it close enough? The shippers will be here any minute.” Just then the doorbell rang and Marc yelled out. “J’arrive.” After driving the last nail into the crate, Marc announced the completion of his first task. “Perfect timing.” Marc took the couple of strides from his studio to the front door before miming the theatrics of a proper reception. Then he opened the door, bowing graciously until the sight of two very large, well-groomed gentlemen with earpieces, wearing black Armani suits, gold Rolex watches, and $2,000 alligator shoes stopped him cold. Looking over at Chance while extending his hammer in the direction of the two men as though it were a teaching aid, Marc searched for some degree of perspective. “These...are your shippers?” “What were you expecting, a couple of guys in soiled jumpsuits and a moving dolly?” “Ah...yeah.” “Welcome to my world.”

319 AVC Chance’s wave of her hand and snipped response left Marc feeling slighted. To make things worse, the two shippers totally ignored Marc as they entered his apartment, walked straight into his studio, picked up the container and left without speaking a word—as though they had been there and rehearsed the operation before that day. Outside Marc’s apartment things became even more bizarre as he watched the shippers load the painting into the back of a black, tinted windowed Mercedes-Benz station wagon. Still using the hammer as a pointer, Marc continued his inquisition. “Is anything about your life normal?” “It all seems normal to me.” Chance gave Marc a quick kiss before completing her thought. “I’ll be back in less than a week.” In an instant she was down the front steps. “A week?” Marc was frozen in place as he called out to Chance. “What the hell are you talking about?” After Chance got into the backseat. Chance put her window down to answer. “I have to personally deliver the painting.” As the car started to pull off, she completed her thought. “I’ll be back before you know it.” “Says you!” Marc was upset. But there was nothing he could do about it, standing alone in the middle of the street, watching the black Mercedes station wagon fading from sight.

* * *

12-hours later, a wide-bodied Boeing 747-8 with a lone passenger taxied into a large hangar at a private airport in Chile. The unique pass-thru hangar with articulating jetway protected the jet, its passenger, cargo and Bottega from the slight sprinkle that accommodated the jet’s arrival. A black Rolls-Royce limousine and two escort SUVs waited patiently as the private jumbo jet came to rest. With the boarding platform in place, Chance stepped out of the plane then walked across the sky bridge, smiling

320 CARBON COPY with bright eyes as Bottega stepped out of his limousine to greet her. Both arrived at the curb of the elevated roadway at the same time. “Uncle Carlos.” Bottega extended his arms to receive Chance’s hug. “Chance.” As they hugged, both took note of the shippers carrying the crated painting from the plane before placing it inside one of the escort vehicles. Satisfied all was in order, Bottega stepped into his limousine with Chance. Then his convoy began its 10-mile drive along his private tree-lined country roadway that connected his airport to his villa.

* * *

20-minutes later, Chance and Bottega were standing in front of a massive marble fireplace watching intently as one of the shippers unveiled the painting. With the painting free from its packaging, the shipper turned to face Chance and Bottega, holding the painting like a human easel. Unable to contain herself, Chance was almost girlish in her enthusiasm. “Well?” Bottega took his time examining every nuance of the painting. First, he looked over its canvas and stretcher, front and back. Then he considered the subject matter and technique, careful not to disturb the still soft paint. The delay in his response and frown on his face were driving Chance crazy, but she knew better than to say anything else. It took a while, far too long for Chance’s liking. Finally, Bottega backed away from the painting. Then he positioned himself so he could view the painting as a whole rather than the meticulous scrutiny he had just conducted. “This is...magnificent.” On the verge of hyperventilating from anticipation, Chance threw her arms around Bottega and hugged him for joy as he continued. “I trusted your judgment. But I had no idea it would be so...so...”

321 AVC Chance shifted still leaving one of her arms slung over Bottega's shoulder so they could both view the painting while she completed his thought. “So authentic.” “Exactly. Speaking of which...is it...truly?” In an instant, Chance transformed into a savvy deal-maker. “The paint and the canvas can be dated by radiocarbon to 390 years old. The technique is exactly that of the master—as is the signature. And it can never be proven to be anything but authentic.” Then an impish smile came over Chance. “But if you are asking, ‘Did Rubens himself paint this magnificent work?’ how should I know? I wasn’t around 390 years ago.” Chance’s over-the-top innocence sealed the deal. “Of course,” she smiled, “neither was anyone else to refute the claim. The signature says it’s a Rubens. Everything else about it screams, ‘I’m a Rubens.’ So as far as I am concerned, it’s a Rubens.” “If we didn’t have a deal, I’d keep it for my own. I like it that much. In fact, I like it as much as anything in my collection.” This was high praise coming from a man whose collection rivaled the Vatican’s. A knowing smile came over Bottega, as though a light had been lit. Throughout her life Chance had come to know that smile, its power and implications. “What?” After tapping his index finger to his lips, he merely discounted her question with a wave of his hand. Chance had also come to know that when Bottega waved his hand, the matter had ended.

* * *

“Well, Jason,” Bottega confided to his butler after Chance left them to freshen up for dinner, “I believe we have discovered the whereabouts and potential of Nasser’s technology. She never ceases to amaze me.”

322 CARBON COPY Jason took his time responding to Bottega as the two men stood motionless, admiring Marc’s Rubens. “She does have a way about her.” CHAPTER 60

Later that evening, Chance and Bottega were seated at one end of an extremely long, perfectly bookmatched mahogany Pothause dining table in the center of his superbly appointed dining room. An assortment of exquisite, handcrafted pastries was being presented to the couple, signaling the last course of their meal. Leaving the sinful confections untouched, Bottega and Chance took a moment to enjoy their espressos while she began unfolding her plan. “Three weeks from now the painting will be dried, cured and ready for scrutiny. Contact your representatives at Sotheby’s. Tell them you have a never-before-seen Rubens that you are going to sell. Ask them to provide their customary appraisal, authentication and proposal for their auction services. And, of course, emphasize the importance of absolute secrecy. That way we can be assured of maximum publicity.” Bottega was pleased at the level of sophistication and understanding Chance brought to the process. As he placed his porcelain demitasse on its saucer, he raised a questioning finger in search of further reassurance. “Are you absolutely certain the painting will pass every test of man and machine?” “Absolutely.” Chance went on for almost an hour and couldn’t have been more reassuring, explaining many of the particulars of her plan in great detail. As she neared the end of her presentation, she leaned in toward Bottega to underscore her control over upcoming events, stopping just short of letting him know the full extent of her plan. “So—to answer your question. This is how certain I am about my plan. Within days of your call to Sotheby’s, you will be contacted by a Middle Eastern man with damage to his right eye, even before word of the Rubens hits the press.”

323 AVC It all made sense, at least as much as Chance and Bottega had been willing to share with each other. But it was also complicated. Chance knew Bottega would never have sanctioned her plan if he knew she was going behind her grandfather’s back, especially since Catel specifically told her no. Add to that the fact that she had planned on developing an additional three paintings as backups in case the first painting didn't draw the maggots out, and Bottega would definitely have turned down her request for assistance. But what concerned her most was that Bottega hadn’t contacted her grandfather for something as important as this. Bottega never left a stone unturned, regardless of a promise, which meant something else was in play. But Chance wasn’t willing to risk it all by pressing him for those answers. Then there were Bottega’s concerns. On the one hand, he knew Chance had access to whatever Professor Nasser’s technology was. There was no other way she could have accomplished what she did with the Rubens. And if the painting was any indication, the technology had incredible applications. Though unexpected, this served Bottega’s purpose by keeping the technology out of the other side’s hands— which kept him in the game long enough to figure out what the game was all about and win. On the other hand, whoever Bottega was up against was a major force to be reckoned with. This put Chance in grave danger the moment they learned of her involvement. Though Bottega never proceeded along any path without full knowledge, he was making this one exception, allowing her to continue unquestioned for the time being. The challenge was keeping Chance alive while she controlled the technology. And, for now at least, she was in one of the safest places on earth. The stakes were high, they both knew it, and they were both willing to take the risk. “Sweet Chance—it’s an exciting and dangerous game you’ve put in play. But if you pull this off...” “The plan is foolproof.” Chance interrupted Bottega—something that few on earth would even consider, let alone do with conviction.

324 CARBON COPY “Up to one hundred fifty million,” she said, “we split three ways—you, me, and the charity. That’s a handsome return on your investment, one hundred times what I originally promised.” She looked to him for his approval and appreciation, which he provided through a nod as she continued. “Anything over that is mine. And when our Middle Eastern friend contacts you, blow him off with our story while you find out who he is.” “What are your plans for him?” “I’ll decide after I find out who he is. But I am certain it will have something to do with his mortality.” Chance’s command of the situation pleased Bottega as he raised his wine glass in toast. “To our deal and your success.” After a moment of contemplation, he continued his toast. “A $50 million return on my $500,000 investment in less than three months is excellent. And your idea to donate $50 million to AIDS research is brilliant, even for a Catel.” Extending his glass to Chance, Bottega moved their deal onto its next step. “Salud.” As the two finished their toast, Chance smiled to herself while quietly commenting under her breath. “Not equipped, huh?” “Perdón?” “Oh...nothing.” There were several important unanswered questions on both sides of the table. But for now, Bottega was content with the direction and soundness of Chance’s plan, which they both knew was all that really mattered.

* * *

While Chance celebrated the success of her plan with Bottega, there were four major situations in play. The prime minister was agonizing over not having told the alim that the secrecy of their plan had been compromised, simply because he wasn’t

325 AVC willing to risk his place in history knowing that the alim would cancel or at the very least postpone the plan indefinitely. Akmed was being tormented. He had left a critical piece of an assignment undone. Something that had never happened before. Unfortunately for Chance, Akmed would stop at nothing to reestablish his perfect record. Zulle and Alexandrov looked on ineffectively as the drama ran its course, hoping for the elimination of five billion people along the way. Then there was Stone—at work unraveling everyone’s plans, regardless of the costs or collateral damage for the sake of his principals and humanity. Through it all, Chance was blissfully naïve. She had no idea of the vast, lethal force she had provoked and set against herself, the role Bottega was playing in keeping her out of harm’s way or that 5-billion lives hung in the balance of her next couple of moves.

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Having concluded her business at the painting’s drying facility and armed with the good news from her successful visit with Bottega, Chance was confident and excited as she whisked through the unlocked front door of Marc’s apartment. If Marc was one thing, he was predictable when he was home. Marc was a pathological workaholic. If he wasn’t in bed, he was standing in front of a canvas with a brush in hand. That was why Chance was surprised at not finding him in his studio. Moving through the living room and bedroom were equally unproductive. Then she heard sounds coming from the kitchen which was the last place she expected Marc to be. But there he was, nursing his crippled coffee maker through another of its improbable cycles. “Don’t you think it’s about time you throw that thing away?” Spinning around with the hapless machine in his hands, Marc was pleased to see Chance. “This old girl and I have been through a lot together. Three continents, actually. And more morning-afters than I care to remember.” “Sounds like it’s time for retirement.” After laying the machine on the counter, Marc reached out, drew Chance close and kissed her passionately. Then he whispered in her ear. “God, I’ve missed you.” After settling into one another’s warm, familiar embrace, Marc’s curiosity got the better of him. “How did it go?” Chance backed away from him and patted her purse with a big smile, signaling their mutual success. “You can definitely afford a new coffee maker.” Marc dipped with a clenched fist at his side as he yelled out, “Yes!” Standing back up, he continued, “So tell me, what did he say when he first saw the painting?” “What makes you think it’s a he?” “Stop.”

327 AVC “Okay. Word for word? Or the Cliffs Notes version?” “Word for word.” Chance took Marc by the hand and led him into the living room. They sat on the sofa and squared off in anticipation as Chance began her story. “Turns out he was so impressed that he couldn’t believe his eyes.” “Outstanding. But what did he actually say?” “His first reaction was, ‘This is— magnificent.’” “Fantastic.” Marc was aglow. “And this from a man who’s rarely impressed by anything. Then he said he trusted my judgment when I told him how good you were, but that he had no idea the painting would look so incredible.” Marc was beside himself at that point. “I can’t tell you how good this makes me feel.” “You and the collector. He was so pleased that he asked me to pass on his appreciation along with a $10,000 bonus for you.” Marc gripped his chest in gratitude. “Unbelievable. Talk about starting off on the right foot.” Marc was struck by a thought that caused him to shift the direction of their conversation. “This is so exciting that I almost forgot. The second delivery arrived the same day you left. The Monet is done.” Now it was Chance who was stunned. “How? I’ve only been gone four days.” He took her by the hand and led her into his studio as he mused. “4-days, 2-hours and 17-minutes, but who’s counting? This morning was the first time I’ve had anything other than strong coffee and stale croissants or showered since you left. I’ve been working nonstop.” “That’s wonderful, especially the part about showering.” As they arrived in Marc’s studio, he positioned Chance directly in front of the painting. Then, with the flare of a matador, Marc whipped off the paint stained bed sheet that Chance had been wrapped in that first time they made love, revealing the painting. “Ta-dah!” “Oh—my—God. Marc.” Chance was overwhelmed at the painting’s beauty.

328 CARBON COPY “Pretty terrific, isn’t it?” “Le Bassin aux Nymphéas!”12 It was meant to be from the Water Lilies series. She immediately understood Marc’s logic. Monet had done so many Water Lilies paintings that it wasn’t completely impossible that one had gone missing all these years, the art historian in Chance had to agree. And even her skilled eye couldn’t detect a spot of paint amiss on this canvas on which the lilies seemed to be literally floating in a pond of green swirls of paint, with a dab of red here and a dab of white there, expressing exactly the delicacy of the flower in the exquisite light of Giverny. Chance hugged Marc with her eyes still fixed on the painting. “You know...I’ve got goose bumps just looking at it.” “That’s high praise. And to think some of the most seasoned collectors in the world will be admiring my work. Now, that’s about as good as it gets with your clothes on.” Completely missing Marc’s invitation, Chance reached into her purse and pulled out two neatly bound stacks of $100 bills. Still staring at the painting, she blindly extended her hand in Marc’s direction. The sight of the stacks of money caused Marc’s focus to shift from his pants to his wallet. “I’m not unhappy.” “I didn’t think you would be. But I didn’t know you’d be into the second painting already.” Still captivated by the beauty of Marc’s Monet, there was a distant, almost detached air in Chance’s voice as she completed her thought. “I won’t have the deposit for this one until tomorrow.” “I’ve got a feeling you’re good for it.” Something in his tone caused Chance to finally pull her attention away from the painting and back to the tall, handsome man with the chiseled body standing in front of her. Chance slipped the straps of her sleek silk dress off her shoulders, allowing it to slide down her body in a pile on the floor. Stunning in only her high heels, Chance took Marc’s hand as she led him from his studio to his bedroom with her invitation: “Let me show you something else I’m good for.”

12 The title of one of Claude Monet’s most famous paintings. 329 AVC CHAPTER 62

A month passed. It was July by the time Bottega completed his preparations with Sotheby’s, and Marc placed the fourth and final painting in its crate. In his mind, this was his tour de force. It was crazy to attempt a Rembrandt self-portrait—but it turned out fantastic. It was the darkest painting Marc had ever done. Almost two- thirds of the painting was pure black, with the vaguest outline of a large black velvet beret on Rembrandt’s head. His face was bright orange, in strong chiaroscuro. And he was looking up at Marc in disapproval, as though saying, “How dare you, sir!” And Marc just loved it. But rather than feeling a sense of accomplishment, Marc was melancholy about letting go. Though it had been a relatively short period of time since Marc first met Chance, it had been intense. Throughout his life, Marc had always been in control, but not now. It was as though he was in the last seat of a rollercoaster, holding on long enough to see where the ride took him. For some inexplicable reason, as he closed and sealed the final painting, he began to feel the ride slowing down as though something about his relationship with Chance was coming to an end, and that bothered him. Things were different for Chance. She was in control of everything— her plan, their affair and her life, everything—or so she thought. While Marc was fumbling with the final few nails of the crate, Chance was focused on completing the assignment and shipping the final painting. She was standing in the doorway of Marc’s studio looking back and forth between his unhurried progress and the front door, impatiently glancing at her watch every couple of moments. “Why is it men always accuse women of never being on time?” At that very moment, Marc hammered in the last nail. “That’s it. Farewell, Mr. Rembrandt, and with time to spare.” Then, as if on cue, the doorbell rang, startling both of them. Marc looked at Chance with a smile.

330 CARBON COPY “I believe that’s for you, my Little Pretty.” Marc took on a macabre tone as he wrung his hands together for effect. “Probably Igor coming for the body.” “Cute.” Without so much as asking who was there, Chance opened the door and then stepped aside. With three deliveries already completed, neither she nor Marc was surprised as the two shippers entered and headed straight for the crate. Still, something in Marc didn’t want to let this one go. Though he made no outward sign of protest, he became unusually animated, on the verge of theatrical. “I’m really gonna miss you guys, especially our talks.” But even Marc’s exaggerated antics had no effect on the shippers. As usual, the two large men completely ignored Marc as they picked up the crate and then left the apartment. Chance followed the shippers and the painting outside as they completed their ritual by loading the crate in the back of the black Mercedes wagon. All the while, Marc was in tow, continuing his annoying rant. “Stop by the next time you’re in town. We’ll do lunch.” As Marc walked past Chance on his way back to his apartment. She smacked him playfully on his butt then headed for the Mercedes. Marc whipped around, grabbing her arm and pulling her close for a tender kiss. “I know—you’ll be back in a week.” “I wouldn’t be so sure of that.” One of the shippers stood sentry at the open door of the Mercedes, an ominous reminder of her impending departure, as Chance completed her thought. “This is the last painting, you know.” “Now that’s just wrong.” Chance gave him a quick kiss, ran down his front steps and into the black station wagon. In a matter of moments, she was gone- again. But this time with the fourth and final painting, a fact that wasn’t lost on Marc.

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After leaving her “uncle” Ang in Istanbul, Chance returned to the airport and settled into the executive lounge where she began her preparations for the auction, starting with a call to Bottega. “Hello, Uncle Carlos. This is Chance.” “Sweet Chance. So good to hear from you. I trust you are in Washington, getting ready for your big day.” “Almost. I’m at the airport, on my way.” Chance didn’t want to lie to Bottega. But she certainly couldn’t tell him the whole truth. With two days before the Rubens auction, Chance felt she had plenty of time to get to D.C. and set up. But for now, she had a more immediate concern. “I’m curious. Have you heard from our Middle Eastern friend?” “No, I have not.” “That’s strange. I would have bet that he would have tried to contact you by now.” “Then you would have lost.” A wave of anxiety shot through Chance as Bottega paused for effect before completing his thought. “So, what is your next move?” “To enjoy your company and the adventure of the auction.” “Spoken like a Catel.” “I’ll take that as a compliment.” “One look at your mother and you will know that it was.” “How sweet. Thank you and I’ll see you in two days.” “Safe travels.” Though Chance had acted relatively unconcerned about Bottega not having heard from Mitra’s killer, she was actually furious that a major piece of her plan had not worked. So she decided to help it along. After selecting an application on her cell phone, Chance entered a prerecorded message into the device. Then she took a calculated risk. Armed with a mechanically altered voice print, and calling from a

332 CARBON COPY public phone booth in the Istanbul International Airport, Chance dialed Mitra’s cell phone number. As Chance expected, Akmed answered the call on the first ring with the predictable question. “Who is this?” Then Chance pressed the PLAY icon on her cell phone. The voice was disguised to the point that it couldn’t be distinguished by sex or nationality, though the message was crystal clear. “You still haven’t figured it out, have you, you stupid dirt bag? Look around those closest to you, and be careful. Things aren’t always what they seem.”

* * *

With nothing but a dial tone left to him, Akmed was surprisingly calm, especially considering the arrogant nature of the call. After a moment of reflection, Akmed handed the cell phone to Yemen. “Find out where this call came from. Get me a decoded voice print. And I want to know where the internet inquiry that used Golisinski’s contact information originated. Someone is dying to meet me.”

* * *

While Akmed was dispatching Yemen, two of Bottega’s behemoth white C-17 Globemaster III transports with an advanced team of forty men and crew of ten were in the final stages of offloading the motorcade portion of Bottega’s preparations for his Washington, D.C., visit in two days. The ballistic fleet of two Maybach 62Ss and four Mercedes-Benz G550s had already been parked in a hangar, leaving only the four BMW K 1600 GTLs and surveillance, communications, and tactical subsystems to be offloaded. At the far end of the hangar, the eight-man IT contingent was assembling and testing their base communications equipment. Four men drove off in one of the G550s to inspect, time and map the choke points, drop-offs and alternate routes of their intended course from the airport to the auction. Mailboxes were tagged for removal, manhole covers were

333 AVC tagged for welding or bolting and counter-sniper positions were established. Every inch of the path Bottega and Chance were to walk from curbside to their seats in the Willard Hotel’s auction hall was scrutinized, as was the route Bottega’s convoy would travel. Counter-sniper positions were set up across the avenue on the roof of the District Building and across 14th Street atop the National Theatre. The balance of that day and the following were spent perfecting the routes and verifying communications between Azure—which was the codename given to Bottega—and the Andrews base station, each of the vehicles, all ten sniper positions, and the rest of Bottega’s force.

* * *

At precisely 6:00 p.m. the evening before the auction, Bottega’s private A380 touched down at Andrews. In addition to his advance team and the secured corridor they had created for him, he was greeted by another person very important to him. “Hello, Uncle Carlos. I hope you had a pleasant flight.” “Sweet Chance. Always. And thank you for asking.” After looking around at the three massive aircraft, all the vehicles in the hangar and more staff and armed guards than she could count, she couldn’t help but ask. To be discreet, she leaned forward and whispered in Bottega’s ear. “Assuming you do make $50 million tomorrow night, will that even begin to cover the cost of your trip?” Bottega took Chance’s hand and placed it on his arm as the two walked toward his awaiting Maybach while he answered. “How can one put a price on the value of spending a day with you?” “You’re good. Very good.” An uncharacteristic smile came over Bottega at Chance’s compliment as they entered the black, heavily tinted armored limousine. A moment later, Bottega’s Maybach left Andrews Air Force Base along with the 4-car, 4-motorcycle convoy on its way to his private estate in Rock Creek Park.

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Were it not for the silhouette of the Washington Monument in the background, the Treasury building off to the side, and the lush green vegetation, one could have mistaken the festivities, crowd control and paparazzi for a Hollywood opening. Events of this importance were always held in either Sotheby’s New York or London headquarters. However, Bottega was the grandmaster of manipulation, never missing an opportunity. By insisting upon Washington, D.C.; despite the exorbitant additional costs, Bottega created even greater notoriety. Staging one of this century’s most important art event in the U.S. Capital paid an additional dividend, sending a message to his anonymous caller that Bottega figured out who he was. Police barricades protected the international celebrities, financiers and über-rich as their procession of limousines blanketed the entire 14- block length of Pennsylvania Avenue from the Capital Building to the most coveted venue in the art world that evening, the Willard Hotel. Each of the evening’s invitees had been handpicked according to their means, social status and love of art. Attendance was a mark of global status, making this one of the most elite and coveted gatherings in recent years. The crowds had been held back, creating a human corridor, over a thousand people deep on both sides of the red carpet, from the hotel entrance to the roadway. As the famous and infamous stepped out of their long, black, polished coaches they were momentarily inconvenienced by the corridor of enthusiastic spectators, the media and flashing cameras during their fifty-foot walk to the front doors of the Willard Hotel. After a while it became difficult to tell one billionaire, captain of industry, head of state, or third-world dictator from another. Yet, even in this sea of privilege and excess, there was a noticeable distinction at the arrival of one of the attendees as his extremely long car, chase cars and motorcycle entourage consumed the entire city block along the front of the hotel. As the convoy came to rest, 24-large men in black with earpieces

335 AVC attended the limousine. The stylish mercenaries lined the entryway making it almost impossible to see the limousine, let alone who was about to arrive. With his private force in place, the limousine’s door opened. Helmut Dakar, an imposing 300-pound Aryan, emerged. Almost handsome and perfectly groomed there was a disturbing quality about Dakar that sent chills through the onlooking crowds of spectators. Dakar was followed by his son Ryan and his proper assistant Edgar. Ryan could have been a runway model; young and smart in his tuxedo, while Edgar looked frighteningly like an aged poster boy for the Hitler Youth. As the three men passed each guard, that guard dropped into formation behind Dakar’s triad like perfectly choreographed storm troopers. By the time Dakar arrived at the entrance, there were only two of his 24-guards left in front of him. As they parted and Dakar entered the hotel, they dropped behind completing their perfectly choreographed sweep of the red carpet. The next limousine to arrive had none of the previous fanfare as General Akmed and Yemen stepped out. Inside, the Willard’s main ballroom was filling to capacity as the final invitees and their handlers arrived. With Dakar’s force spaced around the outer perimeter of the ballroom, Dakar, Ryan and Edgar continued toward the stage to view the Rubens. Dakar approached the painting, which was flanked on either side by a beautiful woman. While looking like game show models, the two striking ladies were skilled at preventing the likes of Dakar from getting too close. For those who wanted a closer view, two huge projection screens on either side of the hall displayed a video image of the painting in high definition. After looking up at one of the large projected images, Dakar’s comment could barely be understood through his thick German accent. “It is more spectacular than I had imagined.” “How wonderful,” responded Edgar, completely missing Dakar’s frustration. “For the seller, you moron.”

336 CARBON COPY This time Dakar’s point was evident, even to Edgar. “It will go for much more than the hundred million that people have been talking about.” Though annoyed, Dakar was so caught up with the painting’s beauty that he didn’t notice Chance and Bottega had entered the auction floor right behind him, enjoying everything he was saying. A smile of anticipation came over Chance at the prospect of the painting fetching the highest amount possible. She looked around the room at the haute monde gathered. Though she knew it would be inappropriate, if not tacky, Chance considered using her iPhone to videotape the historic gathering when suddenly she was struck by a strong feeling of guilt. On the one hand, the evening was a momentous victory, pulling-off the impossible. And she had done it on her own, without her grandfather’s help which brought her enormous satisfaction. On the other hand, it was all a fraud. As uniquely spectacular as her plan and the evening turned out to be, it was all a lie starting with a forged painting that set thousands of people and hundreds of millions of dollars in motion. The painting was a fake. Worse, it wasn’t even Chance’s fake. No, she had to lie to one of the most important people in her life to even get that. For a brief, euphoric moment Chance managed to suppress the guilt but it was fleeting. Although Marc’s Rubens was looking gorgeous on the stage, underneath lighting that emphasized the golds and yellows of the pastoral composition, there was no escaping Chance’s demon. The painting remained the unavoidable reminder of the unfortunate ethical limb that Chance had climbed out on. At its worse, Chance was haunted by thoughts of the death of who she was. ‘What happened to the hyper-honest, good girl? The student who less than a year ago expected a professor to have her expelled after she found one of the sources for her master’s thesis had been incorrectly attributed? How in the world did I get from agonizing over an error in a college thesis to extorting hundreds of millions of dollars and planning a murder in six months?’ “I’m doing this for Mitra,” Chance reminded herself. But in her heart, she knew it was more complicated than that. She knew she was doing it for herself as well, and that felt good.

337 AVC The auctioneer approached the podium alongside the painting and slammed his mallet. The familiar sound caused the crowd to obediently begin taking their seats. “Ladies and gentlemen, today’s program consists of a single item, a painting by the renowned 16th-century Flemish master Peter Paul Rubens.” Looking out across the herd of cultural carnivores, the auctioneer paused for a short round of applause. “To quote the Washington Post…” Flipping his reading glasses out of the breast pocket of his tuxedo, the auctioneer slid them onto the bridge of his nose and then began to read an excerpt from that morning’s newspaper. “‘It is a work of unimaginable beauty, capturing in totality the very essence of Rubens, and could very well be his definitive work. It is a priceless work of art by one of the greatest artists the world has ever known.’” After a momentary pause the auctioneer smiled, then said dryly. “It is indeed a work of unimaginable beauty which we can all see. Clearly done during the same period as his famous Garden of Love, with its peasant couple lingering before a rustic portico. In the background we can recognize several figures from mythology, including Pandora with her jar, the three Fates with a diaphanous veil, various olive and fruit trees in a garden clearly referencing paradise, and finally a self-portrait of the artist.” The auctioneer pointed to the corner of the painting where Rubens was punishing a fleeing Cupid with a rod as the auctioneer continued his interpretation. “The execution is precise and free-spirited. Clearly representative of an artist at the height of his power of both ornament and composition.” The auctioneer paused once again for dramatic effect before looking up at his rapt audience. “Undoubtedly, this miraculous find will come to be considered one of Rubens’s definitive works. So... without further delay, let’s correct the Post article’s inaccuracy as we dispel the notion of priceless.” There was a subtle drone of appreciation from the crowd as the auctioneer tapped his mallet and the starched, proper gentleman began what promised to be one of the most important auctions in recent history.

338 CARBON COPY “The bidding will begin at 10-million.” A white paddle with the number 7884 rose from the middle of the room, the prominent Russian politician capturing everyone’s attention. Though it was nothing more than a token gesture, it signaled the beginning of the race to a much richer finish line. “Thank you. I have ten million. Do I hear 20?” A gentleman from Seattle in the front row raised his paddle, number 7638. “I have 20 from the gentlemen. Do I hear 50?” A well-known real estate tycoon from New York joined the bidding. “I have fifty million. Do I hear seventy-five?” As Chance looked over in the direction of the gentleman who had just placed the $50 million bid, something caught her attention, over his shoulder in the distance. After another moment of focus, a chill shot through Chance’s entire body. It was Mitra’s murderer, staring directly at her. Chance was so shocked that she jumped, just enough for Bottega to feel her movement and comment. “It’s too early to get excited. Fifty million isn’t anywhere near the final bid.” “No. Over there, up against the wall. The man with the eye patch. He’s the one who killed Mitra. The one I thought would have contacted you.” Bottega was slow to respond, but when he saw the man she was referring to, his eyes turned cold. While he glared at Akmed, he began his query of Chance. “General Akmed is the man who you believe murdered your friend?” “You know that guy?” “I know ‘that guy.’” She picked up on his sarcasm but was so overcome with excitement that she continued down her own path. “He’s here. This is terrific.” “Terrific?” “Yes, terrific. My plan worked.” “Your plan worked?” “Flawlessly. I’m here and that General piece of crap is here. I’d say my plan was very successful.”

339 AVC “Sweet Chance. Let me bring some perspective to your plan.” Bottega broke his stare at Akmed and turned to face Chance as he continued. “Think of it this way. You are a very small puppy, annoyed at a roaring sound. So you take off running after it. Finally—you catch up to it, open your mouth as wide as possible then bite down on it. And at that moment, you are very pleased with yourself. Much like you are right now. “Unfortunately, the roar was from an extremely large, no, huge voracious wolf. He hasn’t eaten for days. And you are about to become an appetizer.” Bottega’s second reality check started to reel Chance in as she looked back at Akmed while answering Bottega. “Please tell me you’re a meaner wolf than he is.” “Let’s hope, for both of our sakes.” As Bottega looked back at Akmed, he raised his hand to his chest, which prompted Bottega’s chief lieutenant, Roberto, to come alongside Bottega then bend down for instructions. At the same time, Bottega watched as Akmed provided Yemen his instructions. After Yemen and Roberto left with their orders, Akmed gave Bottega a subtle nod, which made it clear to both men that their game had started. The auctioneer prodded the attendees, commanding everyone’s attention. “No 310 million?” Despite the gravity of their situation, the amount even snapped Chance, Bottega and Akmed back to the moment. Chance shifted, watching the auctioneer pause before pointing back to Dakar in the third row. “I have 300 million.” There was another momentary pause in the tense, high-stakes event that pitted Dakar and an anonymous Asian gentleman, paddle number 5426, as the final two combatants in this intense 6-minute contest. “Three hundred million, going once.” Another momentary pause to allow Dakar the time to continue his inner struggle. “Three hundred million, twice.”

340 CARBON COPY A final pause followed by a definitive slamming of the mallet moved Dakar and the rest of the attendees from anxiety to anguish. “Sold to the gentleman in the back row for $300 million. Congratulations, sir.” The entire ballroom came to its feet in an obligatory applause, united in the private desire that it was they who were taking home the painting. Chance’s response was genuine as she jumped into the air and hugged Bottega with $300 million’s worth of excitement and enthusiasm. Bottega, on the other hand, viewed the moment quite differently. With $300 million being barely enough to get his attention and a man like General Akmed positioned to harm him, Bottega was in a much soberer state of mind. “Now all we have to do is stay alive long enough to deposit the check.” Chance looked deep in Bottega’s eyes, searching for the answers to questions she knew she couldn’t ask. For all her newfound independence and business acumen, she knew she wasn’t a player in Bottega’s world— which Akmed clearly was. And though she was squarely in the middle of the conflict, she was completely at their mercy. Ironically, despite the fact that she had started it all, she had no control over its outcome. So, with a tone as sincere as she could manage, she spoke from her heart. “Do you have any idea how grateful I am to have you in my life?” And for one of the few times in Bottega’s life, he found himself speechless—as his look of sympathy attested.

* * *

While riding camels along the shoreline of a private estate on the Persian Gulf, Gaston Zulle was handed a cell phone. “Sorry sir, Dakar didn’t win the painting. A man named Wang bought it for 300 million.” Zulle sighed. “Find this Mr. Wang and do whatever it takes.” Zulle tossed the cell phone back to his aide. “Then we will find out if it’s authentic.”

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The short-lived swell of applause died down as the attendees left the Willard’s ballroom and moved to an adjoining banquet room that had been elaborately outfitted for the after-party. Despite the elegant evening and its illustrious guests, Dakar tossed his program over his shoulder and onto the floor as though his soccer team had just lost a practice match. His disappointment at not having won the auction was obvious. “Verdammte Scheisse.” Though he knew better, Edgar stepped in it again. “Sir, it’s not like you don’t already have two Rubens.” Edgar’s attempt at consolation only intensified Dakar’s displeasure. “You pillock. I wanted that one.” And, once again, Edgar was reduced to irrelevant. As the slight Asian man in a smart three-piece suit who had won the auction approached the painting, the remaining attendees congratulated him on his acquisition with a final applause. All the while, Dakar was staring intently at Chance until the applause ended and she quietly left the auction floor, holding onto Bottega’s arm. “I would love to know where they got that painting.” Overhearing Dakar’s comment, Akmed, who was standing nearby, turned to him and replied cryptically. “That information should be available sooner than you might think.” Akmed felt an adrenaline rush. This was the stuff he lived for, the opportunity to butt heads with a man the likes of Bottega. From the moment Bottega gave his lieutenant instructions during the auction, everyone on Bottega’s team was on high alert and aware Akmed would make his move between the hotel and the hangar. With snipers on strategic rooftops along the 12.64-mile route, men at every intersection, and the finest German ballistic engineering surrounding them, Bottega’s lieutenant was confident about his preparations.

342 CARBON COPY As an added precaution, Bottega’s force escorted him and Chance to the Willard’s subterranean garage. The garage had been cleared of all personnel, both hotel employees and guests, for the time it took Bottega and Chance to enter the rear escort SUV, leaving both Maybachs as decoys. When the last of Bottega’s four-car, four-motorcycle convoy exited the garage, a young man who had hidden in a parked car with a clear view of Bottega’s precautions placed a call on his cell phone. “The old man and girl are in the rear chase SUV, license AZU-034.” Chance breathed a sigh of relief now that she was out of the building and out of sight of that one-eyed monster. Her conscience began to clear once she got away from the painting and the throng of auction-goers they had hoodwinked—not to mention the entire art world. ‘What did it matter?’ she asked herself. ‘Everybody had a good night out. Somebody very wealthy won the auction and was obviously very pleased with himself. No harm, no foul.’ But Bottega was uneasy. Coming up on two miles, he saw the South Capitol Street Bridge ahead. It made sense. Akmed wouldn’t try anything inside the Capitol. It was too restrictive an area, with limited options for getting away afterwards. But across the Anacostia River was a completely different profile. There were 10-miles of ghettos, surface streets and open space on the Maryland side—perfect conditions for an ambush and escape. Just as Bottega’s convoy was about to drive onto the South Capitol Bridge, they were joined by a fully battle-ready Apache helicopter. The noise of the chopper startled a pair of large, beautiful birds from their perches in a red maple tree below the bridge on Kingman Island. The birds were snowy egrets, with white bodies and long skinny black legs, yellow feet and yellow eyes. Through those yellow eyes the birds looked up at the chopper and moved away from the bridge toward an elm tree on the other side of the island. But then, as though there was something even more frightening than the helicopter approaching in the water, the birds screeched. It was a large black shape; about the size of an 18-wheeler, lurking just beneath the surface of the river. Awwwwk! screeched the egrets in warning. Soon several more birds— both egrets and larger herons—rose from the shrubbery and deserted the island at the sight of the approaching submersible.

343 AVC Seeing the gunmetal grey helicopter with US military markings hovering at the far side of the bridge, awaiting the convoy, was a comforting sight as Bottega commented to his lieutenant. “Nice touch, Roberto.” “Compliments of the President.” “And on such short notice.” Knowing that the President’s lineage dated back to The Monastery gave Roberto a sound perspective on Bottega’s comment as they drove onto the bridge with an even greater sense of security. As their convoy entered the center span of the bridge a thunderous blast shook the two men’s sense of security and surrounding neighborhood to their foundation.

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Leeshawn Sanderson and his son Kai had just attended a soccer game at RFK Stadium, on the other side of the bridge. It had been a disappointing loss for the DC United against league champs LA Galaxy. But Dad and son had a great time and were heading back to their home south of the city. They were just pulling of the bridge traveling in the opposite direction of the convoy when the blast occurred shaking their Buick Regal violently. “Daddy!” shouted Kai. “What happened?” “I don’t know.” There was a ten-foot fence spanning the approach to the bridge. Leeshawn pulled his car as close to the fence as possible, told his son to stay in the car, then stepped out. What he saw was like something from a movie or a war. “What the—” A massive dense white fog had enveloped the entire bridge, making it impossible to see what was happening. Above the fog Leeshawn could see a helicopter falling from the sky. “I gotta get this.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out his smart phone, and started filming the chaos.

* * *

The Apache lost all systems, it began to auto-rotate and drop the short distance to the roadway. Despite all its systems being off-line, and its heavy landing, the Apache’s pilot and copilot were operational. Flipping down their shields, both men began a thermal sweep through the dense fog. “AZURE Base, this is SKYEYE-1. We have a situation. I repeat. We have a situation on the South Capitol Street Bridge. All ten escort vehicles have been immobilized and there is no sign of AZURE-1. I repeat, there is no sign of AZURE-1.”

345 AVC Two of Bottega’s team emerged from the fog. Their fine Italian suits covered by grey ash, looking like a pair of bizarre zombies. They ran straight for the helicopter while both the pilot and copilot jumped out of the Apache to join them. “What happened?” the pilot screamed. “I don’t know. All our systems are knocked out, apparently by an EMP strike.” “That would explain our bird dropping out of the air. But where is AZURE-1?” “What?” Shocked having expected to find AZURE-1 safe off the bridge, the soldiers turned and bolted headlong and blind, back into the fog. The pilot and copilot were on loan from the US government and didn’t share the soldiers’ sense of loyalty. But they did have duty and technology on their side. Equipped with thermal vision helmets, they were able to identify heat signatures through the dense fog. That allowed them to navigate the wreckage and debris. First, they noticed the four downed motorcycles, handlebars twisted, windscreens shattered, lying flat on the asphalt. Then they saw three of the four stranded escort vehicles and both Maybachs, all of them dented, with wheels bent, fenders falling off and a light smoke coming from inside the vehicles. There was a dozen or more men trying to make their way to where Bottega’s SUV should have been. Each time one of the men arrived at the anticipated location of Bottega’s SUV, they disappeared, often accompanied by a loud scream. One by one, each of Bottega’s soldiers made a valiant though futile effort to assist. And, one by one, the pilot and copilot watched helplessly as the men’s heat signatures disappeared along with their screams. As the pilot, co-pilot and two more of Bottega’s soldiers neared the mysterious zone, the pilot noticed a thermal change in the signature of the bridge. The zone appeared to be a cold, large rectangular area, thermally different from the rest of the bridge. “Stop! Don’t move any further.” The pilot yelled then got down on his hands and knees and began crawling closer to the thermal anomaly. When he arrived, the pilot reached

346 CARBON COPY out to touch it, only to find there was nothing there. Literally, nothing. The thermal anomaly turned out to be a large section of the bridge that had been blown away, causing the cooler air off the river to produce the variation in the thermal image. “It’s a hole. The men have been walking off the edge. All of them, along with AZURE-1, must be in the river. We need to get off this bridge and get divers in the river right away.” By the time the pilot and copilot made their way out of the fog to the other side of the bridge, emergency equipment had already started arriving, by land and on the river. A large battalion of men split up into three groups. The first group consisted of divers who went straight into the water looking for any sign of AZURE-1 or Bottega’s soldiers. The second group manned small crafts that began sweeping the surface in an ever-widening set of circles. The third climbed under the bridge’s span and along its superstructure, disabling the devices that had been planted there amid the graffiti and weeds and that were generating the dense, blinding fog. Arriving D.C. police officers instructed Leeshawn Sanders to put his smart phone away, stop filming, get in his car and get off the bridge as fast as he could, claiming the entire bridge could collapse at any minute. “Yes, sir.” But as the officers ran toward the chaos and fog, Sanders continued filming. Later that night, Sanders got over 1,300,000 hits on YouTube for his eyewitness video of the strange explosion on the Capitol Street Bridge. Bottega’s soldiers who had fallen through the void in the bridge either managed to swim ashore to the island or hoist themselves into the small boats as they came alongside. All but two motorcycle guards that hadn’t been accounted for. Within minutes the first divers were reporting back to the field station that had been set up on the riverbank. Given the narrow channel and weak current, it didn’t make sense. There was nothing there. AZURE-1 had disappeared. Another of Bottega’s communications specialists at Andrews COM center was monitoring a second Apache helicopter’s progress.

347 AVC “SKYEYE-2, this is BASE. Waypoint, south from the South Capitol Street Bridge, north to the Key Bridge. Over.” “BASE, Roger that. SKYEYE-2, Over.” At the same time, Navy SEALs assisted Bottega’s forces in a cordoned off area extending from the South Capitol Street Bridge, along both banks of the Anacostia River to its mouth into the Potomac. A dozen small craft with SEAL Team divers combed every inch of the bottom of the river for any sign of Bottega’s SUV, its occupants, or the unexpected. Despite the intense coordinated effort, no one within Bottega’s force or the US military had any idea of what had happened to Bottega’s SUV, its occupants or the two motorcycle guards.

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The force of the blast almost knocked Chance out. Everything went dark as the bottom fell out from underneath the SUV and it plummeted toward the murky depths with her seatbelt tearing at her shoulder. In that suspended moment in time, as they fell and Chance’s body surged with adrenaline, her mind became very clear. She understood that she was about to die. “I’m sorry,” she said in her heart, first to Mitra. For this meant that she had failed in her mission to avenge her dear friend’s murder. “I’m sorry,” she said next, to her mother and grandfather. For she understood it was her disobedience that had caused this catastrophe. "I'm sorry!" Chance screamed out to Bottega as she tried to reach for his arm. But the g-force as Bottega's SUV fell paralyzed her further frustrating her need to apologize. For t was her rash scheme that involved her uncle in this mess. Still, even in the darkness, she thought she could see her uncle’s eyes blazing at her with a passion that could only be described as murderous rage. Then, a splash. The SUV hit the water and she was violently slammed back into her seat. At first it had seemed like some kind of crazy dream. After hearing the SUV hit the water, Chance closed her eyes, laid her head back and gave up all hope. But then she felt Bottega’s firm hand on the back of her neck. And though all she could see was the darkness of the windshield, the firmness of his grip brought her strength. Water gurgled all around them, but not into the vehicle. Still, it was clear that they were sinking. Fast. “You mean, your car doesn’t float?” “Actually—it does. Once we hit the bottom or 25-feet, we will start floating to the top.” There was a short pause before Bottega completed his thought. “In the meantime, it is also airtight.” Bottega turned his attention to his lieutenant. “How much air do we have, Roberto?”

349 AVC “Approximately 3-hours’ worth, sir.” “Well, that should be plenty of time for someone to locate us,” said Bottega. What Bottega didn’t realize at that time was that somebody had already found them. Or something. It was enormous, and black, maybe about the size of the Goodyear blimp, Chance thought, as she saw its lights approaching in the window. “We’re being rescued.” Chance breathed a sigh of relief as the lights grew closer. “Not by anyone I know.” Bottega paused to consider what was approaching before completing his thought. “This is no rescue.,” quipped Bottega. A pair of massive underwater doors opened above Bottega. The massive craft settled down around the SUV, closed its doors then left the area. “Uncle Carlos.” “Sí.” “What just happened?” “Do you recall the story of Jonah?” “I do.” “Well then- It appears we’ve been swallowed by a whale. A very unique whale.”

* * *

After swallowing Bottega’s SUV, the craft ran quiet and swift under the blackened surface of the Potomac with a stealth that was aided by the night’s moonless sky. 45-minutes later the purpose-built submarine had traveled 25-miles down the Potomac River, to its first waypoint. As the sub passed under the 301 Bridge, it surfaced for less than a minute to take on two men from a small craft awaiting its arrival. Once Akmed and Yemen were onboard, the stealth black tube re-submerged and continued on its course, south to the Chesapeake Bay. The submarine captain’s orders were to deliver General Akmed, Bottega,

350 CARBON COPY and Chance to a private airfield on Maryland’s Eastern Shore for swift transport back to the Middle East. And regardless of circumstances, at least Bottega and Chance were to be delivered alive and, if possible, unharmed. The prime minister’s directive was emphatic and indifferent to Akmed or Yemen’s safety. After cutting through the mouth of the Potomac River, the submarine made its way, undetected, into the Chesapeake Bay’s shipping channel before turning south on a heading for the Atlantic Ocean. With all of the electronics of Bottega’s SUV disabled, his driver and team were unable to move the vehicle or engage any of its automated tactical systems. Whatever had taken out those systems did the same to his team’s personal cell phones and communicators. The pitch-black, rocking conditions of the chamber inside the submarine’s belly created an eerie, disorienting feeling that made everything short of talking impossible. Bottega and Chance were handed headsets, which allowed them to see through the darkness. But even those supplied little useful information. All there appeared to be outside their vehicle was a cylindrical vault surrounding them. And with no way of knowing if the chamber’s air was contaminated, Bottega, Chance and the other members of Bottega’s team continued breathing through the SUV’s internal air purification system. Bottega and his men appeared to be handling the situation well, Chance was not. Chance hadn’t lived through Bottega’s lifetime of close calls and brushes with death. Aside from that fateful night of Mitra’s murder, Chance had never even experienced fear. Without a glib attitude to protect her, she was left with despair and panic, two unfriendly intruders that tore at her soul while keeping her stomach so upset that she felt as though she would throw-up at any moment. Chance’s emotions were out of control. In the middle of her despair and panic she was a feeling a strong sense of elation. Chance was delighted, of course, to have survived, even if she was trapped like a biblical character. But her despair and panic were much stronger, pushing aside her feelings of happiness by reminding her that it was all her fault. Then the heavy guilt returned causing Chance to feel like she was going to explode. And though

351 AVC she tried her best to cope, after almost 2-hours of brutal emotional turmoil she broke. “How long can this go on?!?” As if in direct response to Chance’s question, the hours of waiting and wondering came to an abrupt end as the chamber lit up. Despite the SUV’s tinted windows, the intense level of light blinded everyone in Bottega’s vehicle. After a few moments it took for their eyes to adjust, everyone in the SUV focused on the chamber that had imprisoned them, looking for answers. But there were none. Other than two of Bottega’s motorcycle guards lying still on the floor just ahead of the SUV, the chamber was void of any information. The first communication was a voice that Chance had come to know and hate. Akmed was talking to them over a speaker system inside the chamber. “So—you’re the rude, disrespectful caller. Had I known you were so lovely, I would have looked forward to your calls. “But now—onto more important matters. Good evening, Mr. Bottega. Congratulations on your success at the auction. And I appreciate your dropping in. Now that we’ve dispensed with the pleasantries, please remain comfortable in your SUV for the duration of our journey as the air in the chamber is about to become very unfriendly. Breathing it causes almost instant death.” Gas began flooded the chamber from a dozen or more valves surrounding the SUV. Seeing one of the men inside the SUV hand Bottega a gas mask, Akmed scolded them. “The air inside the chamber is an interesting adaptation of hydrogen chloride. Even if it isn’t inhaled, it attacks then eats through flesh, causing a very painful death in a matter of minutes.” Seeing the skin dissolving off the necks and wrists of his downed motorcycle guards, Bottega handed the gas mask back to his soldier while Akmed continued. “Since your vehicle responded to its time under water, I trust its airtight interior will keep you safe.” Akmed’s announcement ended and the chamber lights extinguished simultaneously.

352 CARBON COPY “He’s not a very nice man.” Bottega’s dry humor was a consoling whisper in the darkness. “That was Akmed!” Roberto commented on Chance’s inexplicable amazement. “Surprised?” After a few moments of silence, Bottega’s voice wafted through the darkness for all to hear, though it was intended for his first lieutenant. “Roberto. I think it’s time to be a scorpion.” “Regardless of how it works out, may I say I’ve always admired your style and it has been a privilege working for you?” “You may.” “Are you ready?” “As ready as I will ever be.” As Chance considered what she had just heard, her thoughts became audible. “This can’t be good.” “Miss Chance, make certain your seatbelt is on and snug.” Roberto’s instructions and the sounds of seatbelts being engaged and tightened only served to heighten Chance’s anxiety. There was a trigger sound followed by a rush of gas as the SUV’s manual systems were activated. After another four clicking sounds, Roberto flipped open two protective covers on a console. Then Roberto provided his instructions in a calm tone that would have been comforting were it not for the message. “Brace yourselves. Three, two, one—” Chance had the final word. “I knew it.” Roberto engaged two spring-loaded triggers. What followed was over in less than two seconds. But for Chance, it seemed as though time stopped. The first thing Chance noticed was a flash of light and flames that ignited the entire inside of the chamber. The SUV shook violently as all four walls of the chamber were struck by missiles from Bottega’s vehicle, which caused the submarine to explode outwardly. At the same time, the pressure blew the bay doors open, instantly flooding the entire chamber as the submarine was ripped in two. For a moment there was enough light

353 AVC from the blast for Chance to see the submarine’s bow and stern sections drifting away from the SUV, off into the depths of the shipping channel. Machinery and electronic cables were strewn from its interior like disemboweled intestines sinking off into the water depths. Chance was delighted and horrified at the utter destruction, confident no one could have survived the devastation— even the one-eyed beast. The sealed construction of Bottega’s SUV prevented any water from entering its interior. And despite the enormous weight of the ballistic vehicle, it was designed so that it would float to the top with its windows just above the water’s surface. Outside the shielded environment of the submarine’s chamber, the SUV’s emergency beacon provided Bottega’s BASE at Andrews its first signal since AZURE-1’s disappearance. “BASE, this is SKYEYE-2. AZURE-1’s coordinates are just south of the mouth of the Potomac River into the middle of the Chesapeake Bay. Please confirm we are searching for a motor vehicle. SKYEYE-2, over.” “SKYEYE-2 from BASE. Affirmative. Proceed immediately to designated coordinates to intercept AZURE-1. BASE, over.” SKYEYE-2 was approximately 30-nautical miles from the coordinates. At 160 knots, the Apache was hovering over Bottega’s partially submerged vehicle in less than 15-minutes. With the helicopter’s spotlights, winches and crew working at peak, they were able to offload the five passengers through the SUV’s sunroof and into its aft compartment in less than 10-minutes. It was the first time in hours that Chance breathed easy. Even being crouched in the loud cold helicopter, wrapped in a coarse military blanket seemed wonderful as Chance looked off at the night sky. The cloud cover that blanketed the area earlier in the evening moved out allowing the moon and stars to light up the sky. And beneath it all, downtown Washington, D.C., the Potomac River and the Washington Monument was a radiant, welcoming sight. “My God,” she exclaimed. “Gorgeous! I never thought I’d see that again.” “BASE this is SKYEYE-2. AZURE is safe and onboard. Returning to BASE. Over.”

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Early the next morning, somewhere over the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, Bottega and Chance rose to greet the new day. Chance was silent and sullen over pastries and coffee causing Bottega concern. “What’s wrong?” “What’s not wrong? I’ve gotten people killed. I almost got you killed. I’ve been so irresponsible and I don’t know how to explain my behavior, I just—” She began weeping. Bottega took her hand. “Stop!” Bottega was firm. “You have chosen this path and you don’t get off that easy.” “What do you mean?” Chance looked up at him through tears. “You know exactly what I mean. You are a Catel. Maybe even tougher and crazier than your grandfather. And you will probably outdo even what Arturo could have accomplished in this… business when you are done.” “I don’t want to be in this…business, as you call it,” Chance’s attempt at protest failed. “It is too late for that.” Bottega looked at Chance with a penetrating gaze. In that moment Chance began to understand that she had wanted the control all along. And that everything she had been doing, Chicago, art school, all of it, started feeling like some sort of charade. But this was the real Chance, here in a global titan’s private jet, soaring over the ocean and planning her next move. “There’s no going back now, mi camarada.” Camarada. The sentiment was at once endearing and chilling. That was the first time Bottega had ever referred to Chance as an equal and it felt good.

* * *

355 AVC After breakfast, Chance was ready to ask the question that had been on her mind for hours. “Tell me about the scorpion.” “Ah—the scorpion. It is a good life lesson.” Bottega pressed a call button. An attendant entered the room carrying a fresh espresso for Bottega, Chance’s latté and a plate of demi pastries in preparation for his story. After ignoring the pastries, Bottega took a sip of his espresso then began. “One day a scorpion was on his way through the forest and came upon a lake. Seeing the lake was too large to walk around and that a turtle that was about to swim across, the scorpion asked for a ride across the lake on the turtle's back. “The turtle said, ‘No,’ to which the scorpion responded, ‘Why not?’ “After backing slightly away, in order to keep a safe distance, the turtle answered the scorpion, ‘Because, if I let you onto my shell you’ll sting me in the back of my neck and kill me.’ “‘Nonsense,’ the scorpion replied. ‘If I sting you and you sink, we would both die.’ “The turtle considered the scorpion’s logic for a moment and decided it made good sense, so he agreed. On their way across the lake the turtle and the scorpion had a pleasant conversation and appeared to be striking up a bit of a friendship. Then, when the turtle and the scorpion were about half way across the lake, the scorpion stung the turtle in the back of his neck. “Bewildered, if not horrified, the turtle looked around at the scorpion and with his final breath asked, ‘Why?! Don’t you realize we are both going to die?’ “The scorpion answered just as the two sank into the river, ‘Yes, I know. But it’s my nature.’” Chance considered Bottega’s story for a moment before continuing her query.

356 CARBON COPY “Great story and I understand its message. But how does it apply to our little tryst with the general?” “After kidnapping us, there was no way Akmed was going to let us go. Whatever he wanted, once he got it—and he would have—we would have been killed. It is both his character and the rules by which men like him live. “Realizing what was in store for us, I preferred to gamble on fate.” “What gamble? Blowing Akmed’s ship up seemed like a no brainer. What did you have to lose?” “All of our lives.” “How?” “I had no way of knowing what would happen when Roberto fired AZURE-1’s cannons. The missiles were intended to be shot at a target some distance away from the vehicle, not a few meters. And even though our vehicle is fully armored, it could have imploded from the percussion. Also, the sub could have had munitions on it that could have detonated under the impact, killing us all in the process. The truth is, we are extremely fortunate to have survived.” “I am so happy we didn’t have this conversation in the SUV before you rolled the proverbial dice.” Chance and Bottega continued their discussions and the celebration of their successful auction up until the pilot’s announcement. “Please fasten your seatbelts.” Chance was caught by surprise. “Are we there already?” Bottega’s personal A380 had taken a broad sweep over the Atlantic on its way back to his South American compound. The massive jumbo jet was on its final decent to the De Gaulle airport, touching down just long enough to have given Chance a ride home. Between their four-hour nap, breakfast, and conversation, the eight- hour flight seemed more like two. In addition, a great deal had changed over the past 24-hours which kept Bottega and Chance's minds occupied in thought rather than the flight. For Bottega it was a relief knowing the threat to Chance had been mitigated if not completely removed with Akmed’s death. And that the technology was still being kept out of the hands of his opposition.

357 AVC For Chance it was the closing of one of the most significant chapters in her life—her best friend’s murder had been avenged. Then there was a strange fascination with the concept of never having worked a day in her life and earning $200 million her first and only day on the job. That was exhilarating.

* * * Touching down for a brief landing in Paris, Bottega's massive personal transport taxied up alongside an awaiting black town car. After hugging Bottega, kissing him on both cheeks and giving him the sincerest, "Thank You" she had ever offered, Chance ran down the jetway and into her awaiting car. Too wired to catch up on her sleep, Chance was running on pure adrenaline when her driver asked if she wanted to be taken home. “No. Thank you. Please take me to numéro un, rue de Petite.” Like the cabby the first time Chance heard Marc’s address, her chauffer had no idea where it was, so he asked again. “Où?” This time Chance provided the necessary details. “Numéro un, rue—de—Petite, entre Laizer et Pontu.” “Augh.” Confident, he exited the airport and drove straight to Marc’s apartment. As usual, Chance found the apartment unlocked. Peeking around the opening to his studio, she found Marc immersed in another restoration. Quietly walking up behind him, she whispered in his ear. “What’s a girl gotta do to get some lovin’?”

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Stone was enjoying an early morning walk along the beach of his Hampton estate. He was confident he had figured out who the thirteenth member was, established some degree of relationship, and may have even insulated himself from the thirteenth member’s wrath. Having read the news of Bottega's successful actions in the morning paper but uncertain what time zone Bottega was in at that moment, Stone took his cell phone from his pocket then considered whether or not to place the call. A bit surprised when his phone rang, David was struck by a curious sense of relief at the sight of Bottega’s number as the incoming call. “Good morning.” “Hello, David. Have you read the morning paper?” “I have, and I was just about to call and congratulate you on your successful auction, as well as the balance of the evening.” “Thank you.” There was a predictable silence as both men prepared for their inevitable introductions. It was David who led. “How long have you known?” “I knew it had to be one of The Twelve from the first time you called. It would have taken one of you to be able to do that. But it wasn’t until your comment about my having, ‘one more time at bat’ that I realized it had to be the American.” “I see. Then you know why.” “Once I knew it was you, the reason was obvious. It must be difficult standing by and watching Zulle marginalize your country while he kills off your countrymen.” “Very difficult.” “I don’t suppose you would be willing to tell me what the pathetic relic has planned that is so horrific that you are willing to risk the Group’s wrath and the Cup?” “Perhaps another time.”

359 AVC There was an awkward pause in their otherwise cordial conversation before it dawned on Stone. “That’s why you held the auction in D.C.” “Out of respect.” “Nice touch.” David mused upon Bottega’s unexpected choice of words. “Respect. That can be a good thing. I suggest it would be the best way for us to proceed.” “To where?” “You’re asking me?” “It appears things are about to get interesting.” “It would take someone like you to find what is about to happen to be interesting.” There was another momentary silence while Stone searched for the proper sentiment. “One thing is for certain.” “Which is?” “I selected the right champion. Good luck, my friend. The lives of five billion innocents and the fate of the next thousand years is in your hands.” “No pressure there.” Stone placed his cell phone back in his pocket as he continued his morning walk with a heavy heart given the fate of the United States was still at risk. Hearing the dial tone, Bottega began his assessment. Stone believed Bottega was in control of the situation, specifically Nasser’s technology. And whomever Bottega was up against also believed Bottega had control of the technology and they were going to continue to do whatever it took to neutralize him. And while Bottega wasn’t pleased with the situation, it did keep Chance safe for the time being, which was important to him.

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Fleming was sitting in the Capital Grille having his morning coffee and cussing under his breath as he answered an incoming call on his cell phone. “Fleming.” “Good morning, Cowboy. Checking to see if you’ve read the morning paper.” “Just finished it.” “Then I hope there’s no one in earshot.” “You know me too well.” “I’ll get over it.” There was a pause with neither of them certain exactly where to go next, so Operator 38 took the lead. “It looks like you were right about the girl all along.” “A lot of good that’s doing me here inside the Beltway.” “Then you better go to Paris.” “Now you’re just being cruel.” “No, I’m not. “What do you suggest, a very long swim? Because no one is going to let me near an airport.” “See, that’s where you’re wrong, Cowboy. Now the director wants his other dog with him in Paris. And since you’re on the bottom of his totem pole, you’re the lackey who has to bring it to him.” “There’s no way anyone is going to fall for that crap a second time.” “Wrong again. Evidently you never told the director about your little dog ruse the first time you pulled it off. So everyone at Andrews thinks he has one. And that’s what the paperwork I’m about to send over to Andrews says. I suggest you get a dog, make sure it’s as cute as the last one, and get to Andrews right away. There’s a G650 fueled, crewed, cleared and waiting for you.” “I can’t believe you let me call you a moron.” “You’ll get over that one.”

361 AVC * * *

After two wonderful hours, Chance emerged from the bedroom aglow then went to the kitchen to put together lunch for the two of them. Finding little more than stale bread and cheeses with the wrong color mold, she called out to Marc. “Throw your clothes on. It’s time we do some serious grocery shopping.” It was just before noon by the time Chance and Marc made it to the open-air market. It was an inviting collection of produce, meat and bakery vendors that set-up every morning along the Seine where they shopped for provisions. Marc wore his signature old Doors T-shirt, tattered jeans and flipflops while Chance looked like she just stepped off a runway—cork- wedged platforms, short-shorts with an apricot see-through chiffon blouse and a mane that turned heads. The spring air, smell of fresh-baked bread, and their deep feelings for one another transformed the market into a magical place that morning. Simple things, like the feel of holding hands or the smell of fresh-cut flowers at the merchant’s stand took on a wonderful new meaning. Along the way they paused to watch a small child trying to take the wrapper off a popsicle when the headlines from the morning newspaper at a roadside stand caught Marc’s attention and he casually began reading aloud to Chance. “Check this out, Rubens sells for $300 million. Wow. Somebody’s celebrating today.” Then Marc saw a picture of the painting under the headlines— his painting. In an instant, the entire morning turned tragic. Shocked and agitated, Marc grabbed the newspaper from the stack for a closer look. “And it’s not me. What the...” Seeing Marc’s Rubens in the paper and his reaction forced Chance to have the conversation that she had been dreading. “What’s your problem?” “What’s my problem? OH...NOTHING. My $25,000 painting just sold for THREE HUNDRED MILLION…of which I got NOTH…ING. Why should I have a problem?”

362 CARBON COPY “No reason I can think of. You agreed to 25,000 and you were paid 35,000. Considering the painting took less than a week to complete and you didn’t have to be dead five centuries for someone to want to buy it, I’d say you did pretty darn good. A whole lot better than Rubens would have made out for the same painting.” Marc was furious. He began stomping around in a random zigzag pattern as he struggled with the concept, trying to process it all…even see it her way. But things weren’t adding up. “Sotheby’s wouldn’t accept a painting and no one would pay that amount without it being tested, especially an unknown work.” Running his hands through his hair, Marc was bewildered. “No way. It just couldn’t happen.” By now he had made enough of a scene that people were starting to take note of them. Unfortunately, just as Chance was about to start calming him down, the answer he was searching for came to him. “The supplies.” Another moment to confirm his suspicions and he was on point and totally out of control. “That’s it. You figured a way around carbon dating.” The implications had him as amazed as he was pissed off. And the fact he put it all together that fast had Chance at a loss while he continued to vent. “I’ll—be—damned.” She had to act quickly and decisively before someone paying attention to them started understanding what they were talking about. “That’s exactly what you’ll be if you keep going on like this.” Marc became even more shocked at her comment. “Are you threatening me?” While she didn’t mean it to sound like a threat, Marc had her frazzled, making a bad situation even worse. Now she needed to do damage control as well as crowd control, and she needed to do it right away. So she concentrated on calming herself down, which was her only hope for reeling him in. “I’m merely pointing out the obvious.”

363 AVC Chance took Marc’s arm, leaned into him and started walking in hopes of keeping the rest of their conversation as private as possible. “You said it yourself. The painting sold for $300 million. Do you have any idea the kind of sharks that swim in that pond?” It was working. Chance saw Marc adjusting to the concept. “Think what they’d do if they knew you were involved, let alone one of the only people who could bring the painting’s authenticity into question.” “Son of a bitch.” In hindsight, she should have stopped there. “Anyway, what would you say? You just happened to have some old canvases and paints lying around, a little time on your hands, so you decided to whip up a masterpiece. Then you sold the painting to one of the wealthiest, most powerful men in the world who, incidentally, you don’t even know. And you did it all telepathically, because there’s no record of the sale, communications or shipment. Not to mention, you didn’t pay your taxes. Think about it.” Though Chance’s explanation drove her point home, it also pushed Marc over the edge, putting him in an even worse place than he was before. It caused him to crumble onto a park bench with his head in his hands. “I’ve been so played.” Standing alongside him, Chance began stroking Marc’s hair as she thought through their dilemma. The notion that she had used him wouldn’t have bothered her a few months ago. But now, in light of her deep feelings for him, it pained her deeply to find herself in that position. So she tried to put her best spin on a bad situation. “Nothing of the sort. You’re a wonderful artist, in Paris, making a good living. Your $100,000 account isn’t enough to draw attention, but more than enough to keep you comfortable while you develop a following of your own. I’d say it’s a win-win.” Her explanation managed to calm Marc a bit, but fell way short of bringing the matter to an end or even beginning a reconciliation. “When did it start, at les Bains?”

364 CARBON COPY “What does it matter?” “Oh, and by the way, that little story you told me about your father being a doctor and dying in a plane crash. I hope you don’t think I fell for that.” “Well, if you didn’t, you’re a pretty good actor.” “You have no idea, Miss Mafia Princess. I knew you were Arturo Catel’s granddaughter the first moment I saw you, and so much more.” “Well, then,” she said, darkening. “Who’s been playing whom?” “I never lied to you,” spat Marc. “All you did was lie to me!” “Listen,” she said, softening. “You want to paint. I know people who enjoy and support the arts. They’re happy. I thought you would be as well.” “You’re kidding…right? They’re happy with three hundred million in their pockets. What did you say it was that was supposed to be making me happy? Oh yeah, I almost forget. The fact that my girlfriend played me for a sucker.” Marc flashed Chance a look of anger as the pain of having been used intensified. “You had it all figured out, didn’t you?” “What’s wrong with that? If I didn’t, you wouldn’t have had the commissions.” “Stop with the what I’ve done for you bullshit. How about the other three paintings?” “More of the same.” Marc jumped up and began pacing in reaction to Chance’s latest revelation, which sent him over the edge once more. “What? No way. No friggin’ way. One unknown masterpiece per decade, maybe. Two, highly unlikely. But four? No—way. Are you insane? You’ll have every police force in the world working to break this case.” “Let them try.” “All I can say is, GOOD LUCK.” Seeing that their conversation was drawing attention again, Chance hailed a cab, then looked back at Marc as she opened the door. After sliding in she patted the seat next to her and calmly extended an invitation. “You coming?” “NO.”

365 AVC “Are we having our first fight?” Chance’s attempt at levity didn’t work as Marc threw his arms to the air in disgust, turned and stomped away in the opposite direction. Chance was deeply hurt and upset but there was nothing she could do at that moment. And though she struggled for an answer, the only thing left to her was to respect his decision and give him his space, though she couldn’t resist having the last word. “Have it your way.” Chance closed the cab door. Then it pulled away. Marc turned back around in time to see Chance’s cab turn around the corner at the intersection then disappeared out of sight, leaving him standing alone in the roadway for a fourth time. However, this time he was screaming into his cell phone at someone. “YOU KNEW!”

366 CARBON COPY CHAPTER 71

The next evening Marc was conspicuously absent from his Tuesday night posse which included Chance. They were having a casual meal at a quaint neighborhood bistro, consoling François, who had just discovered his girlfriend of four years in bed with another man. Try as they might, the gang didn’t seem to be able to bring any comfort to their grief-stricken friend. Just as they were about to give up, Jean-Claude saw Marc enter the restaurant. With an agility and grace that only Jean-Claude could pull off, he jumped up on the center of the table and called out to Marc. “Thank God. The Love Doctor has arrived. And not a moment too soon.” The typical background sounds of the restaurant and other conversations dropped off dramatically, almost to a whisper, as every eye and ear in the bistro traveled the path of Jean-Claude’s outstretched hand to settle on Marc, standing dead still in the main doorway to the bistro. Then with a flair that was so Jean-Claude, he continued. “Tell us, O Great One. What would you do if you came home…” Jean-Claude paused for a moment to allow the suspense in the room to build. “…threw open your bedroom door and found Chance in bed with another man?” For a moment Marc remained frozen in time along with everyone else in the restaurant. Then a broad smile came over Marc as he answered the question with his arms extended to the heavens. “I would fall to my knees and thank the Lord that I was the one standing there with my clothes on.” As a dinner roll bounced off Marc’s head, courtesy of Chance, the entire restaurant broke out in laughter and applause. Jean-Claude turned to François and continued his therapy. “There—you see. You have nothing to be upset about. Okay, so maybe your girlfriend is a worthless whore and she can never be trusted again. But look at the bright side of things. We are not here calling you an unfaithful

367 AVC bastard. Of course, you are, and we all know it. Fortunately, since you weren’t the one caught, she appears to be the despicable one- not you.” Pleased with his explanation, Jean-Claude turned to Marc, who had just arrived at the table, for his approval. “Correct?” Marc twisted his outstretched hand and cringed, letting Jean-Claude know he probably hadn’t provided the comfort to his friend that he had hoped. Jean-Claude slapped his hands on his hips and began to throw a tizzy. “This damn boy-girl thing. It is way too complicated.” Jean-Claude jumped off the table before finishing his thought. “Say what you will, it’s a whole lot simpler my way. Hell, I’ve never caught one of my boyfriends in bed with another woman.” With Chance consoling François’ broken heart and Marc consoling Jean-Claude’s bruised ego, the night had turned into a downer, something Leoné simply couldn’t tolerate. So she did what any self-respecting punk rock nymphomaniac would do. She yelled out over the noise of the crowd. “Did anyone hear the one about the two choir boys and the one-legged priest with a banana?” “Okay, okay. We get it.” It worked. After berating Leoné, Marc motioned to the sommelier for two bottles of good wine. Then he asked the waiter to bring a round of chops, mixed vegetables and fresh bread, which calmed Leoné and put everyone else on the path to recovery. Turning his attention back to the moment, Marc was tentative as he sat alongside Chance. It was an extremely awkward moment. They hadn’t spoken or slept since their confrontation in the market the day before. Both were worrying about their relationship and what they had done to hurt one another. Marc finally leaned in and whispered in Chance’s ear. “I missed being with you last night. We need to talk.” Jean-Claude picked up on Chance’s pained expression and both of their strained body language, feeling the best thing would be a diversion. “Marc, I almost forgot. A friend of yours, was looking for you again last night.”

368 CARBON COPY “What do you mean, again?” Marc had no idea what Jean-Claude was talking about. But he embraced the opportunity to relieve the tension between him and Chance. So he went along with Jean-Claude’s lead. “Who was he?” “Some badge.” Jean-Claude flipped a hand in the air, discounting the man's importance as he continued his explanation. “He came by a while ago, during one of your out-of-town weekends. Haven’t you heard? Late yesterday, it was the front-page story. There’s been another masterpiece discovered. Whenever things like this happen, you always seem to attract badges.” “Lucky me.” Marc flashed Chance a look as he continued. “No, I haven’t seen the paper. What’d it say?” “Well. It seems a Monet, until now unknown, has appeared on the market.” “No shit?” Only Chance picked up on Marc’s sarcasm as Jean-Claude continued. “Yes shit.” Unaware of exactly what was going on between Marc and Chance, Jean Claude jumped into the conversation in full fashion. “And what is really juicy is that there is some controversy surrounding the painting.” “What controversy?” Marc was genuinely interested at that point. And Jean-Claude was more than eager to accommodate. “How about the fact that the painting even exists, for starters? But what is really juicy is that it appears the Monet may have some paint on it that is much older than the painting itself.” Chance glared at Marc as he returned an innocent smile and another retort to Jean-Claude. “No shit?” Marc was about to continue as a heavy hand landed on his shoulder and he heard a familiar voice from behind.

369 AVC “Besedka.” Marc was casual about seeing Malfete as he turned his attention back to Chance. “Surprise, surprise,” Marc said to her. “It’s your old friend, Inspector Malfete, like clockwork.” “See—what did I tell you?” Jean-Claude shied back after acknowledging his earlier comment about how badges appeared around Marc whenever there was a questionable art incident. Then Marc went back to Malfete. “Inspector, did you come by for another foot stomping?” “No, Besedka.” Malfete didn’t appreciate Marc’s humor, though he glanced down at Chance’s feet before continuing. “I’ve come to invite you to a pleasant evening at the station.” The minute Marc had heard Jean-Claude’s story about the Monet he knew it was just a matter of time until Malfete reared his ugly head, but Marc didn’t count on it being so soon. “Inspector, it’s late, I’m with my friends.” A waiter reached between Marc and Malfete to serve Marc his meal. “And—as you can see, my dinner just arrived. Do we have to do this tonight?” Malfete reached over and picked up one of Marc’s lamb chops. Seeing Malfete taking a bite of the chop left Marc with a queasy feeling in his stomach and a heavy dose of sarcasm, which Marc was more than willing to share with Malfete. “Help yourself.” From the look on Malfete’s face, it was clear the chop was very good and Marc’s protest had no effect. “You can either come now as a cooperative gesture or come now after I serve you with this warrant.” Malfete took the folded paperwork from his inside jacket pocket. After slapping it down on the table in front of Marc, Malfete went back to enjoying the chop. “Tough decision,” Malfete mused. “This is very good.”

370 CARBON COPY Then Malfete pointed at Marc with the half-eaten chop. “Your call.” Seeing he had no choice, Marc resigned himself to another annoying evening at police headquarters. “Cooperative it is.” Marc’s satirical tone was as deep as he could weave it. “But if it was anyone but you, I’d insist they stay for dessert.” The whole table broke out in laughter as Marc got up, took his coat from the back of his chair, then kissed Chance while whispering in her ear. “We will talk later.” Chance appeared to be the only one at the table concerned as Marc and Malfete walked away. “What do we do?” she pleaded. Jean-Claude brought perspective to Chance’s concern. “Start with the chops but leave room for the soufflé.” Picking up his chop as an example, François tried to calm Chance the best way he knew how. “Don’t worry, chérie, they can’t eat us. It’s against the law. Marc will be fine and back before the sun.”

* * *

An hour later, Marc and Malfete were at the prefecture in central Paris, in an interrogation room, behind a large one-way mirror. Tensions were high on both sides of the mirror as Fleming and two French policemen in an adjoining room watched the failing interrogation unfold. All the while, Fleming was making it clear just how low an opinion he had of the French police as he commented on Malfete’s poor performance. “Now I know why there’s so many French jokes floating around.” Fleming turned away from the mirror to square off with the French policemen who had already had about as much of Fleming as they could stand. “We’ve had an entire task force investigating Catel’s operations for the past ten years. Old man Catel doesn’t wipe himself without us knowing.

371 AVC Now, in less than an hour, you knuckleheads have jeopardized our entire operation.” “Ten years, I’m impressed.” The French policeman paused while rubbing his chin for effect. “And after all that time, you can’t even revoke Catel’s library card. What the hell do you guys get paid for?” “For putting up with assholes like you.” One of the French policemen lunged at Fleming but was restrained by his partner. Fleming didn’t flinch as he continued. “Look, this scam has Catel written all over it, and that little prick did the paintings. But since none of us stands a chance in hell of getting the old man to cooperate, Picasso in there was our best shot. Now that gerbil...” Fleming pointed through the mirror at Malfete. “...you call a detective has destroyed months of surveillance on that twit in less than 15-minutes.” Smirking, Fleming turned to the partner while pointing at the restrained French policeman. “Next time he tries that, let him.” Inside the interrogation room, Malfete was intense and focused. Marc was annoyed and as unimpressed with Malfete’s performance as Fleming. “Didn’t it strike you as a little too coincidental that the granddaughter of the most powerful crime lord in the world just happened to come to Paris and stumble into you, an art forger, just prior to the time that two of her ‘uncles’ decide to auction their never-before-seen masterpieces?” “Malfete—you’re full of shit. Crime lord? She doesn’t have a father. Her parents died in a plane crash.” Dumb worked for Marc the last time Malfete tried to nail him for forgery, so he decided to give it another try. “You can’t be that stupid.” Malfete stopped to consider what he just said, then under his breath. “Actually, you can be.” Then Malfete returned to his previous level of intensity. “We know you painted the Rubens and the Monet, and we know the Catel girl engineered the scam.”

372 CARBON COPY Marc was growing weary of the charade. It was time to bring it to an end. “If you’re so sure of yourself, why waste both our time and the taxpayers’ hard-earned money? Just book me. But of course, we both know you can’t do that because you don’t know shit, which means you don’t have shit. Which proves my earlier point. You’re full of shit. Now, it’s getting late. I suggest you either arrest me or let me go. Either way, I’m done talking.” Marc flipped off the mirror and whoever was on the other side, leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms and closed his eyes. Fleming’s smirk turned to disgust. Even the two French policemen were having a hard time not showing their disappointment as Marc trumped Malfete’s bluff and took control of the interview. Fleming threw his arms up. “Oh, yeah. That went well.” Fleming kicked open the observation room door and walked out.

* * *

It was 3:00 a.m. by the time Marc found himself standing curbside in front of the police station. Normally he would have hailed a cab. But he just started walking. It was a pleasant, balmy evening. Marc had a lot on his mind that he needed to work out, and the deserted streets of Paris provided the perfect place to think. A little over an hour later, Marc was back in his apartment. Tired and frustrated, he went straight to the comforting solitude of his study, dialed a number on his cell phone and began pacing the floor while he waited. “Why didn’t you tell me she planned to auction the paintings?” Marc needed answers but he didn’t get any. Instead, it turned out to be just another one-sided conversation that left him even more frustrated than when he called. “Yeah, right. You try doing this with your hands tied behind your back.” The sound of his doorbell that early in the morning irritated Marc even further. Before answering the door, he abruptly finished his telephone conversation. “Even so, I still should have known ahead of time.”

373 AVC After tossing the cell phone on his worktable, Marc called out that he was coming. “J’arrive.” When Marc opened the door, he was surprised to see Chance. “Isn’t this a little early for you to be wandering the streets? And since when did you start ringing doorbells?” Chance ignored Marc’s sarcasm as she sauntered into his apartment, took off her coat and tossed it on the sofa with an attitude that was downright playful. “Rough day at the office, honey?” “Cute.” She plopped down on the living room sofa and got comfortable. Marc closed the door and took a moment to compose himself. He was annoyed, tired and not in the mood for anything or anyone, not even Chance. All he wanted was a couple hours of peace and quiet, alone. Maybe even some sleep. But, true to form, nothing about the evening was going his way. “How did it go?” Chance inquired. “How do you think it went? Stuck with Malfete and God-knows-who behind the mirror, sitting in a smoke-filled room in the middle of the night, being asked if I knew anything about the paintings.” “Did you know anything?” Chance’s attempt at charm fell flat. “You’re enjoying this way too much.” Though their relationship was seriously strained, Marc hadn’t lost any of the passion—or the love. He was hurt and frustrated at having been used, but he wanted to get their relationship back on track more than anything. So he started by trying to talk it through. “I need you to focus in on something. Being a suspect, let alone the prime suspect, in one of the highest profile cases in the world isn’t a good thing.” Chance felt the same as Marc about their relationship and the need to begin repairing the damage she had done. His rational tone, especially in light of having just spent the night in a police station for something she had done, pulled at her heart.

374 CARBON COPY “Okay. But the fact that you’re back here is a good thing. Now that it’s behind us, we can move on.” “Behind ‘us?’ Are you nuts? This thing isn’t over, not by a long shot. In fact, it’s just ramping up. And it’s going to get a whole lot worse before it gets better. That’s if it ever gets better. And what’s this about moving on?” Marc sat on the arm of the sofa, miffed at Chance’s reference. “Us implies a team. So far, all I’ve seen is me creating the paintings and me spending way too much time with the police, while you sit around...” He flicked the corner of the magazine she had picked up. “...reading Cosmo and cashing fat checks.” “We all have to do our part.” Marc wasn’t amused. And though she didn’t mean to, her comment came off as way too flip. Even so, Marc was staying with the program, desperately hoping their relationship could be salvaged. “So, how do you see things playing out?” “Pretty much the same as the Rubens. The owner of the Monet will say that the large amount paid for the Rubens made this an ideal time for him to sell his painting.” Marc was disgusted with his meager position, but understood there was nothing he could do about it at that point. “Makes sense.” “And your faux pas with the paints may actually increase Monet’s value.” “My faux pas? You supplied the paints, canvas, everything.” “And I told you not to mix them.” “I didn’t.” “My ass.” Chance’s comment jolted Marc’s memory as he smacked himself on the forehead, “Fuck.” “Are you really in the mood?” She was teasing. “No... No... I mean your ass.” Her eyes widened in shocked disapproval. “No way.” He blew her concerns off with a wave of his hand. “No, no. That first night, in the studio, on the floor, with the paints.

375 AVC Remember?” “What are you talking about?” While Marc seemed to be in the middle of a revelation, Chance had no idea what he was referring to. So he tried to be more specific. “The sheet I cover my paintings with. The one you rolled all over on the floor the first time we made love under the Rubens.” “Please tell me this is going someplace.” “I kept it. It wasn’t part of your supplies.” “And this is supposed to be making sense?” Marc jumped up, disappeared into his studio then quickly returned holding up his familiar large white cotton bed sheet. In the center of the sheet, surrounded by wonderful flowing ribbons of every color in the rainbow, was a perfect heart-shaped impression of Chance’s ass, imprinted in a swirl of brightly colored paints. Chance was bewildered—while Marc looked at the sheet like a proud father. “I was gonna frame it. In the meantime, I’ve been using it to cover the paintings to keep the dust off. I suppose a bit of the paint from the Rubens’ supplies inadvertently got transferred onto the Monet from the sheet.” Chance inspected her body art while shaking her head. “What happened here?” Chance pointed to the corner of the sheet that had a piece cut away. “Beats me. It wasn’t torn when I finished working on the Monet. And I know I didn’t cut it.” “That’s strange.” With nothing more to say about the six-inch square that had been cut away, they went back to inspecting the provocative heart shaped impression— though the missing piece of the sheet left both of them with a nagging feeling. And as much as Chance wished the incident with the paints hadn’t happened, the large colorful souvenir made her feel a little playful. “Grandpa always said if I wasn’t careful I’d get my ass in trouble. It’s my ass—my sheet.” “No way.”

376 CARBON COPY And on they argued playfully about ownership of the heart-imprinted sheet until they shared a cleaner set of sheets that night.

377 AVC CHAPTER 72

A few days passed, the incident at the police station hadn’t been spoken about since, and Marc and Chance’s relationship was on the mend. Marc left early that morning to meet a man in Marseille about a restoration of a family portrait. Chance slept in then went out for breakfast. She was sitting alone at a StreetSide café enjoying her latté and a novel. The familiar snap of someone straightening a newspaper caused Chance to look up, and in that moment she saw the headlines of the paper being read by a gentleman at the next table.

MONET SELLS FOR THIRD HIGHEST AMOUNT IN HISTORY

Chance jumped up and snatched the gentleman’s paper right out of his hands. As he looked on in surprise, Chance read aloud. “The second in a recent series... masterpiece was purchased by a private collector before it went to auction... German Industrialist... TWO HUNDRED FORTY MILLION DOLLARS...” Chance fell back into her seat, dropping the stolen paper into the man’s lap. Completely stunned. She took out her cell phone and made a call. “Uncle Mike! I just saw the paper! Why did you sell the Monet already?” “I had a private buyer contact me directly the day after you sent Sotheby’s over here to prepare it for auction. He was some fat German guy who was very persistent. He didn’t even seem to care about the irregularity that Sotheby’s found in the age of some of the paint. I couldn’t pass it up. Considering I don’t have to pay a commission, we actually make more than Bottega’s take.” “You weren’t contacted by a Middle Eastern man?” “No.” “Good.”

378 CARBON COPY Chance’s plan was to use the Monet to confirm Mitra’s killer was dead since his body was never recovered from the wreckage. Chance reasoned that sending the painting to auction would draw Akmed out if he was still alive. Akmed’s not contacting her “uncle” was the one positive bit of information more or less confirming her belief that Akmed was dead. “But it’s too soon. We weren’t supposed to auction it until much later! How could you sell the Monet outright?!?” “I am surprised you are upset with me. I would have thought you would be over the moon about $240 million, for what appears to be damaged goods.” “It’s not about the money!” “Sweet Chance, it is always about the money.” And with nothing she could do to change the situation, utterly frustrated, Chance threw her Black Diamond phone on the ground and drove her heel into it, scattering its pieces everywhere. Then she stormed across the street and tried to calm herself by stopping to look at a lovely dress in the window of an upscale boutique. While quietly staring at the dress, Chance was adrift in her thoughts. She had lost control of her plan as a strong feeling of uneasiness settled over her. “A fat German.” Images of the 300-pound Dakar and Akmed at the first auction vexed Chance, causing her doubt. She whispered to herself, “Nobody could have survived that.” But she also knew that nothing was impossible. Suddenly she could feel the presence of someone alongside her. “It’s lovely,” said a voice. “Yes, it is.” “But I don’t think they’ll let you wear it in prison.” Chance continued to look straight ahead at the dress. She could see a clear reflection of a man holding a small dog in the shop window. He was wearing cowboy hat and what she remembered of Fleming's face. She wasn't certain about the face, but there was no mistaking the cowboy hat. “And why would I be in prison?” “I can think of about 540 million reasons.”

379 AVC “Is that supposed to mean something to me?” “Oh, it means something to you, and your grandfather. Yeah, it means something alright.” Fleming turned and walked away. He needed to drop the dog off at the agency's hanger until he was ready to return stateside. Chance was shaking, though she continued to stand motionless for a few moments to put some distance between them. While cursing her “Uncle” Mike, she dashed off in the opposite direction of Fleming.

380 CARBON COPY CHAPTER 73

Approximately 2,000-miles to the southeast, a different drama was playing out. The prime minister was working at his desk in the royal palace when a call came in on his private line. Expecting it to be the president, his tone was calm and polite. “Good afternoon.” “What’s good about it? You incompetent piece of shit.” The prime minister paled the moment he realized who the caller was. “How may I be of assistance?” “By getting Nasser’s technology and stopping the bloodletting.” “Bloodletting?” The prime minister was confused, knowing the caller did not know about nor cared less about the numerous kills the assignment had posted. “I’ve got over a billion dollars in this project with no product in hand and no end in sight. Can you imagine what would happen if one of those paintings the Catel girl forged fell into the wrong hands and was used to expose the technology?” After another 5-minutes of informative chastising, the caller waited for an answer. Though the prime minister was certain Bottega had Nasser’s technology and was behind the two forged paintings, it would have been suicidal at that point for the prime minister to admit that he didn’t know where Chance or the technology was. So, he lied. “We have the Catel girl under surveillance and are in the process of determining the best way to retrieve the technology and collateral evidence. I will have her and any proof of the technology in my office shortly.” “Shortly had better not go past Friday.” The line went dead, further signaling Zulle’s displeasure. No sooner had the prime minister hung up the telephone than there was a knock on the door and his secretary entered. “Akmed has arrived, sir.”

381 AVC “Show him in.”

* * *

Akmed’s arm was lost during the explosion of the submarine. However, he felt it best to avoid that conversation and the fact that Bottega and Chance got away from him until he was face-to-face with the prime minister. Otherwise, the prime minister would have had Akmed killed before returning. A meeting was Akmed’s only hope of staying alive. As Akmed entered the stately office alone, he noticed there were no visitors’ chairs. “I assume this will be another short meeting.”

* * *

The prime minister ignored Akmed’s sarcasm but couldn’t help noticing he was missing his left arm and was not accompanied by Yemen, Chance and Bottega as expected. Try as he might, there was no way the prime minister could hide his outrage. “I’m anxious to hear your report.” “We know the email inquiry originated from a pharmacy in Miami, in a building owned by Arturo Catel. The last cell phone call came from the airport in Istanbul, the same time the Catel girl was there waiting on her departing flight. Both locations are being investigated while we are working on getting to Bottega.” “Working on getting to Bottega? A supersonic jet, a submarine, forty men, millions of dollars and my direct orders assured me that Bottega would be standing where you are at this very moment. Let’s start with why that isn’t the case.” Akmed’s report was a masterful blend of fact and the insinuation that there was no one else who could possibly salvage this situation. As much as the prime minister wanted to see his personal guard snap Akmed’s neck at that very moment, that would have been the equivalent of signing his own death warrant. And as much as the prime minister hated being held hostage by Akmed, he had no choice. Because Akmed was right. He was the prime

382 CARBON COPY minister’s best and only chance of salvaging the situation, and anything less would assure the prime minister’s death. “I see. I thought you were going to tell me you knew Arturo Catel was the one who funded Nasser’s initial research, which means Catel knows about and wants the technology as much as we do. And since Chance Catel, the old man’s granddaughter, used the technology to create the two paintings, either they’re already working together or she was working with the girl that popped your eye out of your head. “If the girl hasn’t let Catel know she has the technology, I want to get to her before he finds out. “If Catel knows, get the girl and exchange her for the technology. Then kill them both and anyone else that has knowledge of the technology, including Bottega. “To make things worse, the girl has been to more than five different cities over the past several months and the two paintings came from two of those cities, which means we may have an even bigger problem than we think. “Incidentally, one of those cities was Istanbul.” Though subtle, it was the first time the prime minister had ever seen even the faintest degree of uncertainty on Akmed’s face, and it bothered him greatly. “Two previously unknown masterpieces show up within weeks of each other. One belonging to Carlos Bottega, the other to his associate, Ang Gogola. Both men are associated with the Catel family. Is this starting to paint a clear enough picture for you?” “Interesting.” Akmed’s casual response alerted the prime minister that at least a portion of what the prime minister just told Akmed he already knew and had been keeping from him. This went beyond insubordination, sending the prime minister into a tirade as he beat his fists angrily onto his desk. “What?” “Catel didn’t have anything to do with the paintings.” “How can you be sure?” “If Catel was the one who funded Nasser’s initial work, he knows its potential. He would never have pissed it away on something as trivial as an art scam.”

383 AVC “And Bottega would?” “No. That’s the point.” “What is the point?” “The person who keeps calling me is an amateur with a grudge, not a seasoned player like Bottega. It is the girl, on her own, with Bottega and a couple of her other ‘uncles’ aiding and abetting with no knowledge of the technology. They are merely fronting the paintings to auction houses as a favor.” “For what reason? Surely not the money.” “For me. I’m the prize.” “Meaning?” “Meaning we’ll find an important connection between the Manrique girl and the Catel girl. The Catel girl isn’t after money. She is after revenge. Knowledge of the technology is more contained than you might think. In fact, the Catel girl is the only person that knows about it at this time. And as long as I’m alive, she is going to keep trying to get to me—while keeping the technology a secret.” “Convenient theory.” It was amazing just how much Akmed was able to piece together, and fortunately for Akmed, it made perfect sense to the prime minister. Short of the Toad’s involvement, Akmed was spot on. “I want Bottega, Gogola, Palacios and the Catel girl in my office by Thursday. I don’t give a damn what it takes to get them here. Use whatever amount of money and manpower you need. JUST MAKE IT HAPPEN!” “Gogola and Palacios?” Akmed didn’t get the connection. And the last thing he needed were 2-recluse warlords, each with their own private army, further complicating and already difficult situation. “We both know the Catel girl is running an art scam. We also know Bottega and Gogola each had one of her paintings. What we don’t know is if there are any other paintings. In addition to Chile’ and Istanbul, the Catel girl also stopped in Greece to visit Gogola and Spain to visit Palacios. If there are other paintings, Gogola and Palacios have them. Let’s end this problem once and for all.” “All four?”

384 CARBON COPY Akmed was being told to perform the impossible. “Do you have a problem with that?” “No, sir.” Akmed’s response was absolutely convincing. Though they both knew he was lying. “Thursday. And from the looks of things, you’d better hurry up before you run out of body parts for the girl to take from you.”

385 AVC CHAPTER 74

Chance had always been calm under fire. But there was something about her encounter with Fleming that left her frazzled—to the point that she needed Marc’s reassurance and the sanctuary of his apartment. After closing Marc’s front door behind her, she locked it for the first time ever. Then she went into Marc’s studio where she found him working on the family portrait that had been delivered from Marseille the day before. “Marc?” “Yeah.” Chance snuggled up from behind, hugging him tightly for a few moments before continuing. “Has anything else happened since that night at the station?” “No. Should it have?” “No.” She cringed inwardly as she lied, feeling for the first time that lying to Marc was wrong. Then she paused for a moment to think about what to say. “I was just curious. I guess things are starting to cool down.” Preoccupied with his work on the painting, Marc was only partially engaged in their conversation. Then he remembered something that caused him to lay his brush down and begin cleaning his hands on an old rag as he became fully engaged. “I suppose it is. That would explain something Jean-Claude said.” “What was that?” “He heard that no sooner had Malfete and his boys started working the case, that they were told to drop it from higher up. Something about a large charitable donation blowing up in their faces if they didn’t leave it alone.” “Interesting.” The news of her AIDS donation working its magic had a calming effect on Chance. Even so, she was feeling closed in and needed to get out of Paris. “Tell you what. I’m going to take off for a few days. When I get back, let’s go someplace where we can get a tan and give this whole thing time to fade away. I’m thinking a month in Saint-Tropez.”

386 CARBON COPY “Make it Martinique, your treat, and you’ve got a deal.” “You’re so trashy.” “Yeah—and you’re loaded.” “Deal.” “Great. The timing is right. I’ve got a couple of days left on this restoration then I’m free.” Marc laid his cleaning rag down, then slid his hands up the inside back of Chance’s blouse. “Are we getting an early start on our vacation?” “It feels that way to me.” He drew her close, kissed her playfully and started thinking aloud. “I’ve been wanting to make some major changes in my life.” His hands completed their exploration of her upper back, loving it when she didn’t wear a bra. Then he began sliding downward until each hand was filled with Chance’s firm wonderful backside, loving it even more when she didn’t wear panties. “This feels like a good time to start.” One of her hands found its own rock-hard reward. “Oh, it certainly does.” Totally distracted, Marc abandoned their vacation conversation and lifted Chance up high to kiss her. Letting go of her prize, which was erect and free of Marc's pants, Chance wrapped her legs around his waist. As they kiss deeply, Marc thrust Chance down. She cried out as his full hard length drove deep into her warm wet welcome. Excited by Chance's rhythmic contractions, Marc walked them into his bedroom to the gasping sounds of her first climax of the afternoon.

387 AVC CHAPTER 75

By the next afternoon, Chance was on her way to parts unknown while Marc was hard at work in his studio. He had stretched a four-foot square of blank canvas on the concrete floor and was beginning to lay the frame upon it. He enjoyed the ritual of stretching canvas—it gave him time to think. As he hammered away at this canvas, he was thinking how Chance had once again taken off without explanation. In a strange way, Chance’s vanishing acts were one of the things Marc appreciated most about their relationship. Even though he missed her terribly when she was away, her absence brought perspective to their relationship. And though Marc wasn’t sure exactly what he was feeling, he suspected that this was what finding your soulmate felt like—intensely exciting and anxiety ridden at the same time. But there were problems—serious problems. The inequities of their business arrangement and the fact he had been played would have been enough to test even the strongest of relationships. But it went even deeper than that, much deeper. There was his own recklessness to consider. All he was told to do was keep his eye on Chance, and his hands off her. How had he let such a simple assignment get out of control? And there didn’t seem to be anything that could be done to rein it all in—especially the “keep your hands off her” part of his assignment. This emotional tug of war had been playing out in Marc since that day in the market when he saw the headlines about his Rubens. Then there was the simple question that kept playing over-and-over in his mind- ‘Should I stick it out or just get out?’ “J’arrive.” After all the uncertainty and intense soul-searching, Marc welcomed the distraction of the doorbell. He finished hammering down the last of the cloth to the wooden frame then went to the door. A stranger in a western style hat and a crusty pair of cowboy boots stood before him. Marc could tell this guy was trouble “Hello,” Marc said cordially. “What can I do for you?”

388 CARBON COPY The tone of Fleming’s reply was also cordial, though the message was anything but. “You can admit you painted the Rubens and the Monet, and explain how the paintings managed to pass testing.” “Who the hell are you?” Marc snapped back in a defiant tone. “One of Malfete’s wannabes?” Fleming just glared at him with icy cold menace. “Okay,” said Marc, shifting to over-the-top sarcasm. “You got me. I admit it.” Marc extended his arms with wrists up as though he was about to be handcuffed. “But to tell you the truth, producing a couple of world-class masterpieces was the easy part. The real trick was finding 400-year-old canvases and paints. You really gotta shop around to get that stuff nowadays.” Fleming slapped Marc’s hands aside and pulled Marc toward him with a fistful of T-shirt—hissing right in Marc’s face. “Look, you arrogant little shit.” Fleming’s glare intensified. “It won’t be long before old man Catel gets spooked and you’re alligator bait. Literally. Or Malfete and his boys throw you in the Bastille where they’ll bend you over and put that wise ass of yours to good use.” Fleming backed off, just slightly, as his tone stepped down a notch. “The way I see it, you only have one choice.” “Which is?” “Start cooperating. We move you into the witness protection program and you live out the balance of your worthless life on some Caribbean island sucking down piña coladas and chasing tan hotties—far away from the likes of Catel and Malfete.” If there was any question that Fleming was failing to intimidate, Marc’s casual response made it abundantly clear. “I like tan hotties. Come on back in about forty years so we can talk about it. In the meantime, get the fuck outta here.” Fleming showed no reaction. He released Marc, shoved a business card into the pocket of his T-shirt then patted Marc on the cheek.

389 AVC “Think about it, sport. This is a limited time offer. And I understand patience isn’t one of Catel’s virtues. Call me while you still can.” As Fleming walked away, Marc took the business card from his pocket, looked it over, then thought, ‘An Interpol agent...from Texas…in Paris?’ Marc went back to his studio, stared at that blank canvas and found the sign he had been looking for. The decision was made. As much as Marc loved and needed Chance, he understood the two of them could never really be together. What they had in Paris was special and wonderful. But somehow Fleming’s visit brought clarity to Marc’s decision. Or maybe it was simply the final straw. Whatever it was, it was final. “Time to get out.”

* * *

Fleming went straight from Marc’s apartment to Interpol’s covert offices in the Powers Hotel. After a brief pitch to the director as to why he felt the Catel investigation needed to be expanded to include the two recently discovered paintings, Fleming suffered through a 30-minute diatribe on why he should back off. Fleming didn’t care much for the director and even less for his decisions. Instead, Fleming found his attention wandering to the window and the quaint Parisian street scene below. There was a café called la Belle Ferronière across the street. Fleming wished he was sitting down there drinking Pernod with his wife, well, ex-wife, instead of listening to this blustering idiot. He would occasionally admit to himself that what he really wished was to have that time back, the ten years that he’d wasted chasing Catel. What he really wished was that he could have his wife Annie back, with that great Texan guttural laugh that she had. He missed that laugh. He wished they could have had the children they dreamed about and that he wasn’t so alone in the world. This world that kept getting smaller and smaller as each year passed, until now it only consisted of a tired investigator and an old gangster called Catel. “Are you even listening to me?” Buck spat, snapping Fleming out of his trance of self-pity. “It’s not enough you’ve been investigating Catel for ten years. Ten— long—expensive—years. And in all that time you haven’t come up with a

390 CARBON COPY single shred of evidence that could link him to as much as a parking violation. Now you want to expand your investigation into an area that he apparently has nothing to do with?” Fleming looked up through bleary eyes at his supervisor and for a moment tried to feign obedience and respect—but he failed, and slipped back into his arrogant default. “I know I’m right about this,” Fleming sighed. “Catel has to be involved in the art forgeries. He wouldn’t have let his granddaughter do it without his say-so. I’m not asking for much here, just a few more days and some minor expenses.” “Are you investigating illegal drugs or taking them? The paperwork alone would take a month! We’d have to go back to the head of the agency to get the additional funds! We’d need new clearances from at least a dozen other regulatory agencies in three different countries and, last but not least, I’d be putting my ass on the line! And for what, some hunch? Forget it!” Buck’s tirade seemed to have absolutely no effect. Fleming stood up and put on his leather jacket. “Fine.” As Fleming turned to head out of the office, Buck tried in vain to get in the last word. “Do yourself a favor and leave it alone,” he called out. Fleming flipped Buck off over his shoulder as he left. Just like the prime minister and his love/hate relationship with Akmed; Buck had Fleming. Buck knew telling Fleming no was little more than an administrative formality. Men like Fleming and Akmed always found a way to do what they wanted when they wanted. Killing them was the only sure way to stop them. And since both of them could be counted on to deliver the impossible, their insolence and insubordination were always tolerated- until now. Buck had tried to convince Fleming that backing off from his investigation into a connection between the two recently discovered paintings and Catel was in his best interest. But when that didn’t work, Buck

391 AVC put subtlety aside, going straight for Fleming’s throat. But that too had failed. Now he was left with no choice. Buck locked his office door then placed a telephone call. “We have a problem. I’ve tried to shake Fleming off but he won’t let go.” * * *

About 5,500-miles to the south was a cavernous penthouse office—a chrome, glass and granite shrine to power and wealth—perched high upon a peninsula in Cape Town, with wraparound views of the city’s skyline and ocean in every direction. Helmut Dakar was standing motionless, staring out one of the large windows at the row of mountains silhouetted in the late afternoon sun— they appeared to be a row of giant men hiking toward the sea. These mountains were known during Dutch times as the Twelve Apostles, even though technically there were 18 of these marching mountain summits. Helmut’s least favorite was the small one nearest the ocean—Judas. “It’s being taken care of,” Dakar muttered into the speakerphone. Dakar’s assistant Edgar hovered nearby. His son Ryan was seated in front of Dakar’s massive steel desk, reading a newspaper. An arms dealer had just arrived and was in the process of opening a very special carrying case. “What do you mean taken care of?” came Buck’s voice over the speakerphone. Dakar flicked his hand, causing Edgar to end the call. A shock came over Buck as he heard the dial tone. Buck had been on Dakar’s payroll for years and was accustomed to Dakar’s abrasive personality. And this wasn't the first time Buck had Dakar remove and obstacle like Fleming. But this was the first time Buck had been so curtly dismissed by Dakar—which Buck knew could be fatal.

* * *

392 CARBON COPY While Buck was agonizing over Dakar’s meaning and his own mortality, Dakar turned his attention to the arms dealer who was placing a gun case on a magnificent African mahogany table in the middle of the office. At the same time, Edgar was trying desperately to put his best spin on a bad situation. “I’m sorry, sir. But we didn’t find out about Fleming’s interest in the Rubens and the Monet until yesterday.” Dakar and Edgar weren’t privy to the details of The Group’s innerworkings. So, they had no way of knowing for certain if the paintings were forgeries, only that Dakar had been given the funds and instructions to purchase the Monet and guard it with his life. Dakar had his own reasons for wanting the world to believe the paintings were authentic, which had nothing to do with The Group. And for now, the Monet was prominently displayed on one of the few opaque walls in the glass sanctuary—the only wall with a southern exposure. After admiring the Monet for a moment, Dakar walked over to the open gun case while responding to Edgar. “I have two problems with that. First, everyone in the art world believes there is a chance something is wrong with both paintings. Anyone with half a brain knows Bottega and Gogola are associates, which creates a rather compelling additional suspicion.” Dakar opened the case and looked at the contents with satisfaction as he continued. “I don’t care if the paintings are authentic or not. Sotheby thinks the paintings are authentic. An independent testing lab certified their age. And the press is beginning to act as though they think the paintings are authentic. Therefore, they are. What I do care about is GenTec and the Kuzmenko deal.” Dakar removed the stunning, high-polished titanium handgun from its form-fitted case as he continued explaining his position to Edgar. “Imagine what would happen to my credibility if the Russians thought we’d been screwed out of $240 million, for a fuckin’ painting, by a little girl no less? That could cost tens of billions of dollars, or more. And if that happened, the next call would be from him.”

393 AVC Dakar pointed the barrel of the spectacular handgun to the heavens, implying both Zulle’s lofty position and the implications of such a call. “Which could signal the end of all of this.” Dakar waved the gun through the air using his office as an example of his empire. “As well as all of us.” Dakar was concerned over the impact the painting could have on the largest deal he had ever put together. It was an agreement with a Russian General named Kuzmenko, to broker a new drug Dakar’s company GenTec had developed to dominate the global illicit drug market. Edgar looked increasingly anxious as he, and everyone else in the room, could see that his spin hadn’t worked. Dakar’s interest shifted to the weapon in his hand, with which he appeared to be very pleased. Edgar could see where things were heading and knew he needed to end the conversation as quickly as possible. With beads of sweat forming across his brow, he tried for a diversion. “Maybe Fleming is wrong.” Edgar’s distraction appeared to work as Dakar took a step back. But the moment was short lived. “You’re—not—listening.” Dakar pointed the weapon at Edgar, causing the scope’s red laser to travel slowly up Edgar’s torso. “Fleming has been after Catel for ten years. He sees the girl as a way to get to him. He needs the paintings to be fakes.” The advancing laser caused Edgar to begin hyperventilating. In desperation he grabbed at the first thing that came to mind. “WithoutFlemingtheinvestigationwouldend.” Edgar was talking so quickly that his words ran together until he stopped talking, along with the red laser as it came to rest between his eyes. Dakar paused for an interminable moment before pulling the trigger, sending a loud click through the room. Edgar almost passed out, though he remained perfectly still and at attention. Ryan looked up from his newspaper long enough to confirm Edgar was still alive. Then, with little to no regard, he went back to reading the story.

394 CARBON COPY “Without the girl and whoever created those paintings,” Dakar continued, “no one could ever prove the paintings aren’t authentic. And without Fleming this all goes away. I’m taking care of Fleming. You get rid of the girl.” Dakar handed the glimmering custom handgun to the arms dealer, who looked shaken. “How did you know the gun wasn’t loaded?” Dakar ignored the merchant’s question. “I’ll take it.” Dakar turned to face the ocean and the Twelve Apostles, who seemed to be smiling up at him in admiration, at least in his mind. Edgar regained enough composure for his legs to function, as he left the office to complete his appointed task. Meanwhile, Ryan continued to explore his newspaper, unruffled by the details of life.

395 AVC CHAPTER 76

Coming out of the Powers Hotel, Fleming walked past a line of Vespa scooters parked on the sidewalk. He crossed the street carelessly, causing one of those super compact Euro-dwarf cars to swerve to avoid hitting him. A torrent of French swearwords emitted from the car which had no effect on Fleming who was glad to be getting the hell out of this “City of Love.” There was a lone cab waiting in front of the café across the street. “De Gaulle Airport,” Fleming barked as he climbed into the back seat. Fleming took out his cell phone and began placing a call to Operator 38, for another favor. Still agitated over his failed initiative with Buck, Fleming thought of another angle, but it required returning to the States. About six digits into his dialing and a block from the hotel, he noticed a faint reflection in the front windshield. It was the driver’s hand lifting a black object from under a newspaper on the passenger’s side of the front seat. Fleming lifted both legs and kicked forward with all his strength, bending the seatback forward and smashing the driver into the steering wheel. With his face pinned into the steering wheel, the driver was unable to see Fleming or control the car. But he was able to point the black object over his right shoulder. Fleming identified the object as a Walther P99 with a silencer, as the driver fired three blind shots in Fleming’s general direction. Missed by the random spray of bullets, Fleming drew his own Sig Sauer P220 semiautomatic pistol out of its shoulder holster and quickly emptied his clip through the back of the driver’s seat. One of the interesting facts about Interpol investigators is that they are all unarmed. It is a prime directive—one that Fleming considered to be more of a suggestion. Given the current situation, the Texan was glad he never took it seriously. Not only did it save his ass—but it allowed him to blow off some steam. And at that moment, offing that dirtbag just felt good.

396 CARBON COPY But now he had a real problem. With the dead driver wedged between the dislodged front seat and the accelerator, there was no way for Fleming to stop the runaway cab. Having run up onto a busy sidewalk, the cab bounced off a building then rocketed straight for a crowded café with its horn blaring. Dozens of patrons leapt up, frantically fleeing the path of the oncoming vehicle as it smashed into dozens of the street side tables and chairs, hurling them in every direction. Fleming looked over the dead driver, quickly considering his options, which were bleak. Kill a bunch of tourists who just had their last meal, veer and take out a crowd of Japanese tourists involved in a typical outdoor photo ritual, or try to place the cab between two hopelessly close columns intended to block traffic from entering the Seine. “SHIT!” As Fleming yelled out, he lunged forward then pulled hard on the steering wheel, hurling the cab towards the massive barriers. But as feared, the space was smaller than the cab and the steel reinforced concrete bollards were structurally sounder than a Fiat. As the cab passed through the barriers, its width was filleted by a foot on each side while its hood, roof and trunk lid were ripped off. What little was left of the cab flew off the roadway, through the air and downward into the Seine. Dead silence came over the hundreds of onlookers as the cab disappeared into the murky river, most of them aware their lives had been spared by the selfless hero controlling the cab- if they only knew. A few moments later, Fleming popped up to the surface. Out of the silence, a lone Japanese tourist began to clap, slowly at first, then another and another. By the time Fleming reached the bank of the river and made his way to the sidewalk, he was receiving a standing ovation from the large crowd that had gathered to thank him for his gallant act of bravery. Soaking wet and pissed off, Fleming strode right past all of them as if they weren't there.

397 AVC CHAPTER 77

Chance was her usual stunning self, wearing a white Emilia Wickstead jumpsuit, as she rushed to catch her flight from Paris to St. Moritz. Less than fifty yards from her gate, Akmed was in the customs section of international arrivals, falling prey to profiling. Despite his diplomatic credentials, Akmed was quite a sight. The combination of his ethnicity, solid black attire, silver eye guard, missing arm and arrogant demeanor gave the customs agent more than enough cause to pull him aside. “Sir, please step to your right. This should only take a few moments.” The agent opened and began inspecting Akmed’s custom Vuitton carryon. Akmed turned away from what he considered to be an affront as the infidel pawed through his personal possessions. Having accepted the momentary delay, Akmed decided to amuse himself with a mindless sweep of people-watching while the agent rifled through his luggage. As he stared off through the glass partition that separated arriving from departing international passengers, he made casual eye contact with an attractive brunette. A subtle smile from the brunette, just before she looked away, captivated Akmed at the very moment a white blur darted through his line of sight. The exquisite shape and sway of the brunette’s back continued to hold Akmed’s attention as Chance raced to catch her flight. And for those few brief but critical moments, Chance’s passage went unnoticed, while Akmed looked on and considered the particular way he would like to violate the stunning brunette from behind. Then it all ended abruptly as the customs agent returned Akmed’s passport and Vuitton bag, giving Akmed a polite smile and an apology. That’s when it hit him. ‘That woman in white! It was her!’ Akmed took off down the corridor in pursuit of Chance, past the

398 AVC shimmering green glass and a blur of blue signs—Paris Par Train, Arrivées, and Gare SNCF. Less than forty feet from the jetway, Chance spotted the attendant standing sentry on his walkie-talkie, holding the door open for her arrival. Akmed was less than a few paces behind her, separated only by the glass wall. Chance scooted past the attendant, breathing, “Thank you.” The attendant released the jetway door, allowing it to close behind Chance. As Akmed rushed toward the DO NOT ENTER barrier doors, two customs agents stepped directly into his path. They grabbed Akmed’s one remaining arm and shoulder, stopping him in his tracks. The lead customs agent was respectful but firm. “Sir, this is a controlled area.” The agent pointed to the far side of the large glass enclosure. “That is where you exit.” Akmed watched as the jetway pulled away from the aircraft. “Sorry, officers.” Akmed couldn’t have been less sincere as he walked back to his luggage. Having been subjected to the Customs search and now frustrated by the missed opportunity to catch up with Chance, Akmed barked at his new soldier. “Find out where that flight is going and have someone meet her. Let them know we’ll be arriving right behind her.” Then Akmed pointed to his luggage. “Get that bag and call for a fast plane. I want to be in the air in less than 30-minutes.”

399 AVC

CHAPTER 78

An hour later, as Chance passed through Customs in St. Moritz, two men who appeared to be locals began to approach her from across the terminal. Within 20-feet of reaching Chance, their advance was cut off by 6-very large men in black who were clearly an organized force. Two of the men in black took Chance’s luggage while the other four men formed a perimeter around Chance as though it was completely natural. Then the six men escorted Chance out of the terminal and into an awaiting convoy consisting of a long wheelbase Rolls-Royce and two black four-by-four chase vehicles. Outnumbered, outsized and outarmed, there was nothing Akmed’s two henchmen could have done short of getting themselves killed. After dropping back, they watched Chance’s convoy pull away before scrambling to get in their car and follow. Without so much as license plates on Chance’s vehicles, Akmed’s men were at a loss as to how to report the unanticipated chain of events. One thing was for certain: neither of them was looking forward to explaining to Akmed that they didn’t have the Catel girl in custody.

* * *

From the last week in December through mid-January, St. Moritz reigns as the world’s premier winter wonderland, transforming Samedan Airport into the most exclusive, if not most expensive, parking lot on the planet. During that special time, Samedan serves an incredibly eclectic mix of the jetted gentry from every corner of the earth. From Lears and Falcons to Gulfstreams and Bombardiers, for approximately a month, sleek white transports occupy every available space on its tarmac, shuttling in and out in an endless procession of excess. But in the summer, it is different. St. Moritz’s grand hotels, shops, nightlife and even Samedan enjoy a far less frantic pace. The few seasoned über-elite that frequent the world-class destination during off-season appreciate and enjoy conducting business in the beauty and peace of the

400 CARBON COPY summer Alps rather than in the sweltering banking centers of Europe and the Middle East. “Starboard view.” Bottega’s voice activated his jet’s control system, projecting a magnificent view on the large flat screen in his stateroom, looking out 20- kilometers across a majestic chain of lakes. The smooth, shimmering bodies of water below pointed the way to an enchanted village nestled in Engadine’s lush emerald green foothills. For the fifteen precious seconds that it took Bottega’s plane to move through the pass, he enjoyed that simple, wonderful pleasure each time he flew to The Top of the World. After his Bombardier passed through the view, Bottega’s instincts and interest shifted. “Aft view.” That voice command switched the image on the screen to an aft camera, which showed a second jet trailing in the distance. “Zoom in.” Bottega could see the pilots were Middle Eastern, though the jet’s tail numbers and crest weren’t visible from his camera’s angle. With his curiosity satisfied Bottega turned his attention back to his espresso and prepared for landing. Bottega’s plane taxied toward the airport’s small terminal as the black Rolls-Royce and escort vehicles that brought Chance to the Palace Hotel returned to greet Bottega’s arrival. Once the plane came to rest, its main cabin door opened and two large men in black exited to secure the area. Moments later, Bottega stepped out of the sleek white transport. While Bottega walked toward his awaiting limousine, his attention was drawn to the trailing jet’s landing. Seeing the flag of the prime minister’s country on its tail section, Bottega turned to his lieutenant Roberto and commented. “There goes the neighborhood.” As the passenger door to the prime minister’s jet opened, Bottega took note of the two gentlemen who exited. Seeing that neither was General Akmed made Bottega wonder if maybe the general had been killed after all,

401 AVC or at least seriously injured in the submarine explosion—even though Bottega’s intel indicated he was still alive and well. As Bottega stepped into the limousine, he gave Roberto instructions. “Have Patrick keep an eye on them. If they get out of line—so much as a step—provide them their seventy-two virgins.” All the while, Akmed watched Bottega’s convoy drive off, unnoticed from inside the prime minister’s plane. On the other side of the terminal Bottega’s convoy stopped for a moment, allowing Patrick to step out, also unnoticed, and stay behind.

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CHAPTER 79

Chance was in the lobby of the Badrutt’s Palace Hotel, a mountain castle with an ornately carved, toffee-colored wood facade beneath an enchanting cone-shaped roof tower that looked over Lake St. Moritz. She sipped a Bellini while enjoying the view of the lake’s deep blue water, contrasted by the lush green of the mountains beyond. St. Moritz, and the Palace in particular, were very familiar places to Chance. It was where she first learned to ski along with many other fond memories. She was at peace that day in the Palace’s parlor as a waiter Chance had known for years approached. “Is there anything else I can do for you, Miss Catel?” “No. But thank you, Martin. I’m very comfortable.” “Wonderful.” As the waiter turned to leave, Chance noticed the unmistakable signs of her uncle’s arrival. The first was two large bodyguards entering, sweeping then securing the lobby. Then the hotel staff stepping to one side to allow Bottega an unobstructed entry. A smile came naturally to Chance as she stood to greet him. “Uncle Carlos. I hope you had a pleasant flight.” “Sweet Chance—always.” “Did you have a peek for me?” Now it was Bottega who was smiling. He looked pleased that Chance always remembered and commented on the time he first showed her the fifteen-second view of the Engadine pass from his plane. He had told her it was the secret passage to The Enchanted Kingdom. That was when she was a little girl, the first time she had ever traveled with Bottega, and her first visit to St. Moritz. Bottega leaned in to whisper into Chance’s ear as if it was their secret. “Of course. And it’s still my favorite.” Chance kissed Bottega on each cheek and then gave him a big hug before continuing her thoughts.

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“You really didn’t have to come all this way. That’s why God created wire transfers.” Bottega motioned to his guards, who retreated to a corner of the lobby like a pair of trained Dobermans, before answering Chance in a more serious tone. “I’m afraid this needed to be done in person.” “Is everything alright?” Chance felt the shift in Bottega’s tone, alerting her something was concerning him. Bottega took Chance by the hand and walked her over to the same seating area she was in when he arrived. After they sat down, Martin refreshed Chance’s Bellini. As the waiter walked away, Bottega took a sip and then possession of the fresh peach nectar before beginning his explanation. “Why didn’t you tell me there was a Monet?” “It had nothing to do with our agreement. So, I assumed it didn’t matter.” They both knew that wasn’t the case. But Bottega made no comment. Instead he stared at her for a moment through unblinking eyes, a clear indication that the conversation was going to get worse. “Both paintings were purchased by the same gentleman,” Bottega continued. “No they weren’t,” Chance countered. “There was an Asian guy and a German guy.” “See, that’s your problem. You assume too much.” Humbled that he had the answer, she remained silent. “Neither of those men own the paintings. The man who does know the paintings are fake but doesn’t want the world to know. It seems he’s protecting some secret that is very important to him.” “More important than 540 million?” Bottega’s stoic expression provided Chance her answer. It also let her know that he knew more than what she had told him. “Dakar is a ruthless man,” Bottega declared, looking more serious than ever. “He has become concerned about the ongoing investigation of the paintings. You see, an Interpol agent named Simon Fleming has it in his

404 CARBON COPY mind the paintings are fakes. If there is something to find, Fleming will find it. Unfortunately, Fleming is the kind of man who finds things that aren’t even there. Dakar can’t afford to let that happen and will take measures to ensure the paintings’ pedigrees can never be questioned.” “That’s ridiculous. I’m the only one who could ever prove their pedigrees, one way or the other.” “Precisely.” There was a deafening finality in Bottega’s delivery. “Not good,” Chance cowed. Bottega’s explanation started to clear up a couple of loose ends in Chance’s life. “Is Dakar that large German fellow who was in the receiving line in front of us at the Willard?” Bottega nodded as she continued. “And is Fleming an American with a thick Texas drawl, about fortysomething, rugged looking in a cowboy hat and boots?” “You’ve met.” It was Chance’s turn to nod as Bottega continued. “Fleming is one of Interpol’s top operatives. He’s cunning and resourceful. Not a man to take lightly.” “There’s no way anyone can prove the paintings aren’t authentic. And as long as the players stay in line, the Rubens and Monet will simply remain the latest additions to art history.” Chance’s faulty logic and naiveté sent Bottega over the edge as he pointed a threatening finger at her. “And how do you expect to keep your players in line when you’ve involved an outsider?” Bottega’s threatening finger broadened suddenly into an open hand. Chance cringed, bracing herself for a slap across her face. Instead, he continued. “You know better.” “But if it weren’t...” Bottega cut her off while turning his open hand back into an accusatory pointed finger.

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“Don’t ‘but’ me. And don’t interrupt. This friend of yours, Marc, is not pleased with your business arrangement. He is known to the local police. He’s unstable with no living family and no sense of loyalty.” “Is there anything you don’t know about him?” “No.” Bottega’s strong response was enough to cause her to stand down as well as providing confirmation that her private life was anything but private. Bottega remained forceful in his presentation. “Fleming has already spoken to your Marc. If Marc cooperates, Fleming could put together enough evidence to involve us both. These facts are also clear to Dakar, who can’t afford to let that happen.” “Am I the only one who doesn’t know what’s going on?” “Evidently.” Chance paused for a moment to consider the gravity of her situation before continuing. “How many people would like to harm or kill me? Let’s start with kill.” “General Akmed or his replacement, Helmut Dakar, a prime minister, and a very powerful man who controls the other three.” Bottega’s revelation was sobering. “Four. What should I do?” “Start by telling me the whole truth. When I agreed to broker the Rubens, you should have told me there was going to be a Monet. Are there any other paintings?” Bottega never asked a question that he didn’t already know the answer to. So, Chance didn’t even consider lying while her sheepish demeanor signaled the bad news to come. “Two.” Again, Bottega raised a threatening hand. And again, Chance braced for the slap that didn’t come. “What made you think the world would tolerate four undiscovered masterpieces?” “The last two weren’t going to be released for another thirty years.”

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Her explanation did nothing to improve the situation. Bottega was angry—as angry as she had ever seen him. He waved his hand in the air, dismissing her excuse as he continued. “Do you have any idea the danger you’ve put us both in?” Chance gave him an uncomfortable nod. “You will distance yourself from this Marc character and never see him again. Is that clear?” “Yes, sir.” “It—is—over. Is that clear?” Chance looked straight into Bottega’s eyes with an arrogant acknowledgment that only she could have lived through. “Yes, sir.” With the disciplinary portion of their visit behind him, Bottega calmed to a more gracious demeanor. “Good. Now let’s enjoy one another’s company and complete our transfer.” That was the world Bottega controlled. One moment people’s lives were on the line, the very next moment those who survived were enjoying life. As Chance, Bottega and his two bodyguards left the Palace Hotel. Bottega took note of the middle eastern soldiers standing across the street. They seemed to be unaware that Patrick was right behind them, appearing to be looking at a jewelry display in a storefront. Seeing Chance and Bottega together, one of the middle eastern soldiers dialed his cellular phone. “The girl is with Bottega. But the streets are lined with his men. What do you want us to do?” After listening to instructions, he continued. “I understand.” Bottega raised his hand to the chauffer attending the open door of his Rolls-Royce limousine, declining the ride, then turned to Chance. “It’s a lovely day. Let’s take a walk.”

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Chance took hold of Bottega’s arm as they began their stroll along Via Serlas past Chanel, Gucci and Bvlgari, with one of Bottega’s two guards in front and one following close behind. A few blocks into their walk, Bottega’s trailing guard received a call. He answered, spoke for a moment then moved ahead to Bottega. “Sir, I believe you’ll want to hear this.” Bottega took the phone as he continued their walk. “Bottega.” There was a long pause in which he listened before commenting. “I see.” Then another long pause. “Yes.” Bottega handed the phone back to his guard while instructing him. “End it.” Chance felt the chilling resolve in Bottega’s directive and the clear indication that someone was about to die. Then Bottega’s guard dropped back to continue the conversation. And though Chance wasn’t listening, she couldn’t help but hear bits and pieces of the guard’s conversation as she and Bottega continued their stroll. Bottega patted Chance’s hand as he began his next thought. “You may have heard your ‘Uncle’ Sergio died yesterday of a heart attack.” “Oh my God, that’s awful. He has one of the paintings.” “I’m touched by your grief.” Bottega’s sarcasm was replaced by a stern proclamation. “And no, he doesn’t.” “Yes, he does. I personally delivered it to him. It’s a Picasso.” “Yes, and it’s now the property of the Spanish government.” While processing Bottega’s news, Chance heard the guard say, “No. Rue—de—Petite.” The color drained from Chance’s face at hearing the name of Marc’s street as she lost control and yelled out, “What?” Bottega mistook her outburst to be in response to the news of the Spanish government’s seizure of the Picasso.

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“Yes. The government confiscated both of Batres’s Spanish villas and everything in them, ostensibly for back taxes. But of course, a never-before seen Picasso was among his more notable possessions, even for a man like Batres.” Chance was trying desperately to listen to both the guard and Bottega at the same time. “Damn.” Bottega patted Chance’s arm. “Your Picasso is on display at the Guggenheim museum in Bilbao and will be auctioned next month.” “How? You said Uncle Sergio just died yesterday. It’s too many, too soon.” “Precisely. And the Spanish government obviously agrees. Undoubtedly the reason they’re so pleased to have discovered documents written by Picasso himself, authenticating the piece, and an old black and white photo of Pablo with the painting.” “Those liars. They can’t do that. It’s, it’s, illegal.” An uncharacteristic chuckle came from Bottega at the irony of her frustrated conclusion. “In an interesting twist of fate, the Spanish government’s handling of the Picasso has also ended the global investigations into your first two paintings.” “How?” “Reciprocal legitimacy.” “What?” “When individuals claim authority, governments launch investigations, discover or fabricate inconsistencies, discredit then put the claimant down. They have to in order to retain their implied authority. But when another government claims authority, certainly within their own borders, other governments rally to their defense.” “Why?” “To win. That way, the next time a government seeks to legitimize a self-serving concept, they know they can count on other governments to support them. It is the good ol’ boy network on steroids, the very basis upon which the United Nations was founded and flourishes.

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“That’s what happened with your Picasso. By furthering the notion that there may be many such paintings in private collectors’ hands throughout the world, the Spanish government has legitimized your never- before-seen Picasso as well as your Rubens and Monet. And like sheep, people are always ready to do whatever they are told by their government.” “Then Fleming should be backing off as well?” “I don’t think so. Fleming isn’t one of the masses, nor is he controlled by convention. What makes men like Fleming most dangerous is that they are righteous with a cause—the only thing to have ever taken down a government. I suspect the only way to stop a man like Fleming is with a bullet.” “Which means the four goons you mentioned still want to kill me.” “More than ever. Each time a new painting surfaces, the possibility that it and the previous painting are authentic becomes less likely, making you all the more threatening to them.” Bottega’s logic was riveting, sending a chill through Chance’s entire body as the reality of her being at high risk settled in. “What are we going to do about this?” “We?” “Okay, you.” “Nothing at the moment.” “Any long-term plans?” “None.” “What?!? This isn’t acceptable.” “Our deal was for me to sell a painting, which I did, and no questions, which you seem to be full of.” Even with the specter of death confronting her, Chance remained calm. Throughout her life there was always someone there to make things right. Even if Bottega abandoned her, Chance had her mother and grandfather which kept her from feeling helpless. But that wasn’t the case for Marc. Frustrated, Chance stomped the ground and let out a deep sigh, causing Bottega to comment. “You’re not having a very good day.” “You have no idea.”

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“Look on the bright side.” “I’m listening.” “Now you only have one painting to retrieve. And for now, you are safe.” As Bottega finished his thought, but before Chance could comment, Bottega’s trailing guard pocketed his phone then touched Bottega on the shoulder. “It’s being taken care of, sir.” Chance’s face tightened as she processed the guard’s information.

* * *

At the same time, two of Bottega’s thugs were driving down Le Champs Elysées in a black sedan. After hanging up his phone, the huge passenger began unfolding a road map. “Number One, Rue de Petite.” The equally massive driver looked over at his partner then to the map. “Where?”

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CHAPTER 80

Bottega stopped walking when they arrived at a beautiful, stately brownstone. Chance was curious. “Lovely. Anyone we know?” “Let’s see.” They entered the elegant building that Chance assumed was an exquisite Engadin Valley townhouse. It had thick walls with tiny windows recessed deep inside the walls to keep in the heat. Above the windows were geometric patterns of triangles spread into the plaster, a unique technique imported from the Italian side called sgraffito. But when they entered the large foyer beneath the wide-gabled roof, Chance was surprised to find that the impressive residence had been converted into a commercial establishment. The receptionist, a smartly dressed woman in her forties, greeted Bottega. “Good afternoon, sir. So nice to see you.” “I believe Mr. Trempé is expecting us.” “Yes, he is. I’ll let him know you have arrived.” The receptionist pushed an intercom button as she continued her greeting. “Please have a seat. Is there anything I can get for you?” “No, but thank you.” Bottega sat on one of two overstuffed leather chairs. Looking back, he was puzzled to see Chance still standing. “I’ll be right back,” she said. She took the few steps separating her from the receptionist before leaning in to inquire. “Where is the powder room?” While Bottega made a mental note of another mystery solved, the receptionist motioned to the far side of the lobby. “Down the hallway. Then to your left.” After walking across the lobby, down the hallway, around the corner,

412 CARBON COPY then into the women’s restroom, Chance took her cell phone out of her purse and slipped into an empty stall. While she was dialing her phone, the stall door hit her in her back, startling her and popping the phone out of her hand and into the toilet. “Perfect. Just—perfect.” Chance was miffed at the disgusting sight off her Black Diamond phone at the bottom of a toilet—the second one she'd destroyed in less than a month. And though she desperately needed to place a call, she knew it wasn’t going to be with that phone. Leaving the powder room, she was careful not to be seen by Bottega as she walked up to a courtesy telephone and dialed Marc’s number. “Hello.” Chance was excited to hear Marc answer and began whispering as loud as she could without Bottega hearing her. “Marc?” The only thing Chance could think of was saving Marc’s life. Marc, on the other hand, was in his bedroom shoving his final items of clothing into a duffle bag before leaving Chance forever. “Chance? Why are you whispering?” “Just get out of there. Right away.”

* * *

As the black sedan continued its slow canvassing of Marc’s neighborhood, the large thug in the passenger’s seat kept glancing between the map on his lap then the street signs. “Here it is, rue de Petite.” The driver looked around as he stopped abruptly in front of Marc’s apartment. “This is a street? I ate something bigger than this for breakfast.”

* * *

After shoving the last piece of clothing into his bag, Marc zipped it shut and decided there would never be a better time to tell Chance he was leaving her then now.

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“Chance, it’s good that you called because there’s something I have to tell you.” She cut him off with another tense whispered message. “Don’t talk. Listen. Get Out. Now.” “Chance. What’s going on?”

* * *

Bottega’s massive henchmen were standing on the sidewalk, looking up at Marc’s apartment building. They were conspicuously intimidating in their black attire. People out walking in the neighborhood were careful not to make eye contact, though they couldn’t help but notice the two very large men. Satisfied they were at the correct location, the Neanderthals went into Marc’s building.

* * *

A gentleman crossed the lobby as Bottega stood and extended his hand. The man was a buttoned down Swiss banker, addressing Bottega in a calm, almost familiar tone. “Good afternoon, sir.” “Good to see you, Cristian.” Cristian Trempé was a blonde-haired, blue-eyed young Aryan placed in the bank’s employment at Bottega’s request approximately eight years ago after the death of Bottega’s previous account manager. Straight out of The Monastery, it was Trempé’s first assignment—the ongoing management of Bottega’s $5 billion Swiss slush fund. Trempé gestured toward his office. “Shall we?” “I’m with my niece. Wait a moment. I’ll see what’s keeping her.” Trempé stood by patiently as Bottega left to find Chance.

* * *

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Chance was frantically trying to make Marc understand the severity of the situation. “Listen, Marc. Don’t even hang up. Drop the phone and get out of there.” Marc was putting his wallet and keys in his jacket pocket as he tried desperately to explain to Chance that he was leaving her. “Chance, it’s important.” Chance’s heightened level of urgency was moving her voice dangerously away from a whisper. “I love you. Now go. Where no one can find you. That place where only we know. GO!”

* * *

Positioned in the hallway just outside Marc’s apartment, the two thugs, with their guns drawn, kicked in Marc’s front door, even though turning the never-locked handle would have been easier, quicker and quieter. After storming Marc’s apartment, Bottega’s two soldiers found the living room empty. Moving quickly room by room, they came upon Marc’s bedroom and found the bedroom window open and the drapes fluttering in the breeze. Looking around, the driver saw an envelope with CHANCE written on the front that he shoved into the inside pocket of his jacket.

* * *

As Bottega turned the corner to the restrooms, he ran straight into Chance, surprising them both. Chance was cool, pointing over her shoulder. “The men’s room is on the right.” Bottega flashed Chance a look of concern, if not suspicion, as he glanced through the area. Though he wasn’t sure what he was looking for, he knew Chance was up to something. “It’s time to finish our business.”

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Chance gave Bottega one of her little girl smiles, slid her arm around his and squeezed it as they walked through the lobby to Trempé. That would have melted away the concerns of most men, but not Bottega. Still, he continued to give her her rope. * * *

Trempé was in his office, seated at a large mahogany table-desk entering a series of commands into an inlaid touch panel, which included Bottega and Chance’s account numbers. Bottega and Chance were seated across from Trempé at the same desk. Each of their locations was also equipped with inlaid touch panels and biometric palm readers. After completing his preparations Trempé began his instructions. “Mr. Bottega, please enter your password.” On the keypad, Bottega entered an eight-digit code that appeared as a line of asterisks ******** on Trempé’s monitor. “Thank you. Miss Catel, please enter your password.” “What password?” Chance was at a loss, never having banked at that location, so Bottega came to her assistance. “It is the same secret password you use for your main account in the States.” She flashed him a look of disbelief. “Tell me you’re kidding.” Bottega remained stoic. “Is there anything you don’t know?” Bottega seemed detached as he reached over and entered her eight- digit secret password that also appeared as a line of asterisks ******** on Trempé’s monitor, activating her portion of the transaction. “Unbelievable.” While Chance sulked, Trempé acknowledged completion of the password portion of the transaction and continued on. “Thank you. One moment, please.”

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Trempé entered another command before getting back to Bottega. “Mr. Bottega, please enter the amount to be transferred.” Bottega keyed in $200,000,000. Trempé assumed Bottega had entered the number incorrectly and pressed the delete key, removing the figure. “That’s fine.” After resetting the entry function, Trempé provided another courteous request. “Now, Mr. Bottega, please enter the amount to be transferred.” As casually as the first time, Bottega rekeyed $200,000,000. Trempé gave a bow of understanding of both his error and Bottega’s graciousness, and responded as though his previous indiscretion had never taken place. “Thank you, sir. Please place your hand on the reader to complete the transaction.” Bottega placed his hand on the biometric device, which read the vein pattern and blood flow through his palm and wrist, authenticating his presence and approving the transfer. This also explained the reason Bottega had Chance meet him in St. Moritz rather than simply wiring the funds. “So, this really couldn’t have been done as a wire transfer,” she observed. Chance was relieved to see there was a reason, other than her castigation, that brought Bottega all the way from South America. “For smaller sums, up to 50 million US dollars, wires are a wonderful convenience. But for transfers such as this, it’s worth a flight and a visit with my good friend Cristian.” Bottega raised an outreached hand in the direction of Trempé. The banker returned a gracious nod as Bottega completed his thought. “For the peace of mind it provides.” “That’s terrific,” joked Chance. “So, any time I want to visit with you in St. Moritz, all I have to do is ask for something north of $50 million?”

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Bottega and Trempé smiled at Chance’s humor while their transaction was processing. As the screen acknowledged that the funds had been transferred, Bottega extended a loving handshake to Chance. “Congratulations on the conclusion of our first business venture. It has been a very profitable and exciting experience. Though next time, I could do with a little less excitement.” After providing Chance a raised brow, Bottega stood and extended a grateful hand to Trempé. “Thank you.” Then Bottega turned his attention back to Chance. “How are you getting home?” “A commercial flight.” A scowl was followed by Bottega’s pronouncement. “Nonsense, I’ll have my pilot reroute so I can drop you off in Paris on my way home.” “How sweet.” Chance only had a moment to think of a reason to stay behind before making Bottega suspicious. “But, as you said, it has been a very profitable day. So I think I’ll stay for a while and show my appreciation to some of the locals.” Both Bottega and Trempé looked surprised, but it was Trempé who inquired. “That’s wonderful. Anyone I’d know?” “Perhaps. There’s the Guccis, Versaces, Ferragamos and my dear friends, Mr. and Mrs. Cartier and all the little Cartiettes.” Bottega and Trempé appeared to enjoy Chance’s humor, though Bottega knew she was up to something. Then there was the matter of the trailing jet and its passengers. Still, Bottega gave Chance her space as he made a mental note to leave Patrick behind to ensure her safety.

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CHAPTER 81

After saying her good-byes to Bottega and watching his jet take off from the terminal, Chance headed straight for a public phone and dialed Marc’s number. At the same time, Patrick was a short distance away on his distinctive anthracite device talking to Bottega. “You were right. The moment your plane took off, she went straight to a public phone.” “Confirm the number she called, though we both know it is his.” The entire time Chance was listening to Marc’s phone ring, she was thinking to herself. Come on, don’t answer. Don’t answer. When Chance finally heard the prerecorded voicemail announcement, she breathed a deep sigh of relief along with a salutation. “Thank God.”

* * *

A short while later, Chance was standing in front of the manager of a rental car location—an unsympathetic manager. After her visit with Bottega, Chance was aware her every action was being monitored. She didn’t want a record of the rental, so she was trying to talk the manager into renting her a car without providing her ID or a credit card. “But, miss. How could you possibly expect me to rent you a car without a driver’s license or identification?” “I never said I didn’t have identification.” Extending his right hand, the manager remained polite and professional. Though it was clear he considered Chance to be just another one of the endless tide of entitled brats who descended upon his town from heaven only knows where. “Fine,” he growled. “Let me see your identification.”

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Chance reached into her purse then placed two bound stacks of $100 bills into the manager’s hand. Without missing a beat, the manager extended his other hand with the starter fob dangling. “It’s the red BMW convertible, space B-11. The tank is full. Have a great day.” Forcing a smile, Chance grabbed the fob and rushed off.

* * *

Less than 5-minutes later, Chance’s shiny red BMW, top down, screeched to a halt in front of the Louis Vuitton store. With emergency flashers on and the car still running, Chance got out and rushed into the store. While she was inside the store, Patrick walked alongside her car. Stopping at the back of the car, he bent down as though retying his shoelaces. Instead, he took a small object from inside his jacket and placed it under the car—a GPS tracking device that attached itself by a strong magnet.

* * *

2-minutes later, Chance came out of the store carrying an enormous suitcase, tossed it into the backseat, got back behind the wheel and sped off.

* * *

30-seconds later, Chance’s shiny red BMW, top down, screeched to a halt in front of Bottega’s bank. Emergency flashers on, Chance got out, grabbed the suitcase from the backseat and carried it into the bank.

* * *

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15-minutes later, Chance came out of the bank escorted by Trempé, two-armed security guards and a bank staffer who was pulling the now heavy suitcase on wheels. Arriving at the BMW, both guards helped the staffer load the suitcase into the trunk. While one of the security guards was closing the trunk, Trempé opened Chance’s door. After getting into her seat and putting on her seatbelt, Chance looked up and saw the puzzled look on Trempé’s face—so she offered a conciliatory explanation. “Shopping money.” “I see. Had you planned on buying—say—Liechtenstein?” Trempé frowned as he closed Chance’s door, letting her know he wasn’t buying into her nonsense, though she couldn’t care less. As Chance’s car disappeared down Via Serlas, Patrick walked over to join Trempé on the sidewalk outside the bank. “How much is in the suitcase?” he asked. “20-million.” Patrick winced at the amount. “Damn. I could have used a girlfriend like that when I was 26.” “You and me both.” Trempé placed a hand on Patrick’s shoulder as he dispatched him. “Make sure Besedka never sees that money or tomorrow.” Then Trempé focused on the prime minister’s soldiers. “How about your friends? How much do they know?” Patrick motioned over his shoulder without turning around. “They’re checking out of the hotel right behind us. They know Bottega left town, and that she’s an extravagant shopper and on the move. They should be coming out any moment to go after her. I’ll take care of them when we get out of town. The roads are treacherous in this area and their car is carrying enough C4 to blow them all the way to Allah. I foresee a fatal accident in their very near future.” “Excellent. I’ll update Bottega when you call in after the accident.”

* * *

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“Ah, the failings of youth.” While Akmed’s soldiers were at his hotel’s front desk checking out, Akmed was standing in the window of his hotel room, four stories above Trempé and Patrick. Akmed was holding a pair of binoculars, with the one hand he still had, giving him a clear view of the two men’s conversation. A pair of headphones attached to a listening device allowed Akmed to hear everything that Trempé and Patrick said. With full knowledge of Patrick’s plans, Akmed mused to himself. “I could use an extra $20 million. And Patrick, how many times have you been told that the devil is in the details?”

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CHAPTER 82

30-miles later, the smell of wild summer flowers flavored the warm fresh air as Chance traveled through a beautiful Swiss mountain pass, cruising around the switchbacks that were bounded by quaint stone walls then along the narrow straightaways. With one hand on the steering wheel and the wind blowing through her hair, she was deep in thought, to the point of distraction. It had been a long, convoluted journey from the night Chance held Mitra's lifeless body in her arms to her decision to use Marc to help locate the killers. It was a good plan, and it worked flawlessly. But falling in love with Marc wasn't a part of the plan. And now her love for Marc was overshadowing everything, putting everyone in harm's way. She knew Marc was upset. But she believed they were inseparable and that the love they shared was greater than petty complications or anything else that might come along. What Chance didn’t know was that she was wrong. Marc was already in the process of leaving her. It wasn’t that he had fallen out of love, quite the contrary. But there was a great deal she didn’t know about him. There were things more complicated and sinister at stake than just the way Chance had treated him in their business deal. In a way, Marc had been playing her as much as she had been playing him—she just didn’t know to what extent. All Chance knew was that Marc was in incredible danger, and she believed she was his only hope for survival. Chance was so preoccupied with her thoughts that she hadn’t noticed Patrick’s silver Saab trailing about a half kilometer behind her since shortly after she left St. Moritz. The GPS tracking device Patrick placed under Chance’s car provided her coordinates, which allowed him to catch up to her right away. Patrick, on the other hand, had noticed a black Mercedes closing in on

423 AVC him. Comfortable that they were far enough from town, Patrick took his anthracite communicator from his pocket and pressed the ARM function. Watching in his rearview mirror until the dark sedan was right alongside of a steep drop off, Patrick pressed the FIRE button. “Say hello to Allah, boys.” Those were Patrick’s last words. Unbeknownst to him, Akmed had the explosive device that Patrick placed under Akmed’s car relocated to Patrick’s car. The explosion jolted Chance’s attention. As she rounded a curve she looked back out her side window in time to see Patrick’s car, engulfed in flames, careening over the side of the mountain, down a deep gorge before exploding into flames a second time as its gas tank erupted. The black Mercedes continued to close the gap between the two cars. It was only a matter of moments until the Mercedes caught up. Once alongside, the large black sedan matched Chance’s speed as their tires squealed through the curves of the winding road. Chance was appalled to see Akmed leveling his handgun at her. “Don’t you ever stay dead?” Chance had hoped Akmed had been killed when the submarine exploded, or he was at least damaged to the point of no longer being a threat. Now she was staring down the barrel of his gun “Not this time, dirt bag.” Jerking her steering wheel hard to the left, Chance crashed her car into the side of Akmed’s. Unfortunately, the small BMW had little effect on the much larger sedan, though it did distract Akmed’s aim for the moment. Akmed’s driver steered hard right, catapulting the smaller car toward the edge of the cliff. Luckily for Chance, the stonewall held. Her BMW traveled the entire length of the stone barrier throwing sparks for a ¼-mile. Nearing the end of the wall, Chance regained control of her car, getting it back on the roadway surface. Akmed turned and put the barrel of his handgun directly into his driver’s crotch.

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“I’ll shoot it off. Until I find out what she knows I need her alive. Then you can have her.” Back alongside the BMW, Akmed sneered at Chance, leveled his gun at her head and yelled out. “Pull—over—or—die.” Both cars held their positions as Chance flipped Akmed off, rounded a curve at high speed, then yelled back at him. “Go to hell!” In that instant, a look of utter horror came over Akmed as he looked up .to see a massive logging truck traveling straight at him 13 ” القرف“ Akmed screamed. The black Mercedes was struck head on. Akmed was thrown forward into a rain of glass and metal that quickly slammed him backward. The sudden acceleration-deceleration caused a rupture in his thoracic aorta, releasing an enormous amount of blood into his chest. For a fraction of a second he remained conscious while his body was squashed, his bones were snapped and his flesh was pounded into the hard surfaces. It all happened so fast, and yet Akmed had the time to regret that he had ever laid eyes on Chance Catel. He cursed his fate as his head was severed from his neck and his brain was smashed by the 2000-pound, 12-cylinder diesel engine of the sixteen-wheeler that had just run into them. Chance slammed on her brakes. It was an incredible collision, shoving the Mercedes under the front of the huge truck, crushing and mangling the large black sedan into a flattened wedge of steel less than a quarter its original size. There was nothing other than the rear tires and three-point-star on the back of the trunk to identify Akmed’s metal tomb. Barely damaged by the collision, the massive truck continued down the roadway, tires smoking, brakes locked and sparks flying for another 150 meters before coming to a stop.

425 13 “Shit!” AVC

In the moments it took for the accident to occur, a surge shot through Chance’s body. When it subsided, she turned to look out the back of her car at the wreckage. “Mitra, that one was for you.” For the first time since that horrifying moment when Mitra’s limp body fell to the ground, Chance finally felt the sweet taste of revenge. As she drove on, she felt content that the obligation to her friend had been met and her mind was finally free to begin thinking of her own problems and possibilities. “One down, three to go.” Confident that Akmed was finally permanently dead, Chance’s thoughts went to her remaining three nemeses and what she needed to do to ensure Marc’s safety.

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CHAPTER 83

Chance dropped off the designer luggage full of money at a place where she was confident it would do good and belonged. 6-hours later, her dirty, battered BMW, top up, screeched to a halt in front of Marc’s apartment. She bolted out of the car and ran up the front stairs.

* * *

“Finally.” The driver in the front seat of a surveillance car that was parked down the street from Marc’s apartment took note of Chance’s arrival. “That’s her.” Krug, the man behind the steering wheel of the surveillance car, started dialing his cell phone while pointing out the window and commenting to his albino partner who was sitting in the passenger’s seat. Krug’s attention shifted back to his cell phone when the person he called answered. “Krug here. The Catel girl just showed up at Besedka’s apartment.” Dakar was standing in his Cape Town office, staring out a window to the distant horizon while talking over his speakerphone. “Finish it.” “Do you want the body?” “No. Leave it where it drops.” Krug slid his phone back into his pocket, then reached into the back seat where he grabbed a package. A smile exposed his smoked-stained teeth as he and his albino sidekick got out of their car. “It’s showtime.”

* * *

It had been less than 10-hours since Marc’s apartment had been broken

427 AVC into by Bottega’s men and the door was already repaired. Unaware of the earlier events of the day, Chance turned the knob and entered the unlocked door as usual. But that’s where usual ended. Entering Marc’s apartment freaked Chance out. It was completely empty. There wasn’t a single piece of furniture, or anything else for that matter. “Hello?” Her voice echoed off the freshly painted walls and polished wooden floors, the same surfaces that were stained and pitted the last time she was in the apartment less than 48-hours ago. A chilling thought raced through Chance’s mind. “What happened here?” Chance had no way of knowing the thorough renovation had been done to remove any sign of Marc and Chance—and any possible residue of their carbon-dated art supplies that could have put Zulle’s plan and investment at risk. Walking through the apartment, she found every room in the same totally renovated condition. Beyond extremely clean, even the familiar smell of Marc’s paints had been replaced by an antiseptic pine scent. Every sign of Marc had been erased. In a panic, Chance threw open the door to the closet. Nothing. Not a single piece of either of their clothing—only a freshly painted, empty space. Defeated, Chance held her head with both hands as she spun wildly until colliding into a corner of the room. Sobbing, she slid down the wall into a crouched position on the floor. “God, please keep him safe.”

* * *

“Gaston, I don’t believe she is praying to you.” A smirk came over Zulle at Stone’s observation. Stone was in the Hamptons. Zulle was in Zurich, as the rest of the members of The Group looked on through their covert surveillance network, each in their own private underground lairs scattered throughout the world, connected in their virtual voyeurism. “Maybe not, but she should be. I’ve got a hell of a lot more control over both of their lives than her God does.”

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Stone couldn’t resist taking one last stab. “Perhaps. Still, it’s pretty impressive that the boy has been able to evade The Organization. And the girl seems to be coated in Teflon.” “For now. But the moment that little shit crawls out from under his rock, it will be his last. And you’ll enjoy what I have planned for the girl.” Stone cringed. Although he had never met Chance, he had come to admire her tenacity and her zest for life after following her antics for the past six months. Even Marc had endeared himself to Stone. In his heart of hearts, he was rooting for their escape—although he knew that was tantamount to treason against The Group and therefore his own interests. But he didn’t care.

* * *

Chance was desperate for something she didn’t have, but too exhausted and emotionally drained to even know what it was, or to go on.

* * *

Krug and the Albino finished their work under the hood of Chance’s rental Beemer, then returned to their car halfway down the block to wait for the results. About an hour later, three hoodlums were casing Marc’s neighborhood. Their punked-out multicolored hair, leather and chain attire competed for attention with their tattoos and body piercings. One of the youths, with an incredible foot-high Mohawk, was the first to spot Chance’s battered Beemer. “Check it out. Talk about retro” His closest buddy, with cornrows, leather and enough chains to make one wonder how he could walk, high-fived Mr. Mohawk as a sign of accomplishment while the third punk backed off. “No way. I’m O for 2. I get caught jackin’ a car, I’ll be doin’ some serious time. Anyway, look at that piece of shit. It looks like it’s been to hell and back.”

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Chainman approached the driver’s door and noticed the started fob on the console. Reaching into the car he snatched then waved the fob in the air for his two buddies to see. “Yeah, and that’s what makes it so damn cool lookin’. Gentlemen, our chariot awaits.” Throwing the fob up in the air then catching it on the way down, he looked the red Beemer over one more time before finishing his thought. “American tourists. You gotta love ’em.” Then he turned to the kid who had been holding his ground about 25- feet from the car. “Look, you pussy, we’re cruisin’. You ridin’ or walkin’?” The punk with the fob and Mr. Mohawk opened their doors and jumped in the car while the third kid continued backing away. “No way. It ain’t worth it.” After flipping his friend off, Chainman yelled out to his friend who was half a block from the car by that time. “Enjoy your walk, shithead.” The kid just kept backing away from the car as Chainman pushed the Start button, triggering Krug’s device and creating a massive explosion that blew the BMW’s hood skyward as it engulfed the car in a huge fireball. The impact of the explosion sent the third kid hurtling backwards, off his feet and onto the sidewalk.

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CHAPTER 84

Chance had fallen asleep out of pure exhaustion. She was curled up in the corner of Marc’s bedroom when the huge fireball lit up the night sky along with Marc’s darkened apartment. The impact of the explosion blew out Marc’s bedroom windows, sending shards of broken glass flying throughout the apartment as the thin, sliced draperies twirled in the turbulence. Chance instinctively grabbed her head with both hands and pulled it in toward her bent knees and chest for protection. After the flash subsided, she jumped up and ran out of the apartment. The explosion also woke Krug and the Albino, who had dozed off. “Shit. How much C4 did you put in that?” The Albino looked at Krug with a broad, macabre smile. “Enough.” Then a puzzled look came over Krug. “I didn’t see her come out of the apartment.” “You need to have your eyes open for that. Anyway, it’s too late now. No one is gonna be able to identify her after that. But two things are for sure. She’s dead and Dakar’s about to get a woody.” The Albino dialed Dakar’s number then handed Krug the cell phone. In addition to being engulfed in flames, the burning BMW was sending off a dark billowing cloud of smoke, which distorted the view of the front of Marc’s apartment building. “No one could survive that explosion, let alone the fire. She’s toast.” The dial tone was Krug’s confirmation that Dakar was pleased. Krug tossed the Albino his phone, then started their car. “Let’s get out of here.” Krug pulled his car out into the roadway and began to leave the area. On the other side of the billowing black cloud of smoke, blocked from Krug’s vantage point, Chance rushed out of Marc’s apartment building, saw the burning BMW, then hailed a cab.

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“Taxi.” Chance ran for the cab, past the fiery car and into the street. She heard the screeching of tires and brakes. Turning, she slammed her hands on the hood of the car that almost hit her—stopping less than six inches from her body. Krug looked out his front windshield, shocked to see Chance looking back at him and shouting her apology. “Sorry!” In the moment it took Krug to process what had happened, Chance was in the cab, heading in the opposite direction. With the fiery BMW on his right, traffic directly behind him and the narrowness of the roadway, Krug had a hell of a time turning his car around to pursue Chance’s cab. But he managed.

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CHAPTER 85

Even though it was a star-filled night, the canopy of the mountain’s forest made it pitch black as Marc pulled off the paved roadway onto the dirt lane that led to his cabin. About halfway up the lane, Marc turned off his lights and pulled his car into a field. He walked the rest of the way along a back path to avoid being spotted in the event someone was waiting for him. As Marc neared the cabin he found the trip cord he placed around the property off its blocks, which meant someone had been there. Marc circled around the back of the property. By that time his eyes had adjusted to the low light conditions and he was able to look over the cabin and grounds. He didn’t see a vehicle or any sign of intruders. Fairly certain the trip cord was dislodged by a curious hiker or the local wildlife, Marc approached the cabin with caution, then peered into a side window. Convinced he was alone, he went into his cabin, lit a kerosene lamp, then saw a large, very expensive suitcase on the dining table. Marc was careful to look around the floor then under the table for wires, lasers or other triggering devices. Finding nothing out of the ordinary other than the large, designer suitcase, Marc considered his options. Moving or opening the case could trigger an internal device. Not opening the case would kill him out of curiosity. Conflicted, Marc dragged a chair over to the table, sat down, and started staring at the suitcase. After 5-minutes of unproductive procrastination, Marc got up from the chair. Then he went to a storage locker, took out a bundle of rope, tied one end to the handle of the suitcase then let the lead out until he was about fifty feet clear of the cabin behind a large tree. After pulling hard on the rope, he heard the suitcase hit the floor and the table turn over inside the cabin—but no explosion. “That’s a good sign.” Marc’s rope trick eliminated everything except the clasps that could have been triggering devices. He either had to open the clasps or find another way into the case. After five more minutes of what-ifs, he found

433 AVC himself standing over the case with his hunting knife in hand. As he cut an exploratory slit in the side of the case he couldn’t help thinking, Chance would die if she saw me doing this. Seeing what looked like currency and bonds, Marc cut away the two clasps, allowing the case to open without engaging the clasps—though he was fairly certain no one filled the case with valuables just to blow it up. Marc grabbed both sides of the cut-free lid, closed his eyes, took a deep breath and flipped it open. “No boom. That’s another good sign. Why are you doing this?” Marc opened his eyes to an amazing sight. The suitcase was packed with stacks of hundred-dollar bills, bonds, stocks and a note. There was no way of telling how much was in the suitcase at a glance, but it was a hell of a lot. “Okay, that’s why you are doing this. Holy—shit.” Marc picked up the note and began to read as he heard Chance’s voice in his mind.

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Marc,

I pray with all my heart that you’re reading this letter, which means you’re still alive. You are in a great deal of danger. Marc Besedka must never be seen again.

Please believe me, I never intended for this to happen. But if you have a vision, a dream of who you want to be, I also believe you can rework the paints, the colors and the hues until you have fashioned a new creation, one that is uniquely you. Marc, please follow your dream, not me, and know that what we have will never end and will always be special.

All my love,

435 AVC

CHAPTER 86

While Marc stood staring blindly at Chance’s note, she was in a public phone booth at Orly Airport. “Operator...yes...Athens.” A few moments later, her call went through. “This is Chance Catel for Mr. Gogola.” Gogola, the man in Fleming’s surveillance pictures with Chance at the Athens airport, was pleasantly surprised to hear from her. In addition to being one of Chance’s “uncles,” he had been a close confidant of Chance her entire life and one of the four men who were a part of the auction portion of her plan. “Sweet Chance?” “Hello, Uncle Mike. I’m sorry to be calling at such an early hour. But it is important.” “Forget the clock. Hearing from you is always a pleasure. Especially when it is two calls in as many days.” “We haven’t spoken for two weeks.” Concerned, Gogola began verifying the caller. “Chance, the last time you visited, where did I take you for dinner?” “Your dining room. Why?” “And what didn’t you eat?” “Dessert.” “Perfecto.” “Uncle Mike, what’s going on?”

* * *

At the far end of the concourse, the Albino was drawing closer to Chance. As the Albino scanned the terminal, Gogola began to answer Chance’s question. * * *

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“Two days ago, I received a call from someone who claimed to be you. She sounded just like you. And when she spoke of the Rembrandt...” “The Rembrandt?” “Yes, the Rembrandt. She knew so much about the painting and our arrangement that I had no reason to suspect it wasn’t you. So when she asked me to immediately ship the painting...” “You shipped the Rembrandt?” “Yes. You...she...the woman asked me to ship it to the States.” “Where?” “To Miami, a place on Del Boulevard.” An image of the Toad flashed through Chance’s mind as she began to feel her plan unraveling. “That little….”

* * *

The Albino spotted Chance and moved into a phone booth directly across the aisle from her. Then he turned his back, blocking the entry of his booth, as if placing a call, while he screwed a silencer onto the front of his handgun.

* * *

“Uncle Mike, I think I know what’s going on and how to fix it.”

* * *

A red laser beam inched its way up Chance’s arm.

* * *

Someone had played Gogola, which didn’t set well with a man like him, and he wanted to even the score. “Can I send a few of my people to help you?” * * *

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A gun with a silencer but no laser scope was being held at waist level by a man seated in a third telephone booth, directly behind the Albino.

* * *

“Yes. Thank you. I have a feeling I’ll be needing help.” Chance had visions of how it would play out in the pharmacy with the help of Gogola’s men as she looked up at the airport’s departure screen before finishing her thought. “Have them meet me at the Miami Airport. I’ll be on flight 276, arriving 5:35 p.m.” “Two of my best men will be waiting for you when you land. Let me know how things work out. I’ve grown rather fond of that painting.”

* * *

The Albino’s red laser beam hovered just under Chance’s ear.

* * *

“Thanks Uncle Mike. I’ll get back to you as soon as I know something.”

* * *

There was a muffled pop then a thud. The Albino slumped forward, hitting his head on the booth in front of him as his gun dropped into his lap. A hole and a small circle of blood on the back wall of the Albino’s phone booth marked the level where his heart would have been when he was sitting upright. A hand from the adjacent booth took the Albino’s gun, then up righted the Albino to appear as if he was making a call.

* * *

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Totally oblivious that she just narrowly escaped being killed, Chance went to the ticket counter and handed the attendant her credit card. “Flight 276 to Miami.” “Will that be business class?” “First, please, adjoining seats.”

* * *

In the time it took the agent to smile and print Chance’s boarding pass, Operator 38 was passing the transaction onto Fleming. Halfway through a microwaved dinner, Fleming reached into his pocket to retrieve his cell phone. “Fleming.” “Hello, Cowboy. Your little globe trotter is on the move, heading your way from Paris, arriving Miami International flight 276 at 5:35 p.m.” “What would you like for Christmas?” “We’ll work something out. I promise.”

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CHAPTER 87

5,000-miles away, over the South Atlantic Ocean, a flight attendant leaned down to speak to a sleeping passenger in the first-class cabin. “Excuse me, Mr. Jamison. We’ll be landing in Rio shortly. Please fasten your seatbelt.” As she moved on, the handsome, impeccably groomed young man in a smart camel sports jacket instinctively slid the buckle into its clasp. After taking a moment to consider what awaited him, he removed an envelope from his pocket and stared at it, resuming the conflict that had been raging in his mind for months. Though Marc was only 26-years old, few had lived a more incredible life. It was a life that Chance knew nothing about, though he had desperately wanted to share it with her. He had planned on coming clean with her before things spiraled out of control back in Paris, but that just never happened. In the course of 48-hours, everything about Marc’s life changed. Yesterday morning, he was a poor struggling artist and an elite covert operative for The Monastery, one of the most powerful clandestine organizations on earth. Today he was a wealthy target in a global manhunt spearheaded by The Monastery, the very group that Marc had served his entire life. The Monastery gave Marc shelter, food and compassion as a newborn orphan. Throughout his childhood and formative years, The Monastery taught and trained him. From his earliest memories, The Monastery was the place that Marc worked and killed for. As Azure’s clandestine enforcement arm, The Monastery had unlimited resources. After having been the most accomplished protégé in The Monastery’s 500-year history, Marc went astray, so to speak. There were those high up in Azure who were now very disappointed with him, Bottega heading that list—which was lethal.

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And if Marc’s problems with the Monastery weren’t bad enough The Group’s clandestine enforcement arm, The Organization also had unlimited resources and a bounty on Marc’s head- and not dead or alive. Marc was a major threat to the success of Zulle’s planned global genocide—which was also lethal. Then there was Chance, the most important person in the world to Marc. While staring at her note, he grasped for the first time exactly how much trouble he had gotten himself into. And though it only lasted a few short moments, in his mind he saw an amazing, imaginary production with full Hollywood theatrics, revealing in total the mighty forces he was up against. Then as quickly as the production materialized it disappeared, leaving him with his solution and salvation. “From artist to aristocracy—this is going to be interesting.” Flying under an assumed name and forged passport, Marc had planned to hide out in Rio long enough to engineer the permanent disappearance of Marc Besedka. Having established a safe house, credentials and the necessary contacts years ago, he was prepared for just such an eventuality. Even so, he knew it was only a matter of time until his Rio cover was exposed. For Marc, Rio was a temporary stop off until his new identity was established. He hadn’t planned on the infatuation, the art scam, and especially falling in love with Chance. His assignment had merely been to keep a rich girl out of harm’s way. And even though he knew exactly how much danger making love to Chance put him in, there was nothing he could do to stop it any more than the praying mantis could refrain from its own suicidal final act. The moment Marc veered from his assignment and fell in love with Chance, he knew it was only a matter of time until there was a contract on his head and that he’d be on the run. Fortunately, he was one of the most skilled operatives on the planet, with an uncanny ability to run stealth like no other. What he hadn’t counted on was Chance’s help and the difference $20 million can make—nor had the people who wanted him dead. The Monastery was ruthless beyond belief, which posed a formidable challenge, even for someone as skilled a chameleon as Marc. In addition to

441 AVC his personal skills, he knew everything they knew. And, fortunately for Marc, The Monastery didn’t know everything he knew. That was his edge. His plan was to widen that information gap to the point that he could never be found. As for The Organization, they had been after Marc one way or another since his first assignment, over five years ago. And, being at the top of their hit list presented its own set of challenges. After staring at the envelope and considering his options, Marc became frustrated. He was about as street smart and capable as anyone alive, but he was a complete novice when it came to matters of the heart. Sex, seduction, even romance, they were kid’s play for Marc. But he had never been in love. Having lost his mother when he was born and not knowing his father, Marc didn’t even know a parent’s love, let alone this agonizing feeling that had been tearing at his insides for the past few months. Finally, he took Chance’s letter out of its envelope and read it for the twentieth time.

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CHAPTER 88

While Marc read Chance’s letter a commercial airliner with Chance on board was touching down at the Miami International Airport. It was a particularly lovely evening as a cool breeze off the ocean freshened the salty night air. A sea of candles, torches and soft lights brought the art deco region alive for the many couples who were strolling casually along the trendy district. A soft orange glow in the windows of the three-story pharmacy building on Del Boulevard gave the impression of a lovely Norman Rockwell painting. The warm orange glow slowly intensified until it flared into a blinding flash. In an instant all of the windows and doors were blown out of the structure. Dozens of shafts of amber and blue flames shot out of every opening, catapulting upward, lighting up the night sky. The inferno that engulfed the building was immediate and intense. Within minutes, the voracious flames consumed everything except the brick and concrete. Before firefighters had any hope of arriving, the inferno eliminated the possibility of discovering any residue of Chance’s involvement with the pharmacist. Materials, documents, fingerprints, equipment and bodies—all destroyed beyond recognition.

* * *

Chance and Gogola’s two men exited the terminal with Fleming trailing close behind. Both cars drove straight to the pharmacy. When they arrived, they found a major crime scene. The pharmacy had been completely destroyed by fire, leaving nothing but a charred brick shell. The area had been cordoned off as dozens of police cars and investigators continued to arrive. “Damn.” After kicking the back of the seat in front of her, Chance exited the vehicle with her two escorts. Walking over to one of the crime scene barricades, Chance overheard a conversation between a fire chief and an

443 AVC investigator. The fire chief was miffed. All the while, Fleming stayed at a safe distance to avoid detection, but still able to hear the fire chief’s tirade. “It was the dandiest thing. Water and foam had no effect on the flames. In fact, they seemed to make everything burn hotter. Whatever was fueling that blaze is something I’ve never seen before.” “You’re saying it just went out?” The investigator was every bit as confused. “Yeah. It’s the most controlled burn I’ve ever seen. It burned hot until it consumed everything in the building, almost like it knew what it was doing. Then it put itself out. We sure didn’t have anything to do with extinguishing it.” Another investigator walked over, waving his cell phone, as he entered the conversation. “Headquarters thinks it might be arson.” “You think?” Tired and frustrated from fighting the blaze, the fire chief didn’t have the patience for bureaucrats. “Rocket scientists, every one of them.” Four rescue medics carrying a body bag on a gurney passed through the area. One of the investigators stopped the medics. “What do you know about the victim?” “Toast. It’s probably the guy that owned the store, but we’ll be lucky if dental records work on this one. The fire was so hot it burned the body down to nothing.” After considering the body bag, Chance turned to her two escorts. “And they say there’s no justice left in the world. Let’s get out of here.”

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CHAPTER 89

A short while later, Chance was lying across the bed in her condo in South Beach, talking on the phone while looking in her directory. “Yes, Athens. Thank you.” Her mind was racing while she waited to be connected. “This is Chance Catel for Mr. Gogola.” There was an almost instant response, which was unusual for Gogola. “Hello.” “Uncle Mike, its Chance.” Chance listened anxiously to his query about where and what she didn’t eat. “Your dining room and dessert. I’m sorry Uncle Ang, but it appears your painting has been destroyed in a fire.” Gogola was deliberate in his response. “Chance, things have changed, conversations have occurred, and I have some advice for you. Never call me again concerning this matter and forget it ever happened. Good-bye—and good luck.” While listening to the dial tone, a number of pieces of the puzzle started coming together for Chance. Then she was struck by her most compelling revelation. “He knows.”

* * *

30-minutes later, Gogola’s two guards dropped Chance off at the motor court of Catel’s Miami estate and then headed back to Athens. Chance walked between Catel’s two guards who were standing sentry at the motor court then ran quickly to the front door as it was being opened by Xavier, Catel’s gentleman. “Good evening, Miss Chance.”

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“Is my grandfather available?” “Of course. He’s been expecting you.” Chance flashed Xavier a look as he completed his instructions. “He is in the study.” Chance ran down the long hallway that connected the grand foyer to Catel’s private study. Entering the study, Chance found Catel sitting in front of one of its two fireplaces, reading a book. Chance crossed the room and gave Catel a less than sincere kiss on his forehead. “How long have you known?” Catel closed the book then looked up at Chance. “Before you did. Sit down.” “No, thanks.” Catel bolted out of his seat with the agility of a man forty years younger. Standing face to face with Chance, he snapped his fingers then pointed to the chair. “I said sit—down.” She lowered herself into the chair with all the caution of someone ready for the worst as Catel continued. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? The trouble you’ve caused?” There was a pause in Catel’s tirade as he began pacing. “In a few short months you’ve managed to exploit one of the greatest discoveries in my lifetime for a trivial pursuit. Because of you, over a dozen people have been killed. You have some of the most dangerous people in the world trying to kill you. You’ve turned the art world upside down, put this family in jeopardy and upset your mother.” The heightened intensity of Catel’s scolding when he came to upsetting Alyse wasn’t lost on Chance. Especially considering the seeming monumental importance of the other aspects of Chance’s indiscretions. Catel went to the bar at the far side of the room and poured himself a Cognac as he continued, a bit calmer. “On the other hand, you did manage to make half a billion dollars in the process and stay alive.” He took a sip of his drink as he resumed his pacing.

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“I’ve been funding Nasser for years, since his first breakthrough. Can you imagine the potential gains if we controlled carbon dating while keeping it under wraps? “Unfortunately, the arrogant little punk got religion and tried to broker the technology on his own, and to the wrong people. He was about to start a Third World War.” “How?” “Nasser had produced a copy of the Quran that instructed the Islamic world to unite and to destroy the infidels—of which we are a part. The extremists planned to release the book before November in order to create the maximum amount of global tension and conflict before the end of the year.” “For what reason? What’s supposed to happen at the end of the year?” “That’s the problem. No one seems to know. What we’ve been able to piece together is that they used Nasser’s technology to create an additional section to the Quran, a lost sura, whose authenticity could stand up to any scientific testing. It is supposed to unify the Muslim people, both moderates and extremists, giving them control of vast oil reserves and the embedded loyalties of hundreds of millions of their people around the world. Their stranglehold on the world’s energy supply and their sheer numbers would have made them the most powerful voice and force on earth, overnight, without a single shot fired. “The unification of the Muslim world under an edict of crusade would put the entire world in conflict, greatly advantaging the Middle East. And for that they were supposed to pay Nasser an initial $2 billion and then, once the Sura was authenticated, a percentage of all future oil production from that point forward.” Chance was stunned. “All future oil production?” “Not that Nasser was ever going see a cent of that money, but think about it. That was from only one buyer, for a single application. Can you even begin to imagine the long-term potential the technology holds?” “And I was jazzed about $540 million.” “You had every right to be. There was a time when I would have

447 AVC considered half a billion dollars a lot of money.” Then Catel went back on point. “By the time we found out about Nasser’s side deal, he was already dead and his records were missing. That is, until I heard Carlos was auctioning a painting I knew he didn’t own.” “Uncle Carlos told you?” “No. He wouldn’t do that. I suspected you went to him after I told you no. And I know Carlos. There was no way he would violate a trust by confirming my suspicions. It wasn’t until the second painting surfaced that I was absolutely certain. Though at that point, we both thought you had only produced two paintings. By the time we realized what you’d really been up to, all hell broke loose. You were in danger. And between your Uncle Sergio’s heart attack and Marc’s indiscretion...” “Marc? Christ.” This was a critical piece of information for Chance. Chance looked up at her grandfather. She thought she saw an uncharacteristic flicker of alarm in his eyes, so she knew that he had revealed more than he intended. “Marc worked for you?” “He kept an eye on things.” Catel’s attempt to play down Marc’s involvement didn’t work. Nor did his choice of words, which caused Chance to rocket out of her chair. “Things?” Chance was so mad she lost perspective. “That’s all I’ve ever been to you, isn’t it? Just another one of your things. Why Marc?” Chance’s question caused Catel to interrupt. “Speaking of which, where is Marc and where are Nasser’s records?” “Why ask me?” Chance glared defiantly at her grandfather. Catel tried to reel her in. “Listen to yourself. You’re still in a great deal of danger and you’re not thinking straight.” “You’re the one who’s not thinking straight. How could you do this to me?”

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“What? Let you wreak havoc on the art world while saving your life a couple of times along the way? Because I love you.” “You don’t love me. I’m just one more thing you control, like my father. You lost him, so you latched onto me.” Chance had stepped way over the line, and she was about to make things worse. “He died because of you. You let him do your dirty work, while you and the others built your fortunes, trying to look respectable.” Catel was almost spitting in fury now. “Chance. You need to stop. And you need to leave. Now.” “With pleasure. At least I still have my mother.” Chance stormed out of the room and off the property. Though Catel realized the moment he mentioned Marc’s name that it was a mistake, there was no way he could un-ring that bell. His granddaughter’s last angry words closed around his heart and began to pierce him like nails.

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CHAPTER 90

The next evening, Catel and Alyse were in Washington, DC, attending the State Department’s annual gala black-tie event honoring Latino culture. The Kennedy Center was alive in all its crystalline glory, complete with spotlights, fireworks, and what appeared to be the entire Washington press corps. Arturo Catel and Alyse were guests of Ambassador William Manrique, a handsome, sixtyish gentleman with a commanding presence. Manrique was the US ambassador to Colombia, a long-time friend of the Catels, and the father of the late Mitra and her brother Blake Manrique. The ballet performance deserved its standing ovations. As the concert hall emptied into the lobby, Alyse paused to thank the Ambassador. “What a wonderful evening. Thank you, Uncle Bill.” The Ambassador smiled and kissed Alyse on the forehead. “You’re the only person alive who doesn’t call me Mr. Ambassador.” Alyse gave Manrique a hug as she whispered in his ear. “Someone has to keep you in line.” They laughed as Manrique reached for Catel’s hand. While the two men shook hands, a shadow of a figure with a cowboy hat tucked under his arm slipped Alyse an envelope. The delivery and the stranger went unnoticed by everyone but Alyse as Manrique commented to Catel on Alyse’s independent nature. “You’ve got your hands full with this one, Arturo.” “You have no idea.” Then Alyse turned to Florida State Representative Blake Manrique, the ambassador’s 26-year-old son. “Good seeing you, Blake. But it’s been far too long since you’ve been to the house.” “I know. Between the funeral, my reelection campaign, and Dad’s first holiday without Mitra, you can imagine. But I really have missed my time with your family, especially Chance. How is she?”

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“She’s doing well, but she misses you.” Surprised and excited by the news, Blake took the bait. “Really?” Alyse continued to draw him in. “Yes. Really.” “Will Chance be in town next week?” “Why, yes. She will.” “Great. I’ll be by.” Blake paused for a moment before providing an endearing observation. “You and Chance remind me so much of each other. You look more like sisters than mother and daughter. And you even sound alike.” “So I’ve been told. I’ll take that as a compliment and look forward to your visit—soon.” Alyse signaled Catel that it was time to leave by lightly tapping his hand twice. On cue, Catel yawned and interrupted Alyse and Blake’s conversation. “I think we’d better be going. This old soul needs his rest.” Then Catel placed a friendly hand on the ambassador’s shoulder. “Thank you. It was a wonderful evening.” Alyse slid the stranger’s note inside her purse as the two men and their entourages exited in opposite directions. While Alyse and Catel walked arm in arm, flanked on both sides by two large security guards, who as it happens were the same men who had “shipped” the paintings from Marc’s apartment, Catel turned to Alyse for advice. “Have you spoken to Chance?” “Yes. She thinks you’re responsible. But trust me, that’s not a bad thing for now.” Catel was still extremely saddened by his last encounter with Chance. “I know how much it hurts you, but don’t worry. It’s just that she’s confused and upset. I’ll take care of everything in due time.” Alyse’s reassurance had a positive effect on the old man. “Good. This is very important to me.”

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“I know. And I know she loves you deeply. I’ll make it right when the time is right.”

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CHAPTER 91

It had been a particularly hot summer in the Middle East and everyone who was anyone was looking forward to their annual exodus to the south of France. Their floating palaces were provisioned, polished and en route through the straits, then up the coast of France. Their jets were being readied to carry them to Monaco and Cannes where final preparations were being made for the boat show and the influx of nobility and notoriety. Having raised the bar by an additional twelve meters over the reigning world record, the prime minister was eager to show off his new superyacht, which had just been delivered to Monaco and was awaiting his arrival. The prime minister had one final duty before leaving on holiday. He was anxious to take possession of his yacht, and joining up with his friends along the French Riviera. But before he could leave, he had to attend a formal state luncheon at the Royal Summer Palace. The event had just ended and the guests were exiting the magnificent structure. After the prime minister descended its grand staircase, he stepped into his awaiting private limousine. The prime minister’s stretch Maybach, two escort vehicles, and two motorcycle convoy drove out of the heavily guarded grounds through its massive ornamental gates, then proceeded approximately two kilometers before pulling over to the side of the road. A look of concern came over the prime minister as he heard the click from both rear automatic door locks. “Why are we stopping?” Not having received a response from his intercom, the prime minister reached forward and knocked on the privacy screen. Though the screen only lowered a few inches, the prime minister could see a hand adjusting the rear-view mirror then the eyes of the man driving his car. “You’re not my driver. Who are you?” “I’m merely a messenger. The technology you have been counting on is lost to you because it will be exposed the moment your Quran is released. As you know, this would severely cripple the credibility of the Muslim

453 AVC religion. It could even bring about its downfall.” Outraged, the prime minister interrupted. “That is impossible.” “Nothing is impossible for those that hold your life in the balance. Nasser is dead, his technology is lost to you, and this matter has ended. Is that clear?” “How did you get past my guards? Where’s my driver?” The stranger allowed the prime minister a moment to collect his thoughts before continuing. “Do we have an understanding?” “Who are you? Who do you work for?” The stranger was growing impatient. “Do—we—have an understanding?” There was a long pause as the prime minister tried to assess his situation. “It appears I have no choice.” “Hold that thought and remember, if I was able to get to you once, I can get to you again. And the next time will be your last time.” The prime minister was silent. “After I leave the car, the first thing I want you to do is call the alim and instruct him to destroy the Quran.” “I won’t do that!” the prime minister exclaimed, summoning up the last drop of bravado he possessed. “I think you will,” the man said calmly. “You will tell him that your life depends on it and that he is to immediately burn the document. You will tell him if the document is not destroyed within 30-minutes, your life, and soon his life, too, will be terminated. Living is very important to you, but not as much to the alim. So you will also remind him about the damage that will be done to his religion if he does not comply.” The driver opened his door before completing his instructions. “After you make the call, you may sit back and relax for the next 30- minutes. During that time your car will remain locked with the air- conditioning running for your safety and comfort. If you attempt to leave the car or contact anyone other than the alim, the car will explode, killing

454 CARBON COPY you. 30-minutes from now the locking system and explosives will disengage and you can drive yourself home safely.” There was a click at the rear door across from the prime minister. The door opened and a gentleman placed what appeared to be an extremely large section of a butchered animal in a vacuumed-sealed clear plastic bag on the seat. The slab of meat was larger at the bottom and tapered at the top. It appeared to be the hind quarter of a large steer with a round opening about the size of a golf ball in the vacuum seal near the top. The rear door was closed as the driver completed his thought. “Since there wasn’t enough of Akmed left after the crash in Switzerland, I took the liberty of filleting the top two layers of your driver’s skin away after removing his arms, legs and tongue to make my point.” The prime minster took a closer look at the large side of beef and realized it was the torso of a human being as he yelled out. “Khara!” Then the prime minister jumped as far away from the horrendous object as possible. “What, not even a mention of Allah?” The man referred back to the prime minister’s driver. “Be kind,” he continued. “He is still alive and in better condition than you will be if anyone associated with you so much as approaches Ms. Catel or any of Mr. Bottega’s staff. Your driver has paid the price for Akmed killing four of Mr. Bottega’s people. You’ll pay a greater price if I ever have to return. “Remember, the luncheon you just attended was only 2-hours long. In that time, I was able to breach your national security, infiltrate your private security force, fillet your driver, and kill you if I wanted to. Don’t think for a moment that there is anything you can do that I won’t know about—or that I won’t come back for you if you violate our agreement. Understood?” Without waiting for the prime minister’s response, the man exited the limousine and closed his door, which engaged a click—arming the explosive device and the timer.

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The prime minister was so horrified at the unimaginable sight of the live remains of his driver that he was paralyzed, unable to move. As he shifted his eyes to look out his window, without so much as moving his head, he could only see the back of the man who had kidnapped him. Just before getting into one of the awaiting cars, the man waved a warning finger over his shoulder. Then the man entered the car and pulled off with the motorcycle escort. After a few moments, the prime minister called the alim and did as he had been instructed. The alim put up some resistance but eventually listened to reason. A few minutes later the stranger received confirmation from his sources that the Quran had been incinerated. The convoy was waiting at a spot only a ¼-mile from the prime minister’s location, monitoring the prime minister’s progress. Seeing that the prime minister had completed his assigned task, his kidnapper pressed a button on a distinctive looking anthracite device. This delivered a shock to the filleted driver’s sciatic nerve. Which, in turn, caused a howling, gurgling scream to come from the hole in the vacuum-wrapped slab of meat. The surprise of the horrid sound was more than the prime minister could stand. Without thinking, he instinctively grabbed his door handle in order to get as far from the wretched creature as possible, though perhaps a bit further away than he counted on. As promised, the limousine exploded into a magnificent fireball which blew off all four of the limousine’s doors, hood and truck lid. Then, a moment after the initial blast, the limousine’s gas tank exploded, sending another fireball skyward while ensuring there were no survivors. Back in his convoy, the man in charge of the prime minister’s kidnapping made a slight adjustment to his rear-view mirror for a better view of the carnage as a brief smile underscored his pleasure with the moment as he kept score. “Two down, two to go.”

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CHAPTER 92

A special courier delivered a sealed note, placing it onto Zulle’s nightstand in the master bedroom suite of his heavily fortified penthouse in New York City. Zulle had decided to pay one last visit to the most important city in the world before he annihilated it. 4-hours later, upon waking, Zulle considered the simple white envelope with the distinctive wax Caesarian crest, which he knew to be that of the absent thirteenth member. Realizing that if the courier wanted him harmed or killed that would have already happened, Zulle broke the familiar seal, then removed the note which read:

Stop him. Now. This matter has ended.

Lifting the phone on his nightstand, Zulle provided his instructions. “Get Dakar.” A few moments later Zulle was connected to Dakar. “Leave her alone.” Dakar couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “The technology is invaluable.” “How invaluable?” “Hundreds of billions of dollars.” “That’s not enough.” Dakar was concerned this might happen, understanding that billions had become the old millions and no longer held the allure they did a few short years ago for men like Zulle. “How about the unification of the entire Middle East? Total control of the world.” “That part of the plan has also been thwarted,” said Zulle. There was a pause as Dakar could almost feel Zulle’s angst at the other

457 AVC end of the call. Dakar understood the nature of such men. For them the addiction of control took over where finances left off. Dakar was aware that control was today’s most coveted plum, second only to immortality. And since immortality wasn’t available at the moment, control was the ace in the hole for Dakar—who had his own deep-seated sadistic reasons for wanting to get rid of the blight that had become known as humanity. “That leaves the New Year’s Eve event. Is it still moving forward?” inquired Dakar in a very serious tone. The thin, arrogant octogenarian who had planned the upcoming global chaos considered Dakar’s question. Looking back at the note lying on his nightstand and what the broken wax seal represented further weakened Zulle’s resolve. The harsh reality of just how powerful, capable and ruthless his opponent could be sent a chill up Zulle spine and brought perspective to the moment. Yet, in spite of it all, Zulle had too much ego and too few years left to have the opportunity to obliterate New York City and his place in history taken away from him. “Of course!” he said. “It would take a vote of the members to cancel it. And we are not meeting again until next May.” Then the two men heard what sounded like a sigh, followed by a single work, “Mistake” then the click of a third party disconnecting from their call. Zulle knew it could only be the thirteenth member. And in that brief moment, as the color drained from their faces, Zulle and Dakar were both riveted to the true order of their world, despite what they would have liked it to have been.

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CHAPTER 93

Chance retreated to her South Beach apartment to get away from everyone and everything. At least long enough for the publicity to die down and for her to work through her feelings about Marc, Mitra, and Derek. Alyse and the private force she put in place to protect Chance were the only people that knew Chance was hidden away in The Continuum. And that was fine because Bottega’s instructions were clear. “Keep Chance safe and out of the way while I clean up the mess she left behind.” Chance was only half paying attention to the news that evening until CNN reported on the “accidental death” of the prime minister. The images and editorial purported it to be a motoring accident in which the vehicle’s gas tank exploded, killing everyone in the car. A warm familiar feeling came over Chance as she reflected back on her conversation with Bottega. So she placed a call to him. “Hello, Uncle Carlos.” “Sweet Chance. So good to hear your voice.” “Thank you.” “You are more than welcome. But can I ask for what?” “I was just watching the news and I saw the second of my four problems has been resolved. Two to go.” “Ah, yes. The pleasure was all mine.” “I hope to see you soon.” “The sooner the better.”

* * *

Fleming had just returned to his one-bedroom apartment in southeast Washington, D.C. after passing Alyse his note. He hadn't even had time to lock his door when his cell phone range. Seeing it was Operator 38, he wondered aloud as he answered.

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“Don't you ever sleep?” “Lucky for you I don't. I located your girl again.” “Please tell me she's in D.C.?” “You're not that lucky- but at least she's in the States- Florida, her apartment in Miami to be exact.” “Thanks! I have something to attend to tomorrow midday. Can you get me on one of the Gs early evening?” “Was that a polite request?” “It's late. I'm not thinking straight.” A smile came over Operator 38 as she answered. “Done.” Fleming took the dial tone to be an endearment.

* * *

Alyse entered the bedroom of her apartment in The Watergate anxious to look at the envelope that had been passed to her earlier that evening by the stranger. As she opened it, a business card fell out onto the bed that Alyse ignored as she began reading the note.

MRS. CATEL,

YOUR DAUGHTER IS IN SERIOUS TROUBLE. I’LL MEET YOU AT THE FOUR SEASONS TOMORROW, 12 NOON. COME ALONE. ONLY I CAN HELP.

Alyse picked up the business card for additional information.

INTERPOL Simon Fleming, Senior Investigator

Alyse gave the matter some thought as she tapped Fleming’s business card against her nightstand, considering her options.

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CHAPTER 94

It was 11:55 a.m. the next morning when Alyse’s town car pulled up to the front entrance of the Four Seasons Hotel in Washington, D.C.’s fashionable Georgetown district. Lifting a finger, she signaled the doorman and attendant not to approach her car until she completed her conversation with Xavier, her driver. “I’ll be back in less than 30-minutes.” “I should be with you.” It was apparent that Xavier was very concerned. “No. Fleming’s not going to talk in front of a witness. Don’t worry. I’ll keep my communicator on so you’ll be able to hear everything that’s happening.” Alyse activated her distinctive anthracite device, then slipped it back into her purse. “If I need help, you will be able to get to me in a matter of seconds.” As Alyse exited the town car, Xavier left her with a sobering thought. “Do you have any idea how much damage can be done in a split second?”

* * *

There is a system of locks and canals that was created back in the 1800s to move tobacco, whiskey and other products from as far west as Ohio to Washington, DC and its shipping port on the Potomac. A section of that infrastructure has been preserved as a historic landmark running through Georgetown, separating the Four Seasons Hotel from an office building less than a hundred feet to the south, on the other side of the canal. Krug, the driver of the Paris surveillance car, entered the lobby of the office building across the canal from the Four Seasons, carrying a briefcase.

* * *

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Inside the Four Seasons Hotel, Alyse and Fleming were seated in the restaurant, one floor down from the lobby having a conversation, which Alyse was ending. “While entertaining, it’s a bit far-fetched. A college girl, with no history of criminal activity, not so much as a parking ticket, managed to engineer and successfully execute the single most elaborate and lucrative art forgery in history. Which, incidentally, is technically impossible.”

* * *

Across the canal, Krug laid his briefcase on a credenza under a window, opened the case and began assembling an M82A3 Special Application Scoped Rifle. Looking out the window, across the narrow canal, and into the window of the Four Seasons, he was able to see Alyse and Fleming involved in their meeting.

* * *

Fleming felt his position weakening, so he became heavy-handed. “She’s your daughter, for Christ’s sake. You’re going to let her go down to save Catel?” Alyse’s calm demeanor was all the more disarming, causing Fleming to start to unravel. “You said Chance was in trouble. That’s the only reason I agreed to this meeting.”

* * *

Across the canal from the rifle scope’s point of view, Krug had a tight shot of the side of Fleming’s head.

* * *

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Inside the hotel, Alyse was satisfied. She felt she had the situation under control, believing she had neutralized any advantage Fleming may have thought he had. So, she began the process of ending the meeting. “Mr. Fleming, it is obvious Chance isn’t in danger and you have nothing that Mr. Catel would even consider bothersome. You appear to be a man who thinks he has an answer but is in search of a question.” Alyse stood as she concluded her thought. “Good day, sir.” As Alyse began to leave, Fleming grabbed her arm, moving Fleming out of the rifle’s line of sight. Alyse grimaced in pain under Fleming’s tight grip. Then he drew her closer, making their altercation undetectable to the other people in the restaurant. “Not so fast. You see, I bought myself a little insurance policy.” Fleming took an envelope from inside his jacket and flipped it open for Alyse to see the piece of paint-stained sheet that was missing from Marc’s canvas cover. “Which is?” “A piece of 400-year-old canvas and paints with your daughter’s DNA that shouldn’t, but does exist. Irrefutable evidence that ties your daughter and her boyfriend to both of the paintings. It will hold up in court.” “You’re setting her up.” “It’s her or the old man. Your call.”

* * *

Xavier was startled at the tone of Alyse’s voice and Fleming’s threat. So, he bolted out of the car and headed toward them.

* * *

The rifle was once again aimed at Fleming’s head as he and Alyse’s struggle continued, with Fleming holding on tight to Alyse’s arm.

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Krug released the safety and started squeezing the trigger of the sniper rifle with Fleming’s head squarely in his crosshairs.

* * *

To break free of Fleming’s grip and even the score, Alyse snatched the envelope with one hand while landing a round-house punch to Fleming’s jaw with the other, slamming Fleming’s head backwards and spinning Alyse around, free from his grip. In that moment of incalculable misfortune, Alyse was now in the bullet’s path. There was a muffled pop and the shattering of glass as the bullet entered the room then struck Alyse in her upper back, splattering blood over Fleming as Alyse fell to the floor.

* * *

When the bullet passed through the window, it caused the huge tempered glass panel to shatter into thousands of little pieces that were held together by the laminate of the window. As Krug strained to look through the kaleidoscope effect, all he could see was the silhouette of Alyse falling to the floor and Fleming spinning around.

* * *

Fleming drew his gun and dove down to protect Alyse’s motionless body as he yelled at the maitre d’. “Get an ambulance. Now!” At the same time, Xavier was rushing through the lobby, tossing people aside as he sliced through the crowd. As he entered the lounge, he saw Fleming get up then turn back in the direction of the shot.

* * *

Krug was about to take a wild shot through the distorted glass when the sight of his rifle passed over the bullet hole, giving him a partial view

464 CARBON COPY inside the lounge. He had the corner of Fleming’s head in his crosshairs, adjusted then fired.

* * *

The second bullet grazed the edge of the first hole in the window, then hit Fleming in his forehead, throwing him back away from Alyse and onto the floor. Panic filled the area as Xavier picked Alyse up, still gripping Fleming’s envelope, then rushed her out of the hotel and into her town car before speeding away.

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CHAPTER 95

Later that afternoon, Chance ran frantically down the hallway of a private wing in the George Washington Hospital until she saw the “shippers” standing sentry outside the door of Alyse’s room. Chance flashed both of them a look, proclaiming their guilt on a number of counts, as she entered the private suite. Xavier was seated in a darkened corner, unnoticed by Chance as she became overwhelmed at the sight of her mother in a hospital bed, tethered to a wall of life-support equipment. Rushing straight to Alyse’s side, Chance gently kissed her mother’s cheek, causing Alyse to wake up. “Mom.” Alyse’s eyes opened slowly. “Hi, honey.” Chance’s eyes welled up. That was the first time she had ever seen her mother looking frail or damaged. “How could something like this happen, especially to you?” Alyse’s voice was soft and weak, her speech slow but clear. “Because it was all my fault. Things—just—went—wrong.” Chance wanted to be confused but she wasn’t, as she began to feel one of the last pieces of her life’s puzzle falling into place. This was a piece she didn’t want to admit to herself, but that she had suspected for years. “Things? Your fault? NO!” Chance put her hands over her ears as if to block the unwanted truth that was surely to be Alyse’s next revelation. Unfortunately, her hands did nothing to the block the message. Though Alyse’s voice was soft and weak, her words pierced through to Chance’s soul. “Don’t be mad at Grandpa. It wasn’t him. It was me. Marc, Paris, the pharmacy. It has—always—been me. Since shortly after your father’s death. It has—always—been me.” “What are you saying? This is crazy.”

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But in her heart Chance knew it was the truth. Frustrated, mad and confused, Chance bolted out of Alyse’s room before she said something she’d never forgive herself for. After shoving the shippers aside, Chance headed for the elevator. Xavier followed close behind. As the elevator door opened, Xavier pushed Chance inside and hit the button marked ROOFTOP TERRACE. “Leave me alone.” “Not this time.” Xavier exhibited a controlled authority that Chance had only seen in Catel and Bottega, and it frightened her. As the elevator door opened, Xavier shoved Chance out onto the deserted rooftop. He was livid and Chance was visibly shaken. “How dare you treat your family this way? Do you have any idea what these people have done for you?” “Done to me, you mean.” Xavier slapped Chance across the face. The slap came from out of nowhere and Chance was as stunned as she was hurt. It was the first and only time in her life that Chance had ever been hit. But she could do nothing more than yell out a feeble protest. “Who do you think you are?” “Me? I’m a street punk who is alive today because a man I didn’t know cared enough to take me into his home. And for that, I owe him my life. The real question is, who do you think you are?” “Your worst nightmare if you don’t back off. You’re way out of line, Xavier.” “I don’t think so.” Xavier drove a finger into Chance’s right shoulder, causing her to wince in pain and stumble backwards towards the edge of the roof. “You want to play in the real world but you’re not willing to take responsibility for your actions.” He drove another finger into her shoulder, causing Chance to wince and stumble back even further. As she glanced behind herself, she saw the edge of the roof drawing dangerously close.

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“You’re upset because you were spied on? Time to grow up, Princess. If it wasn’t for your mother keeping an eye on you, we wouldn’t be having this conversation, because you’d be dead, four times over.” Now Chance was backed up against the roof parapet, inches from a thirteen-story drop. Her heart was racing as her voice cracked. “You can’t be serious.” Xavier slammed both of his open hands downward onto Chance’s shoulders, forcing her to sit on the edge of the parapet, one easy push away from what would appear to be a suicidal jump. Then he leaned in, his face inches away from hers. Xavier was intense as he raised his hands in the air, turned and walked a few steps away, leaving Chance seated on the edge. “The simplest ideas are always the best. Who would suspect a woman, not even blood? It was perfect.” Then his tone shifted to prophetic. “Just let them believe what they think they already know. That’s what the old man used to tell me.” Chance was breathing deeply in an effort to avoid bursting out into tears while Xavier returned to the moment and looked directly into her eyes, displaying a deep sense of caring. “Everyone screws up once in a while,” he said. Xavier took Chance’s hand, bringing her to safety. Then they began walking away from the edge of the roof, back to the elevator as he continued. “What matters is what you do about it. Tonight, you can make a lot of things right. Tomorrow may be too late. But this is what I know. If you leave it like this, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.” Then they entered the elevator.

* * *

Back in Alyse’s hospital room, Chance sat at Alyse’s side and held her mother’s hand. “I really made a mess of things, huh?” Alyse lightly squeezed Chance’s hand.

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“Maybe just a little. On the other hand, you probably prevented World War III.” Alyse grimaced slightly. She had insisted on low levels of pain medication so she could be as lucid as possible knowing Chance was on her way, and her pain was obvious as she continued her explanation. “I should have seen it coming. You did exactly what came naturally, what you were trained for your entire life. I just never knew you were paying attention.” “Why Marc?” Chance’s face was wracked with pain as she asked the question. Alyse sighed. “The night we talked, before you left for Paris, I really thought you were going to get away from it all. So, I contracted Marc to keep an eye on you. It’s what any mother would do. When you found Marc in Paris, aside from shocking the heck out of him, he just went with the flow, and that’s where it should have ended. “I never counted on you actually going after Mitra’s murderer or crafting a plan that included Marc. And I certainly didn’t factor in your romance. “Then one thing led to another. And before I knew it, I was no longer in control. You had taken over the technology that controlled the direction everyone was heading.” “So, you’ve always known everything?” “All but one thing.” Alyse paused to catch her breath. “Whatever happened to Nasser’s technology?” Chance reached into her blouse and took a thumb drive out of a hidden pocket in her bra just far enough for Alyse to see it before sliding it back out of sight. Alyse’s smile was radiant. “Excellent.” “My turn. How about Mitra? Who did she work for?” Alyse’s smile faded as she closed her eyes and drifted off. The steady hum from Alyse’s life support monitor signaled her flatline. “NO!”

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Chance’s scream and the continuous flatline tone put a small army of doctors, nurses and security guards into motion. Xavier and the two shippers rushed into the room, followed by a half dozen hospital staff. In one fluid movement they all attended to Alyse with mechanical precision. Chance was against the wall, her attention riveted on the flat line. Alyse’s defibrillation and arching body seemed a soft muted backdrop to Chance’s senses as her world slowly dimmed to black with the passing of her mother. * * *

“This is how it begins. Maybe I can’t touch you directly. But I’m going to unravel your life and make it a living hell, one loved-one at a time.” Zulle was intense as he sat alone in his subterranean lair watching Alyse’s death and Chance’s grief unfold through The Group’s covert surveillance network.

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CHAPTER 96

Alyse’s death sent a shockwave through the World’s One Percent. Family members, heads of state, captains of industry, religious leaders, friends and even enemies all grieved the news and made arrangements to be at Alyse’s memorial service. The logistic and security preparation for Alyse’s farewell services were of epic proportions considering Alyse wasn’t a Pope or a President of a superpower. To accommodate the unprecedented numbers and status of those attending Alyse’s memorial service, it was held in Saint Patrick’s Cathedral on 50th Street and 5th Avenue in Manhattan.

* * *

Everything was still a blur except the pain. Simon Fleming had the worst headache of his life. And the incessant beeping from the hospital monitoring equipment was only making a bad situation worse. At least he was alive, and against all odds. Even so, he wanted nothing more than to slip back into peaceful oblivion. But a familiar scent made him force his eyes open. He saw a woman sitting in the chair next to his bed with tears streaming down her cheeks. He didn’t recognize her at first. It had been two years. She had grown her hair out and returned it to its natural color. She had put a few much-needed pounds onto her thin, athletic frame, making her look much younger. And she was even more beautiful than he remembered. The look in her eyes was new to Fleming, mostly a mixture of anger and pain, but something else, too. Unable to put his feelings into words, he reached for her hand. To his relief she held onto it, giving him the hope that she could possibly still love him. “I still don’t forgive you.” He gave her a small half smile as he replied, “That’s okay, neither do I.”

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They sat locked in the moment until Fleming broke the spell. “Oh shit! Can you go check on the dog?” The look on her face was priceless. “You got a DOG?!?” Fleming was stoic, having been jaded by years of disapproval. But she was miffed, having unsuccessfully tried to get Fleming to get her a dog for years. “Fine, since it looks like you’re going to live. Which means the dog would be better off with me any way. You can visit it on major holidays.” A smile came over both Fleming and his ex-wife as their conversation continued to grow warmer.

* * *

It was the wee hours of the morning when Stephen Whalen woke up to start his day. Whalen was the driver of the Sterling Funeral Home’s hearse that would be bringing Alyse’s body from the funeral home to the Cathedral then to her final resting place in the Cane family’s mausoleum in Pennsylvania. It was a pleasant morning. Whalen left home, stopped for his daily coffee and donut, then headed back to his car. As he settled into the driver’s seat, a man in the backseat injected a syringe into Whalen’s neck. Whalen spent the rest of the day in his trunk—peacefully drugged.

* * *

“Good morning, Stevie.” The man, who had taken Whalen’s place and identity with the aid of a cosmetic facial mask, handed the other usher manning the hearse Whalen’s coffee and donut. “Here.” “Thanks? What’s up?” From the usher’s tone the imposter knew sharing wasn’t a typical occurrence, so he adjusted.

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“My stomach’s a little out of sorts. Do you mind taking care of things today? I’ll drive and stay with the car.” “No problem.”

* * *

St. Patrick’s was overflowing, far beyond capacity with every inch of standing room taken. Even so, the reverence that the Cathedral imparted was the perfect complement to Catel’s presentation of Alyse’s eulogy. It was a magnificent tribute to a life well lived, causing those in attendance to feel honored to have known Alyse and to be a part of that very special day. Still, throughout the ceremony, and despite the perfection of its execution, there was a subtle undercurrent that something was out of place. And while Chance couldn’t put her finger on it, she knew something wasn’t right. It wasn't the long 97-mile drive from the Cathedral to the mausoleum, which had been compounded by heavy traffic, or the saddening effect Ricky’s distant stare always had on Catel, or even Chance’s preoccupation with the hearse just ahead. But there was definitely something gnawing at Chance. The service and eulogies at the mausoleum were wonderful, the President of Ukraine’s tribute being particularly warm, from the heart and endearing. As the ceremony ended, everyone reentered their cars and left except for Chance, Ricky, and the driver in the hearse who waited behind to keep Alyse company while her mausoleum was being sealed. Chance and Ricky sat quietly on wooden folding chairs draped in white cotton covers, biding their time as they waited for the interment crew to arrive. Chance was introspective. Ricky was absorbed. And the driver of the hearse was cautious as he sat behind the wheel in his disguise, paying his last respects and honoring a lady he admired dearly by keeping her company on her final journey. Chance was about to reach over for Ricky’s hand when he stood up, walked over to Alyse, then placed both his hands on her casket.

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That would have been enough to get Chance’s attention. But it was the way Ricky moved, solid and with purpose, that caught her off guard. It was as though he had shed all signs of his condition. The fury in his expression said it all. The senseless slaying of this great woman, his deep admiration for the strength she showed in her life, and a grief beyond measure at the enormity of his loss. It was as though Ricky was about to deliver his own eulogy to the most important person in his life. The person who had given him life but had also just left him—forever. But of course, that wasn’t to be. Despite the overwhelming anticipation that moment created, not a single word came forth—only the interment team. After waiting a few moments, Chance walked up alongside her brother, reached out and took his hand returning them to their white- cotton-draped chairs to protect their mother until the end.

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CHAPTER 97

Though it was only 8:00 p.m. when Chance and Ricky returned to the Waldorf, she was emotionally drained. Alyse’s memorial celebration had been a wonderful tribute, which accomplished exactly what Alyse would have wanted—the celebration of a life well lived. After bringing Ricky to his suite and leaving him in the care of Xavier, Chance went to her suite. The moment she walked into the foyer something felt unusual. But it wasn’t until she had taken off her makeup and was ready to climb into bed that she found the unfolded wrapper from one of the chocolates on her pillow along with a note that read:

Your mother was a magnificent lady and she will be missed.

Marc

P.S. The chocolates are better in Switzerland.

* * *

It had been four months since Marc fled. He had been diligent in his planning. Everything he needed to disappear forever was in place and ready for his surgeries, which were scheduled to begin in two days. Just when he was ready to execute the final phases of his plan, he was faced with two pieces of unwanted information. The first was that Alyse had died. Having served on her special detail his entire adult life, Marc had come to both respect and care for Alyse. And even though his final assignment to monitor and protect Chance after Mitra’s murder went very wrong, he honestly believed it wasn’t entirely his doing. Chance conned him. And Marc was fairly sure Alyse had been straight with him throughout the debacle. Marc also knew Alyse was opposed to Bottega’s contract on Marc’s life. And he believed Alyse would have pushed to remove the contract had she lived. All of this deepened

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Marc’s feelings of respect and loyalty for Alyse, which is why he risked his plan and life to be at Alyse’s interment at the mausoleum. The second concerned Chance and the fact that she wasn't supposed to be anywhere near New York on New Year's Eve. Alyse's December 31st celebration had been in the planning for over a year, but before her death she decided to move the venue to Paris. After her death, rather than cancel the event, Arturo decided to go forward with Alyse’s “birthday party” as a celebration of her life rather than a cancelled reminder of her death. Catel believed that is what Alyse would have wanted. And the idea of everybody flying to Paris after the funeral was ridiculous in Catel’s mind. So, with no knowledge of Zulle’s plan or Alyse’s $50 million payoff, Catel proclaimed, “Let’s just do it at the Waldorf. She wanted to do it there in the first place.” Hundreds of family and friends would be staying at the hotel. Given Marc’s circumstance, those two items should have had no impact on his life or his plans. But when it came to Alyse and Chance, even simple things had a way of becoming complicated. Marc had no idea Zulle had planned the New Year’s Eve bombing or that Alyse and nine other prominent individuals had been approached by Zulle’s operative. What he did know was that Alyse had trusted and instructed him, for whatever reason, to ensure that Chance would not be in New York on New Year’s Eve. With Alyse dead and Bottega wanting Marc to join her, Marc didn’t give the New York issue another thought—not until getting word that Alyse’s birthday celebration had been moved from Paris back to New York City. Which meant Chance was certain to be in New York on New Year’s Eve. With some unknown event about to affect New York in less than three days, Marc found himself at another unwanted crossroads in his life. With everything to gain by seeing his permanent disappearance through and everything to lose by emerging from his deep cover, the last thing Marc needed was love and loyalty to put him at risk. But that’s exactly what was happening. Marc loved Chance and was loyal to Alyse to a degree that was beyond his comprehension or ability to control.

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Still, three days to figure out what was going on and how to stop it was a tall task, even for one of the most effective operatives in the world.

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CHAPTER 98

On the night of December 27th, as Alyse was being entombed, Zulle was in his Geneva home watching a sports event on Swiss television that always amused him—traditional Swiss wrestling called Schwingen, which loosely translates to “underwear lifting.” Sure enough, in this sport, gigantic rustic Swiss put on britches made of burlap, and, well, stick their hands down each other’s shorts trying to lift each other up and pin one another on the ground, which is covered with sawdust. Zulle was smiling as the winner of the match brushed the sawdust off the loser’s back, a gesture that always moved him deeply. Tonight it made him think of Stone, who was going to be the loser in their grudge match. Yes, Zulle may have lost rounds one and two with the burning of the Quran and having to back off from having Chance killed. But within 72-hours New York City would be destroyed and Zulle would be brushing the sawdust, so to speak, off Stone’s back. Zulle was relishing this idea when the phone rang. He saw from the caller ID that it was Dubois and answered with a sigh. “Calling to gloat?” “Now, now—let’s not be bitter. Okay, so maybe your doctored Quran isn’t fire proof. But you still get to blow up New York City. That’s got to be worth something? Anyway, I just felt like chatting with an old friend. And since you are the oldest person I know…” “Don’t flatter yourself.” “Ouch.” “Why did you really call?” “To report back. I promised I would send in my best operative.” Dubois was referring to his companion, the beautiful jogger now wearing a sheer evening gown, caressing Dubois’ shoulder as he spoke to Zulle. She had been sent to seduce, spy and report back on Stone. She picked-up then raised her Bellini as an appreciative gesture in response to Dubois’ comment.

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“She reported there was nothing to find,” Dubois announced. “Don’t give me that shit. We both know he’s up to something. If anything goes wrong on New Year’s we’ll all know who to blame.” “Nothing is going to go wrong. Good luck on your Big Apple barbeque. Give your paranoia a rest and enjoy the evening—you sadistic relic.” A smile came over Dubois as Zulle hung up.

* * *

Early the next morning, Bottega was leading his favorite Friesian horse back to the stables after an early morning ride on the beach. Feeling the unfamiliar vibration of his cell phone, he took it from his pocket. “Carlos, it’s me.” It was the last person on earth he expected to hear from. “Don’t hang up.” “I don’t intend to.” Bottega motioned a stable boy over, handing him the reins of the horse. Then he began walking toward the main house. “I’m listening.” “I know you want to kill me. I can’t blame you, really. But this call isn’t about me. It’s about Chance.” Bottega’s teeth clenched at the mention of his “niece’s” name by this traitorous ingrate, let alone the other things he was trying not to imagine that Marc had probably done to her. “Forget Chance,” said Bottega. “That’s over now.” “Actually—it’s not. I was given an assignment to protect her.” “The woman who gave you that assignment was laid to rest yesterday. And you’ll be joining her shortly. In any event, you are no longer under her employment.” “Carlos, listen to me,” Marc pleaded. “And why should I?” Bottega spat. “Because Chance’s life depends on it.” The silence told Marc he had Bottega’s attention. Marc explained to Bottega how Alyse had given him the special instruction of keeping Chance

479 AVC away from New York City on New Year’s Eve. Then Marc asked, “Do you have any information about an attack planned for New Year’s Eve in New York?” “No, but I’ll make a call,” said Bottega, pensively. “You understand— this doesn’t change anything between us.” “I understand.” “How do I get back in touch with you once I have the information you require?” “Nice try.” Both men smiled as Marc completed his thought. “I’ll call you back in an hour.” Bottega hung up and tried to reach David Stone. But he got no answer. An angst racked Bottega as he thought to himself, ‘A moment ago I was peacefully cantering down one of the most beautiful beaches in the world on my favorite horse...now this.’

* * *

It was early afternoon in the crisp Pennsylvania countryside. The young couple dressed in mechanics’ jumpsuits finished lunch, packed food for their trip then loaded the nuclear backpack in their modified Fairfax County ambulance, which now appeared to be a New York based emergency roadside vehicle. After a sweep of their one-bedroom farm house and confident there was no evidence of their having stayed there, the young man locked the farmhouse door. Then they drove away from Bethlehem, Pennsylvania on their 84-mile final journey to the Empire State Building, allowing adequate time regardless of traffic.

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CHAPTER 99

On New Year’s Eve all but two of The Group were hidden away in their respective lairs, reclusive and safe in anticipation of the global chaos that was about to unfold. They sat watching large monitors, suspended in the air just in front of each of them, with voice-links so they could communicate with one another. “Good evening,” said Zulle, over the voice-link. “I’m glad we could all be together, virtually, at least, to bring this New Year in with a bang.” Zulle and the thirteenth member where the only two not in their lairs. Zulle wasn’t in Switzerland or even on land. Instead, he was safe and sound, hundreds of miles from any threat, regardless of any New Year’s Eve backlash, cruising the North Atlantic. At 10:30 p.m. New York time, 375-nautical miles off the banks of Newfoundland, it was a lovely, clear evening with a moon so bright you could read from it. Calm seas and a ten-knot northeasterly wind prevailed as the 132-meter superyacht Souverän approached 41o43’57” N, 49o56’49” W—the resting place of Titanic. Though he had never met him, throughout his youth Gaston Zulle had heard the amazing stories of his grandfather’s extraordinary accomplishments, especially his decision to stay onboard the ill-fated ocean liner to ensure his daughter’s place on lifeboat #173. She was Zulle’s mother, and she spent two frigid days and nights on the icy waters of the Atlantic before her lifeboat was rescued, a 1,000-miles due east of Boston. That is why at precisely 2:20 a.m. on April 15, the anniversary of his grandfather’s death—and Titanic’s sinking—and 1:05 a.m. on January 1, the anniversary of his grandfather’s birth, Souverän was at that precise location paying its respects to Zulle’s lineage—whether Zulle was onboard or not. The evening was very special for Zulle. He considered it his greatest victory—his legacy to a lifetime of disdain for humanity and the global pestilence he felt it propagated. Though he didn’t share his belief with the

481 AVC other members of The Group, Zulle privately felt blowing up New York would be enough to start World War III as soon as a dissident group claimed responsibility—even without the help of his altered Quran.

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CHAPTER 100

Times Square was a sea of unified chaos, a massive living labyrinth made up of over a million tourists from around the world somehow moving and coexisting in harmony. People were bundled up in their down jackets and huddled together singing, shouting, and partying the night away. One man stood alone. He was wearing an expensive overcoat—vicuna, perhaps. It was open in the front but he didn’t look cold. He looked sad. Standing there alone, staring up at the New Year’s Eve ball that was poised, ready to drop, he knew he should have been as excited as the crowd surrounding him. Instead, he felt awkward, unaccustomed to being among the masses. While being squeezed-in by them should have reinforced his belief in the need for population control, it did just the opposite that evening. Looking into their faces, it occurred to him for the first time that they were individuals, not just an abstract mass in need of reduction. He was looking at them almost lovingly, because they were his people, many, Americans of all shapes and sizes. Though collectively they didn’t represent a fraction of his net worth or capable of comprehending his extraordinary position of power, he felt a closeness to each and every one of them that evening. But he had also failed them. And try as he might, he had been unable to stop the event that had been set in motion. An event that he sanctioned by his own vote. And, in just a short while they were all going to die—he along with them. A few hours earlier, David Stone had left his secure lair in the Hamptons, flown to the South Street Heliport in his private helicopter, then had one of his drivers take him to midtown. Stone had decided to throw in the towel. But after looking downtown from Times Square and seeing the distinct profile of the Empire State Building, Stone was hit by a surge of overwhelming rage.

* * *

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New York City’s traffic control system includes a network of cameras that blanketed the entire island. Its’ license plate recognition technology allowed Zulle to locate and track the progress of his young operatives as their emergency roadside vehicle entered the city limits with his important cargo. The couple arrived at the MTP parking garage at 35 West 33rd Street, parking in a remote reserved spot where they waited inside their vehicle.

* * *

At 11:40 P.M. the young couple got into the back of their vehicle and changed from their mechanics jumpsuits into New York City Emergency Response uniforms. Then they exited and began peeling-off the large decals that disguised the entire vehicle. Within moments their vehicle was transformed for a third time, now a New York City Emergency Response vehicle. After a quick exchange of magnetic license plates and credentials slung around their necks for authentication, the couple climbed into their vehicle. The young lady placed an emergency call to the front desk of the Empire State Building. “This is Sharon Mason. I am an attendant on the Observation Deck. We have a situation. Male, approximately 60 years old, apparent heart attack. NYER has been contacted and should be arriving shortly.” “We will clear service elevator 2 for them now.” “Thank you.” The emergency vehicle existed the garage by 11:50 P.M. As soon as they were squarely on the public street, the young lady turned on all the vehicle’s emergency lights and sirens, parting barriers and pedestrians for the few blocks to the entrance of the Empire State Building. After pulling-up directly in front of the Empire State Building the couple got out of the vehicle, removed a gurney from the aft section along with the nuclear backpack that had been placed in a defibrillator case.

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* * *

“This is it, ladies and gentleman,” said Zulle through his headset. “We might not have the Muslim world united as planned, but the destruction that is about to occur will be a solid start on our path to accelerated population management. No regrets, I hope, David?” There was no response. “David, are you there?” “We were talking earlier this evening,” said Dubois. “From his lair in the Hamptons. He sounded depressed.” “That’s to be expected,” Zulle smirked. “He lost. He has a right to be depressed. And to the victor go the spoils. Isn’t that right, Mr. Yee?” The Chinese member chuckled. * * * Stone had been trying desperately to run the eight blocks from Times Square to 34th street, but the sidewalks were swarming with a mass of bodies, reducing his run to a crawl. Finally, he made a mad dash down the middle of Broadway, running directly at traffic into a hailstorm of honking cabs.

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CHAPTER 101

While Alyse’s “birthday party” at the Waldorf was spectacular, it was also unsettling—much like a wonderful outdoor wedding with a storm cloud lingering overhead, ready to rain down at any moment. And though the ladies were draped in exquisite gowns, the wine was terrific, and the endless tables of seafood, meats and desserts caused everyone to overindulge, there was a forced gaiety that Chance found exhausting. “Excuse me,” she said to a passing waiter as she exchanged her empty champagne glass for the last full one on his silver serving tray. The exchange was fluid, taking only a moment. Still, in that moment Chance got a brief glance at the waiter with a neatly cropped beard and ponytail. There was something about him that made her feel warm and at ease for the first time that evening—if only for a moment. Sipping her champagne, she thought about the waiter until its unexpected taste provided an even stronger distraction—Bollinger Blanc de Noirs. Surely her grandfather hadn’t ordered thousand-dollar champagne— there would be over 500 bottles of champagne poured that night, at the least. Even for Catel, spending that amount on drink would be seen as absurd. Inexplicably, the rich full taste and her impression of the waiter collided. What was it about his face? For a second she tried to picture him without the beard and ponytail. And that’s when it hit her. “Marc!” she practically screamed. It was him. She knew it was. She took off into the crowd in the direction he had gone. She saw staff everywhere, in their same black aprons and crisp white shirts. But no one with a beard and a ponytail. He was gone.

* * * Once outside the Empire State Building’s high-speed elevator, the view

486 CARBON COPY from its observation deck was breathtaking. Stretching out over countless buildings, across two rivers and three states, the view seemed to go on forever in every direction, bringing to mind something once said: “You can live in New York all your life, but until you see it from the top of the Empire State Building, you haven’t seen the city.” Images from the observation deck’s cameras allowed The Twelve to zoom in and see the young couple walking to a less crowded corner on the platform. The young man drew his lovely companion closer. The intensity of their embrace was that of a longing that couldn’t be satisfied. After a minute or so, the young couple’s affection solicited an impatient response from Alexandrov in his lair, who had grown weary of their intimacy. “Do—you—mind?” It was as if the young woman could sense Alexandrov’s impatience as she allowed her companion to step back, remove the backpack from his shoulder then set it on the ground.

* * *

The glimmering Waterford crystal ball began its seventy-seven-foot, sixty-second descent—as hundreds of millions of people from around the world watched in anticipation. Some were in the quiet, peaceful seclusion of their beds. Others screamed out in large, boisterous crowds in New Year’s Eve parties in houses, halls and public squares. Just about any place on earth with a television and reception of New York’s Time Square turned into a party, yelling out each declining second. Unbeknownst to them, it was much more than the beginning of another year. It was also the beginning of their end.

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CHAPTER 102

Chance, Ricky, and their grandfather wrapped their arms around each other as the countdown was led from a stage at the Waldorf. And as warm and loving as it was, not having Alyse in the embrace caused it to seem a sad way to bring in the New Year. “We still have each other,” Chance said bravely. “And somehow I feel that Mom is still with us.” “Oh, you have no idea,” said Catel obliquely as he casually glanced to Chance. Chance cocked her head at the old man—wondering what he meant by that.

* * *

From their various lairs and private feeds, The Group watched as the young man on the Empire State Building’s observation deck opened the backpack’s top zipper. A camera zoomed in even tighter to reveal a timing device set for eight seconds and a keypad. With robotic precision the young man began entering a fourteen-digit code that triggered the timer to begin the countdown of its remaining eight seconds. As he entered the tenth digit of the code, his body was slammed violently sideways and away from the bomb.

* * *

“What the hell!” yelled Zulle. “Well, I’ll be damned!” Unlike Zulle, Dubois was pleased. “It appears David has grown a set,” quipped Liz. “A rather large set at that.” The Group would have chuckled at Liz’s uncharacteristic outburst, but there was too much at stake for laughter.

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* * *

She was right—David had snapped. And though he knew Zulle would have him killed, there was no way he could let his countrymen suffer a second blow on his watch. Almost everyone in the crowd moved back. It appeared Stone’s surprise attack had given him the upper hand until he was thrown off his attack when the young man’s girlfriend jumped on Stone’s back, grabbed him around his neck, pounding him repeatedly on the back of his head while screaming. “Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!” Stone tried to reach around, but couldn’t free himself from her. “Stop it!” she yelled again, as she slugged Stone square in the side of his head, dropping Stone to his knees. Another hard blow between his eyes dropped Stone to the deck, out cold. “You bitch!” As she turned in the direction of the voice, the last thing she saw was a man with a ponytail and beard throwing a punch at her. Marc slammed the girl hard between her eyes, knocking her out. As her body hit the ground alongside Stone, Marc looked for a knapsack.

* * *

“Who the hell is that!” shouted Zulle. “Is that...?” Dubois was holding back laughter at this point. “It’s that painter chap,” Liz chimed in. “I’d recognize that tight backside anywhere.” This time, her comments were met with several laughs from members of The Group, momentarily easing the tension.

* * *

Marc was still wearing his waiter’s uniform from the Waldorf. ‘Okay’, he admitted to himself, maybe his romantic gesture of ringing in the New Year with Chance and a bottle of champagne had delayed his

489 AVC arrival somewhat—perhaps even endangering the survival of the free world—but he’d made it. As he moved from the downed woman Marc yield out to her boyfriend. “That's why you don't send a woman to do a man's job.” The boyfriend was hovering back over the nuclear device, attempting to complete entry of the arming code. He looked up at Marc with rage in his eyes then reached inside his trousers pocket where something silver flashed in the lights of the observation deck. “Seriously?!" Marc mocked, as the man waved the knife in front of him. Marc dodged a couple swipes of the knife before looking the man right in eyes. “I don’t have time for this.” Marc delivered a blow to the young man's chest that doubled him over in pain. Then he took aim giving the young man a soccer type kick that nearly ripped his head off his shoulders—putting him permanently out of commission. “Happy New Year,” Marc commented as he looked up to one of the observation deck camera, right into the faces of The Twelve then unceremoniously picked up the nuclear device, threw it over his shoulder and left. Just then the Waterford ball settled into its cradle and the clock changed from one second to zero, signaling in the New Year to the delight of the entire free world. As billions of people enjoyed their annual tradition, they had no idea that over half of their lives had just been saved by a perfect stranger, with a little help from David Stone.

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CHAPTER 103

Stone struggled to get to his feet, looked at the two downed terrorists then made his way through the crowd to the railing of the observation deck. The ball had already fallen and everyone was hugging and kissing one another. Stone didn’t have much time to think about what went wrong as an attractive out-of-towner from Winnetka, Illinois, named Julia Bennet, who had driven all the way to New York with her equally attractive best friend, Gloria Johnson, grabbed Stone, wished him a Happy New Year and kissed him full on the lips. Julia Bennet, as it turned out, was a hell of a kisser. And she and Gloria were about to have the night of their lives.

* * *

Zulle was unable to continue watching the images of Times Square after the ball made its descent and... nothing happened. He certainly had no intention in staying around for the gloating comments that were inevitable from Dubois. Instead, he yelled out as he ripped off his headset. “Stone, you’re a dead man!” Zulle stormed off the aft deck for the solitude of his stateroom. After downing a large gulp of absinthe, he started plotting his revenge against Stone, Besedka and that Catel bitch.

* * *

A few days before New Year’s, Bottega had gotten in touch with Stone. Stone was drunk in his home in the Hamptons, attempting without success to drown his sorrows. Stone had little recollection of their phone conversation but apparently gave Bottega enough information for Marc to work with. Catel was also brought in by Bottega at the last minute. And while part of him had wanted to clear his loved ones out of New York as quickly as

491 AVC possible, Catel knew he could count on Marc to “take care of it.” Whatever it was. Of course, if Catel had known when it was, the Waldorf would have been a deserted building that night.

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CHAPTER 104

Around 1:00 a.m. New York time, while Stone accompanied the girls from Illinois to the South Street Heliport on route to his Hampton estate, Souverän approached the infamous coordinates and was about to cross over Titanic’s grave. Zulle was seething as he prepared a toast to his grandfather. It was an unusual gesture and the only sentiment the Swiss sociopath held for any part of humanity. He had always considered the masses nothing more than a fungus on the earth that needed to be dramatically reduced, and as soon as possible. But given the events of that night his resolved with stronger than ever. Hearing the soft chimes that signaled Titanic’s exact spot, Zulle raised his glass in a quiet tribute, while he considered the utter peace and serenity of his boundless privacy. At the same time, the soft audio feed from Souverän’s weather station, which could usually be heard in the background on the bridge, stopped. The Captain and his first mate were conducting a routine check of the yacht’s progress and systems when the silence caused the Captain to look up from the helm’s sweeping array of monitors and gauges. Though his initial reaction was more instinctive than purposeful, he realized he was also no longer receiving Souverän’s GPS coordinates. Reaching over, he adjusted the controls that would normally have compensated and resumed the broadcast, but there was no response. Just then, Souverän’s engines and generators stopped and the entire helm went blank. Even its battery backup systems had failed. As the magnificent superyacht slowly drifted to a halt, the Captain and first mate were joined by the radio operator. “What seems to be the problem? All of my equipment is dead.” No sooner had the operator completed his question than the still ocean waters approximately 200 yards off Souverän’s bow began parting to allow a massive, unmarked Ohio-class nuclear submarine to surface. The Captain was the first to state the obvious.

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“This can’t be good.” He pressed his radio button in an attempt to hail the warship. “This is the motor yacht Souverän. Please state your intent.” With no response or indication that his equipment was even working, the Captain made a second attempt to hail the ominous grey submarine. “I repeat. This is the motor yacht Souverän. Please state your intent.” Again, there was no response. The Captain abandoned his attempt to contact the submarine just as Zulle burst onto the bridge. “What the hell is going on?” Motioning across Souverän’s bow to the submarine, the Captain’s response was direct and dry. “I believe THAT is what the hell is going on.” The color drained from Zulle’s face at the sight of the menacing grey mass. Though there was no reason he should know, he did nonetheless. After a lifetime of wondering and waiting, he knew he was about to get the answer to his most pressing question, “When?” It was clear to the Captain that the submarine had disabled every system on the yacht through some form of electromagnetic pulse. What the Captain didn’t know was that the submarine also jammed all outgoing and incoming emergency frequencies. Souverän was literally dead in the water and alone. While the crew on the bridge tried desperately to restore communication and power to the engines, the first mate fielded a blind comment. “Do you think they’d be willing to talk?” The Captain considered the warship for a moment before answering. “Does it look like they came to talk?” There was utter silence as time stood still. And all Zulle and his crew could do was stare in wide-eyed wonder at the imposing grey specter. Then chills ran up their spines as an explanation began to unfold over Souverän’s public address system. The accent was both Latin and familiar. Though it was a voice that Zulle had heard only four times over the past forty years, he had come to fear it. “Hello, Gaston. To answer the question that is on your mind, yes, it all comes down to this. A lifetime of warning has gone unheeded. Like it or

494 CARBON COPY not, we can’t be allowed to meddle in matters of fate. It must stop. And for you, today is the day when you join your fallen comrades in hell.” Desperate, Zulle yelled out. “You won’t kill me.” “And why is that?” “Because I have something more valuable to you than my life.” “While I can think of countless examples—what did you have in mind?” A smug look came over Zulle as he provided the ultimate trump card in this high-stakes game. “My ring. With me dead you’ll never find it. And, as we both know, that is the prize, not my life.” “Indeed.” The smile broadened on Zulle until the absent thirteenth member continued. “Fortunately, for me, I was handed the location of your ring last night, along with the biometric code to access it.” A look of utter horror came over Zulle as the thirteenth member completed his thought. “Since you don’t appear to have any problem incinerating millions, enjoy the burn.” Before anyone on the bridge could react, Souverän was engulfed in a massive fireball, turning it into a blazing inferno. In that moment, Zulle, his Captain and his crew became human torches. With their clothing and hair ablaze and their skin melting off their bones, Zulle’s final moment was the ultimate irony. He took his last breath, which was a 1700˚ taste of where he would be spending eternity. And in that moment, Zulle finally understood. Moments after that, the yacht’s fuel tanks exploded, sending thousands of bits and pieces of the once-magnificent superyacht out across a wide area in all directions. Then the burned-out hull sank to join Titanic and the sixteenth member of The Group who died at that same location on April 15, 1912. “Happy Anniversary.”

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The eulogy from the thirteenth member blanketed the small piece of ocean as the dark grey warship submerged and the sub’s Captain called in his kill. “Omega 27, approximately 22.”

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CHAPTER 105

Sometime in the early hours of New Year’s morning in a suite at the Waldorf, Chance’s cell phone woke her up. Seeing Bottega’s number on her caller ID brought a warm, comforting feeling to Chance. It was a feeling she needed as much as appreciated, given her emotional state. In the moment it took for her to press the answer button, a thought flashed through her mind. It was a thought she had many times throughout her young life, usually in times of conflict. It was ironic. The men in her life who provided her guidance, counsel and protection were among the most feared and notorious in the world. And as quickly as the thought materialized, it disappeared with the sound of Bottega’s voice. “Sweet Chance.” “Hello, Uncle Carlos. So good to hear from you. How is everything in your world?” “Fortunately, all is well. In fact, we are both doing better than you might think.” “How so?” “Three down with the fourth in check.” “The pawn or the power?” A smile came over Bottega before answering. “The power. For now, you are safe. Please stay that way.” “I promise, I’ll do my best. A big hug and a kiss, and I can’t wait to see you.” “And you.” Their call ended with an enormous weight lifted from Chance’s shoulders.

* * *

At the same time, a shadow of a man passed through Gaston Zulle’s master bedroom suite in his Geneva estate. Direct and purposefully,

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the stranger went straight to a hidden panel. He opened it and the bank-vault sized safe that was hidden behind the wall. Though the large room-sized safe was filled with cash, precious metals and rare jewels, the intruder walked passed them all. At the far corner of the safe, he moved a piece of artwork and placed a device over the biometric reader that Marc’s Rubens painting concealed. This opened another, much smaller, hidden safe containing a single object— Zulle’s large, very distinctive gold ring. After placing the ring in his pocket, the man took Marc’s Rubens out of its frame and replaced it with an exact copy he had brought with him in a tube. Then he closed the safe door, rolled Marc’s painting and put it into the tube, placed the new Rubens back on the wall, then left with no sign of his ever having been there.

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CHAPTER 106

Sagaponack, within Southampton, is the most expensive area in the U.S., with a median home sale price in excess of $8.5 million. Yet even in this rarified community, Stone’s estate was extraordinary. Stone purchased his seaside estate from a Saudi prince. In addition to its stunning residence, Stone required a minimum of 1,000 feet of shoreline and a 200-car garage, which he quickly filled with a portion of his collection. Shortly after its purchase, and before Stone moved in, Tydings- the name given to his Hamptons home, was outfitted with a protective lair, identical to the other Twelve. New Year’s Day was cold but sunny as Stone sat in a down jacket on a veranda, sipping his morning coffee and looking out across the Atlantic Ocean. His helicopter just left to return and exhausted Julia Bennet and Gloria Johnson to their hotel in the City. The two ladies enjoyed an experience they would never forget, due in part to Stone’s recent enhancement. As the sound of its rotors faded, it was replaced by the faint crashing of waves on the shoreline. Stone had a great deal to be thankful for that morning. His faith in humanity and The Group had been restored. And he knew that he owed it all to Bottega, the now twelfth member- with Zulle dead. Stone was finally certain that it was Bottega who had been killing the members off over the last few decades. And with an understanding, if not a friendship forming between the two men, Stone was confident he had nothing to fear from Bottega. Grateful and content, Stone took out his cell phone and dialed Bottega. Sitting at a simple lunch of fish, olive oil and roasted vegetables, Bottega was handed his phone. He had been expecting a call from Stone and knew Stone would be pleased. “I understand you scored the game point yesterday,” Stone was enthusiastic. “It was a good day.”

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“For us all.” It was time to drop the façade, and both men knew it. Bottega took the first step. “I understand the risk you took.” Stone followed suit. “Thank you for getting involved. I hope to meet you in person someday- without my mortality at issue of course.” “My door is always open to you. But as to your mortality, you should know, I am not The Dream Maker. That’s who you should be concerned about.” “The Dream Maker?” Bottega’s statement stopped Stone cold. ‘How could that be? Surely Bottega was the absent thirteenth member and the one killing off the others. But Bottega had no reason to lie. Or did he? And who is this Dream Maker?’ In that moment, everything Stone believed to be so, including his own safety, came into question. “If not you, then who? “You’re a smart man. See if you can figure it out.” Stone was lost and confused. Everything about Bottega suddenly came into question. “Is the thirteenth member and the Dream Maker one and the same?” A smile came over Bottega. And for the first time, it was Stone who was left to consider what had just happened- and a dial tone.

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EPILOGUE

It had been a little over a month since Alyse’s New Year’s Eve celebration, Stone’s short-lived bout with his conscience, Marc’s acquisition of a thermal-nuclear device and Humanity’s reprieve. Chance’s 4-nemeses had either been killed-off or contained, her best friend’s murder avenged and the love of her life was safely on the run. It marked the end to the most intense year of Chance’s life. The likes of which she hoped she would never see again. It was also an unseasonably warm day for early-February. As 11 of the Group’s members settled into Stone’s protective lair in the Hamptons for an emergency meeting, a large manatee crossed in front of Catel’s Star Island estate on its way due north toward Monument Island. Chance was looking out from her north-facing bedroom balcony on the second floor of the estate. While enjoying the morning and the latte portion of the breakfast that had just been delivered to her suite, she watched the large beast swimming gracefully, like a gigantic hippo with fins, toward land where the obelisk on Monument Island loomed. Rising up out of the monument’s strange pillar was a gigantic white spire that looked very much like a hundred-foot-long phallus. The Flagler Memorial had been built in 1915 to honor, appropriately for Miami, a real estate developer and was placed on an island, in the middle of the causeway, close enough for everyone to see but too far away to be touched. It was the way Chance saw her life- standing strong and proud, for everyone to see from afar but never allowing anyone to get close enough to touch- except Marc. That morning provided Chance a rare introspection, one that she needed. Her journey had been a double-edged sword. Along the way she had lost her mother and people dear to her while stumbling upon important gains, both emotional and material. She also found an inner

501 AVC strength she never knew she had, which was particularly important at that moment because it was time for business. Leaving the peaceful seclusion of her waterfront balcony, Chance join her grandfather in his study while they waited for their guests to arrive.

* * *

Ambassador Manrique’s limousine drove into the motor court of Catel’s estate with a certainty born from familiarity. After stopping, the limousine and its passengers stayed motionless longer than expected, a sign to Catel’s staff that last minute preparations were being made. Then the driver and an equally large bodyguard in the front passenger seat got out to attend to the two back doors, allowing the ambassador and his son Blake to step-out. The chauffeur stayed with the car while the bodyguard accompanied the ambassador and his son to the villa’s massive, carved entry doors. Just before the three men arrived, one of the doors opened. Xavier stepped out, holding a briefcase. “Gentlemen.” “Hello, Xavier.” The ambassador’s acknowledgement was more obligatory than sincere as Xavier stepped aside, allowing the ambassador and Blake to enter the foyer. Then Xavier stepped back in the path of the ambassador’s bodyguard. As the two men faced off, it became a tense moment that could have ended any number of ways. With a steely glare of distain, Xavier handed the tall, well-built gentleman in a fitted black suit and ear-piece the briefcase as a subtle smile came over the bodyguard and the ambassador who observed the exchange from the foyer. Without a word, the bodyguard turned to make his way back to the limousine, completing another in a long history of such exchanges that had taken place over the years. Xavier waited for the bodyguard to return and get back into the ambassador’s car before closed the villa’s entry door. Then Xavier rejoined

502 CARBON COPY the ambassador and Blake, motioning both men into the sitting room adjacent to the main foyer. “Please have a seat. I’ll let Mr. Catel know you are here.” Xavier waited the moment it took for Jackson, another of Catel’s staff, to attend to the ambassador and Blake inside the sitting room before leaving the report the ambassador’s arrival to Catel. Smaller in stature with a kind, caring demeanor, Jackson and Xavier had little in common beyond the loyalty and dedication to the Catel household they served. “Is there anything I can get for you gentlemen?” “No, thank you.” Then the ambassador made a private reference to the briefcase exchange. “We have everything we need.” But there was something that Blake wanted. “Is Miss Catel home?” “I will inquire for you, Senator.” Jackson’s departure provided the acknowledgement Blake had hoped for knowing that if Chance wasn’t home, Jackson would have said so as opposed to leaving to deliver Blake’s inquiry.

* * *

Catel’s study looked dramatically different from its usual dark, shrouded appearance. Its massive draperies had been pulled back for the first time in years, causing its paneled walls to appear light and luminous, awash in the bright Florida sunlight. This was but one of many changes Chance had made to the stately villa as she and the estate began a new, more vibrant era with her at the reins. Chance and her grandfather were seated across from one another in front of a massive floor-to-ceiling wall of glass. It was one of the estate’s many viewing alcoves that looked across the bay. As Chance stared thoughtfully in the direction of South Beach, she began her due diligence on their upcoming meeting. “What were Blake’s odds of being reelected to the House before we gave him our support?” “Fifty-fifty.”

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“And now?” “He needs to be writing his acceptance speech.” “How much support did we give?” “$25-million and 3-key endorsements.” “And in return?” “4-fold.” Chance was still smiling when Xavier entered the room. “The ambassador and his son are here.” Xavier’s tone was flat, almost disapproving. Chance chose to ignore Xavier’s not-too-subtle attitude about her choice of suitors. Instead, she focused on the fact that Blake had arrived. Then she turned to Catel with a more personal thought. “I miss Mom- terribly. But I feel good about this. Like it is my time. Is this how it all started for her?” The two stood. Catel placed a loving hand on each of Chance’s shoulders. For a moment he appeared to have shed the frail signs of age as he looked straight into her soul with all the reassurance and pride of his authority and love. “This is exactly how she started, collecting politicians like they were hang bags. She had one that suited every occasion.” After another moment of reflection, Catel became more pensive. “Consider this.” Catel took Chance’s hand and walked her over to a table in one of the bay windows that was set-up for a game of chess. Catel pointed at the 32- chessmen as he began his explanation. “We all have our place in this game of life. What is important is that each of us know and abide by where we stand at any given time. For example,…” Catel motioned to the chess board. “The 16-pawns represent the masses, 8 are your allies, 8 are your enemies. And though they may seem of lesser importance, there are more of them then us and; left unchecked, there is strength in numbers. Then there are the 4-rooks, 4- bishops, 4-knights and 2-queens. Again, some with you, some against you. And though they have dominion over the pawns, it is important that they never lose sight of the fact that they are also there to serve their king, and at his pleasure.” Chance considered her grandfather’s analogy for a moment before asking. “Are you a king?”

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Catel smiled lovingly as he picked-up the exquisitely sculpted cloisonné piece with its stately jewel encrusted crown, considering the king as he answered her. “Not hardly. At best a bishop. Often a rook. And; occasionally, a pawn.” “Then who is the king?” “These days I believe there are approximately 12 of them.” “Who are they?” “That’s not for me to say.” Chance had questions, important questions but she knew to press-on with caution. “12?” Then after another moment, “Are they all on the same side?” “No.” “Interesting. Which side are we on?” “Both. That was the genius of your mother. She had a way of changing the rules while the game was in play without any of the other players realizing what had happened. Not even the one’s on her own side.” “How so?” “I honestly don’t know. Though I have marched to her drum countless times. And she was never wrong.” “Why tell me all of this now?” “Because today you are your mother- and a bishop. Your guests are rooks. You must understand this and act accordingly.” “Will I ever meet the kings?” “No doubt.” “Will I ever be a king?” Catel took Chance’s hand without answering. A noticeable glow came over Chance as Xavier led the way to their meeting with the Manriques. And though Chance was focused and in control, she had no way of fully understand the importance of that day. Chance’s 24-years of training were over. This was her first official act as the new head of the Catel dynasty and the beginning of an incredible journey that no one could have predicted, not even the Dream Maker. Because, unbeknown to Chance, while she was securing Blake’s re-election, the Group was attending an emergency session that would once again pit her against them as Humanity’s unwitting champion in its struggle against global genocide- and so much more…

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THE BEGINNING

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

My thanks to: My team: Simon Black and Jennifer Krouse (JB) for your hard work and dedication to this project Rod Barr’s tireless refinements Jim Hunter’s Monaco Grand Prix factoids Mindi White’s deep editing Michael Green’s graphic and organizational genius

A special thanks to: Leila Golesorkhi

And to a lifetime of extraordinary friends and those incredibly powerful and well-placed individuals who have allowed me to share in their adventures. These are the titans who create rather than abide by destiny. The journey has been nothing short of amazing. Through their lives I have vicariously seen, tasted and understood the meaning of true love and real power. Now it’s time to share this unlikely journey that started with a guttersnipe and eventually made its way to amazing heights.

And- Thank you—I hope you enjoyed the read. Because this is only the beginning...

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