The Curse of Medusa

Glancing up at the top of a long-winding staircase of white marble to ensure there was no one above waiting to pour fire on them, they moved forward into the main section of the hacienda, passing through the largest kitchen Vincent had ever seen.

A vision of his twin boys waiting patiently for breakfast while their mother ground the coffee and warmed the milk flashed in and out of his mind in less than a second. He had to concentrate — those boys needed a father to guide them, not a grave to visit. In his line of work he had seen that happen too many times.

Now, exiting the kitchen and making their way into a games room the fighting began. They dived for cover behind a pool table, and while Kim radioed the attack to the other SWAT men, Vincent peered around the table to see a woman with spiky hair he instantly recognized.

“Angelika Schwartz!” he called to Kim. “Ten meters, behind the bar.”

Kim nodded to show she understood and radioed the information back to HQ.

As bullets raced over their heads and drilled into the wall behind them, Vincent struggled to get an angle with the submachine gun so shouldered it and switched to the PAMAS, firing a ferocious succession of nine mils at the enormous Jägermeister bar mirror on the wall above where Angelika was taking cover. It shattered into thousands of lethal shards which rained down on the German hired-gun. He heard her scream and then the sound of her boots crunching on the glass as she tried to extricate herself from the situation.

Vincent was merciless. Thinking again of his boys, he fired another series of bullets at the woman as she sprinted across the room and dived through the open window into the courtyard. As she ran, she fired her Heckler & Koch USP blindly at them, blasting chunks out of the pool table and sending a shower of tulipwood and maple splinters into the air. One of her bullets hit a No. 8 ball and it exploded into a cloud of phenolic resin which impressed the Frenchman more than it should have.

More submachine-gun fire was coming now from their right, and they darted their eyes outside the games room to see Angelika had rallied two more men with weapons to defend the property. Behind them, on the far side of the pool, Vincent saw Alan Pauling in the dim glow of an exterior louvred wall-light as he fitted the canister of weaponized bacteria to the helicopter drone and crouch-walked across the lawn to the pool house.

“Bastard must be controlling it from there!” Kim shouted, pinned down by the submachine-gun fire. “We have to get to him before he takes that thing off and flies it over L.A!”

Vincent nodded grimly, visualizing all the thousands of innocent men, woman and children sleeping in their beds as they breathed in the bacteria and were instantly turned to stone forever. “That’s the name of the game, mon ami!”

* * *

On board the Perseus, Kiefel stared at the muscle-bound Jakob with undisguised hatred for a few moments, scowling at the interruption.

“Was?!” he barked at him in German.

“Telefon!” Jakob said, and took a cautious step toward the boss.

Kiefel snatched the phone from him and spoke. “Who is this?”

“It’s the President,” Kimble said.

Kiefel immediately noticed a change in his tone. He sounded… less frightened.

“What do you want, Teddy? I’m busy.”

“I’ve been thinking over the terms and conditions of our agreement and I think it’s time to modify the details.”

“What are you talking about? If you cross me I’ll release your files to the world.”

“Is that worth your life, Klaus? That is the question you must ask yourself.”

Kiefel scowled. “You’re calling my bluff, Teddy? I never thought you had it in you.”

“Don’t push me, Klaus. I know we had a deal but I can’t let you murder Grant.”

“Perhaps you give me some time to think it over.”

“Well…”

Kiefel cut the phone call and turned to Jakob. “Contact the girl in Washington. See to it that President Kimble has an accident.”

“Jawohl,” said Jakob.

“And ready the helicopter. It’s time to start Operation Medusa.”

Jakob nodded and left the cabin.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Hawke was the first to reach the hull of the Perseus, and gently made his way around to the portside boarding ladder, remaining submerged the entire time. They knew from their CIA briefing while on the flight from New Orleans that the yacht had two stainless steel retractable gangways, controlled by a simple hydraulic system, but the control pads were on deck. They also knew that on the portside near the bow there was a non-retractable ladder, so this was their entry point.

Hawke emerged from the water in silence and drew his SIG. He pulled himself from the water as quietly as he could and climbed up the ladder. On the deck now, he slipped into the shadows and waited for the others. Not for the first time in his life he wondered why he wasn’t in bed, waiting for the dawn of another day in a normal life. That was what most people did, he thought. Who the hell chose to spend their time in freezing cold water under enemy boats?