Devil's Gate (NUMA Files 9)

Djemma’s glare rose to a new level of intensity. “It had better be,” he warned. “Or you will burn alongside me when they come for us.”

Cochrane paused. Djemma’s words confused him. Why would they burn? All along, Djemma had insisted they would sell the weapon, not to one world power but to all of them. Let them point Cochrane’s gun at one another’s heads much as they’d pointed nuclear missiles at one another for fifty years. They would never use it, and both Cochrane and Djemma would be rich. There was no danger in that. And no need to rush.

“What are you talking about?” he asked.

“I have something else in mind from what I told you,” Djemma said. “Forgive me for deceiving such an honorable man.”

The sarcasm in Djemma’s voice showed how he really viewed Cochrane, and despite the lure of wealth and even clandestine fame, Cochrane suddenly felt worse than he ever had at CERN.

Djemma pulled a file and leafed through it. “You come to my country with your careful plans,” he said. “Plans to have your cake and eat it too. To build a Weapon of Mass Destruction, deposit millions in Bahamian and Swiss banks, and then flee back to the high life, no doubt spinning tales of your great hardship and daring escape.”

“We had a deal.”

“Deals change, Cochrane,” the African leader said. “And you made it easy for me.”

He pulled a photo from the file and slid it across the desk to Cochrane. The main part of the photo was a police shot of Philippe Revior lying dead in the snow. A smaller inset in the upper right-hand corner showed a handgun laid out on a white cloth. The gun looked terribly familiar to Cochrane.

“You are a murderer, Mr. Cochrane.”

Cochrane squirmed.

“Do not be shy,” Djemma insisted, “this is true. It is only by the poor placement of security cameras that the world doesn’t know this already. If you attempt to leave, or to cross me or continue to drag your feet, I will be sure the story gets out. For proof, I have the gun with your fingerprints all over it.”

Cochrane’s face tightened in a look of disgust. He was trapped and he knew it. Whatever Djemma had in mind, Cochrane would have to make it work or his life would be forfeited in the bargain.

After stewing in silence for a moment, Cochrane finally spoke. “You know I wouldn’t cross you. It’s worth too much to me to finish.”

“And yet you fail.”

“Only on your timetable.”

Djemma shook his head. “It cannot be changed.”

Cochrane was afraid of that. It meant he would have to own up to the truth. “Fine,” he said. “I will do what I can. But there are only two ways to get the weapon more power. Either we need better materials or, if you want it done more quickly, I’ll need some help.”

Djemma smiled and even began to laugh, as if it brought him great joy to have pried this confession out of Cochrane. “You finally admit it,” he said. “You have promised more than you can deliver. You are in over your head.”

“It’s not like that,” Cochrane insisted. “The system is—”

“You’ve had a year and a half and every dollar you’ve asked for,” Djemma growled. “Dollars that could have brought food and housing to my people.”

Cochrane looked around. The palace was immense, and built of imported stone and marble. Gold-plated fixtures sprouted from every bathroom. What about those dollars?

“It’s an incredibly complex machine,” Cochrane said. “To get it right may require assistance.”

Djemma looked down at Cochrane, his eyes burning holes in Cochrane’s mind much the way the weapon was supposed to.

“I know this already,” the African leader said. “Go back to your work. You will get your materials and your help. This much I promise you.”

10

Santa Maria Island, the Azores, June 17

THE INHABITANTS OF VILA DO PORTO spotted the sleek lines of the NUMA vessel Argo just after noon local time. Because the Argo had originally been built for the Coast Guard and designed for rescue work, law enforcement, and interdiction, her profile was that of a small warship: long, lean, angular.

Two hundred fifty years prior, the appearance of such a ship, or the equivalent type in its day, would have been studied cautiously from the streets and the watchtowers of the Forte de São Brás.

Built in the sixteenth century, with cannon mounted high on sturdy walls of