The Radix Page 3

  Armstrong marched toward the Christmas tree. Coming up beside her, he said, “Close your eyes, Andrea, and hold out your hands.” At fifty-five, he was tall and barrelchested with a full head of hair going gray. Armstrong reached up and plucked an ornament from the mammoth noble fir. He placed the silver angel in her open palm. Her eyes fluttered open.

  The child’s face glowed. “Thank you, Mr. President,” she giggled.

  After kissing the top of her head, he watched as she showed the ornament to the vice president. A finger tapped Armstrong’s shoulder.

  “You’re good. Anyone ever tell you that?” Deena Riverside smiled. Five years younger than the president, she looked elegant in a knee-length designer dress. Her cinnamon brown hair was pulled into a knot at the top of her head, a single strand curving around her cheek. An electric smile and warm eyes added radiance to her otherwise-simple face.

  “How do you do it?” she asked, sliding her hand around his arm. “You’re able to enchant little girls and little old ladies and everyone in between.”

  “I took a correspondence course.” He flashed a smile. “Presidential Schmoozing 101.”

  He had known Deena for years, going back to when she had masterminded his successful New York gubernatorial campaign. That was before she became CEO at Taft-Ryder Pharmaceuticals. Today she was one of only twelve women running a Fortune 500 company.

  “Where’s the First Lady?”

  “Migraine. Helena has hosted more than twenty Christmas and Hanukkah receptions at the White House. Guess it caught up to her.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  Was she? Deena and the First Lady shared a bitter relationship. For years, he had concealed his brief but intense affair with Deena. Poisoned with guilt, he had confessed to his wife. Since then, Helena couldn’t tolerate sharing any room with her.

  “Heard about your meeting with the Saudi ambassador,” Deena said as they passed a lighted topiary tree near the Monroe sofa. “Dillon said you had a screaming match with Zaki.”

  “I’d rather not talk about that,” the president said, watching Dillon Armstrong return from the Cross Hall. A smart-looking woman in a navy designer gown intercepted him near a holiday urn brimming with greenery, limes, and pineapples. The woman appeared helpless to resist the legendary Armstrong charm.

  “Do you know her?” Deena asked.

  “Society columnist. Helena invited her.”

  “Terrific,” she answered in a lukewarm tone.

  Dillon Armstrong dipped into the crowd, working his way toward them. Four years younger than the president, he had dueled in a friendly rivalry with his brother since childhood. Maybe it was some kind of middle-child syndrome, but Dillon was obsessed with one-upping his brother. Known as a brilliant investor, he had hit a milestone at age thirty-three when he cleared his first billion. The president’s little brother was worth twenty billion dollars now, give or take a few billion. Two years ago, Alexander Armstrong had found a way to go one better, when he became president of the United States. Take that, Dillon.

  “Merry Christmas, little brother,” the president said. “You look stressed.”

  “Not at all,” Dillon answered with a characteristic swagger. He turned to Deena. “We need to talk.” He grabbed her hand, leading her toward a door to the South Portico. She glanced back, looking helpless.

  The president had never seen that expression on her face. His brother’s relationship with Deena stirred ambivalence in him. Following the president’s advice, Dillon had recruited her to run Taft-Ryder Pharmaceuticals. In less than five years, they had transformed an anemic company into a corporate powerhouse. As far as he knew, they shared a positive work relationship. This conversation looked different.

  A White House aide intercepted him. “Mr. President, the prime minister of the United Kingdom is calling from his Christmas holiday in Barbados.”

  “I’ll take it in the Oval.” He followed the aide, glancing back at the windows facing the South Portico. He had to know what was going on out there.

  Deena breathed in chill air as she and Dillon walked across the South Portico’s semicircular walkway. Snow cloaked the southern magnolia tree Andrew Jackson had planted as a tribute to his deceased wife, Rachel. Since that time, every president, including Alexander Armstrong, had planted trees at the executive mansion.

  “I didn’t see Brooke at the party,” Deena said.

  “She’s in Manhattan.” His eyes flickered. “We separated two months ago.”

  She stepped back, concealing her shock. She had no idea their marriage was troubled.

  A Secret Service agent named Natalie Hutchinson hurried up the stairs that hugged the portico. Dressed in a black uniform, she looked more like a police officer than a member of the security detail that shadowed the president. “Mr. Armstrong, we prefer you not spend time on the South Portico. For security reasons.”

  “Deena and I need a little privacy to discuss business.”

  The agent gave a resigned look. “Please keep it short.”

  Watching her walk away, Dillon braced his hand against a pillar. He turned to Deena. “I’m concerned about Taft-Ryder. You’re on the verge of destroying everything we worked to build.”

  She sighed, wishing she had grabbed a drink before he had dragged her out here.

  Her corporation had hit hard times during the past two quarters. Before she had joined the pharmaceutical giant, his holding company had invested in Taft-Ryder, rescuing it from bankruptcy. As a value investor, he was a master at spotting undervalued companies with high growth potential. Trade magazines had christened him the Market Alchemist based on his skill for transforming corporate underachievers into Wall Street gold.

  “Like I said before, Dillon, we have several promising drugs in our pipeline. We’re hoping Taft-Ryder can deliver new drugs to offset the old ones coming off patent.”

  He glanced at Agent Hutchinson near the entrance to the Blue Room. “I don’t share your optimism, but we’ll discuss that later. I want to talk about the Radix. Can you assure me that Pantera will find it and deliver it to us?”

  She stared at the wintry night. “I have faith in Pantera. It looks promising.”

  “I’ve offered top dollar to own the Radix, but if you don’t control this deal, it could turn into a public-relations nightmare.”

  “I’m sorry,” Agent Hutchinson cut in. “Could you move inside now?”

  Deena jolted around, surprised to see her. In truth, she was relieved the Secret Service agent had interrupted their conversation.

  “We’re finished,” he answered.

  As they walked across the South Portico, he grumbled, “Expect a call from me in the morning. You better have the deal worked out.”

  Deena Riverside nodded, dreading the potential consequences of not delivering the Radix to the president’s brother.

  Chapter Four

  Aspen

  5:16 P.M.

  Blood oozed from the Renaissance mummy.

  John Brynstone leaned closer to examine the incision. He wondered if he was hallucinating. A crimson line trickled down Friar Zanchetti’s withered chest. Snapping to his senses, he unrolled gauze, then wiped the endoscope. He placed it on the monitor, with the glowing tip facing the mummy chamber.

  The endoscope’s camera filmed an image from over his shoulder. A blurry figure darted across the screen, coming toward him. He spun around. The man had appeared from nowhere. At six five, he had three inches on Brynstone. Seemed like twice that.

  The guy worked State Department security detail, though one wouldn’t guess it from his clothes. State loved the Hala Ranch assignment because they could ditch the suits and neckties. In a mountain ski town, dressing in sweaters, jeans, and cowboy boots was like wearing camouflage. Especially in Aspen, where wealthy tourists paraded around in tight neon pink ski suits laced with fur collars.

  Looking like a warrior in a reindeer-themed sweater, the State agent brandished an Arabic saber.

  “D
idn’t realize the State Department replaced your guns with swords,” Brynstone taunted. “Looks like President Armstrong’s budget cuts hit you guys hard.”

  “Zaki doesn’t permit firearms in his Assembly of the Dead.”

  “Know how to use that thing, Agent Cregger?”

  “How’d you know my name?”

  “I do my homework.”

  His eyes looked severe. “Tell me your name.”

  “John Robie,” Brynstone lied.

  Cregger smirked. “Okay, you might pass for Cary Grant’s son if he had one. And I believe you’re a cat burglar.”

  “Guess you’ve seen To Catch a Thief.”

  “Twenty times. I’m a huge Hitchcock fan.”

  “My luck.”

  “Zaki’s men never search the mummy room,” Cregger muttered. “Good thing I did.”

  “My luck again.”

  “Whoever you are,” he said, reaching for his two-way, “I’m calling this in.”

  Brynstone crossed his arms. “Can’t take care of me yourself?”

  “Okay,” the agent fumed. “You want me? You got me.”

  Cregger wielded the saber as he rushed him. Brynstone grabbed the agent’s meaty wrists, twisting away from the weapon. The curved blade brushed past his shoulder, then sliced into Friar Zanchetti’s chest.

  “What the hell?” the agent squawked. “That mummy’s bleeding.”

  That was all the distraction Brynstone needed. He slammed his fist into Cregger’s chin, knocking him backward. The bloody sword clattered to the floor. The agent recovered and blasted into him, sending them crashing into the booth. Zanchetti’s corpse burst like a piñata under their weight. The mummy’s head snapped off, rolling onto the marble floor. Brynstone absorbed the impact. His chest burned. Spasms climbed from his left hand to his shoulder.

  Cregger staggered to his feet. He stumbled back, looking for his saber.

  From the floor of the booth, Brynstone glanced up at the mummy. It was smashed but still upright. A stone box about the size of a computer mouse rested inside the bloody chest.

  The cista mystica. Is that it? Rubbing his head, he sat up. I can’t let Cregger see it.

  He rolled out, clutching his arm. The agent staggered toward his sword. Brynstone grabbed the scalpel. He hurtled it through the air, stabbing Cregger’s hand. Pain darkened the agent’s face. Gritting his teeth, he ripped out the scalpel. The big man lunged.

  Brynstone coiled into a kick, smashing his foot into the man’s wrist. The scalpel spiraled away. No more weapon, but Cregger had the momentum. He charged like a bull, forcing Brynstone back into the booth. As they toppled, the agent rolled on him and punched him in the ribs. Wheezing, Brynstone saw the endoscope cord and ripped it out. He wrapped the cord around Cregger’s throat, then yanked hard, making the man’s neck muscles flare. Cregger’s face turned red as he clawed at the cord. In desperation, he reached for Brynstone, grabbing his throat and squeezing. Brynstone’s pulse thundered inside his neck. Red spots pierced his vision like meteors puncturing the night sky.

  He had to take out Cregger. Looking up, he saw the cista mystica peek out of the mummy’s chest. The box seemed poised to fall. Drawing remaining strength, he shifted to the right, rocking the mummy. The stone box plummeted from Zanchetti’s chest, striking the State agent’s head. He recoiled in surprise. Brynstone grabbed him, then smashed his head against the marble wall. Blood rained down Cregger’s face. His eyes closed.

  And he dropped.

  Stillness came over the mummy chamber. The brawl had reduced the Zanchetti mummy to a bloody pulp. Stepping over Cregger, Brynstone picked up the cista mystica. The box was small, with a sliding lid. After all this time, he’d found it. He thought about his father, knowing that Jayson Brynstone had dreamed about this moment a hundred times.

  Now the big question, he thought. Is the Radix inside?

  An engraved plant decorated the lid. He’d seen this plant symbol once before. Right there, he knew the search wasn’t over.

  A voice came from behind, rough and tinged with anger. “We have a problem.”

  He turned, not seeing anyone.

  “The Washington meeting did not go well. President Armstrong angers me.”

  Glancing toward the door, Brynstone realized the terrarium glass served as a one-way observational window. From inside the Assembly of the Dead, looking through the terrarium, he could see into the library. He didn’t like what he saw. Prince Zaki sat behind his desk, talking on the phone. His voice came in through a ceiling speaker.

  Brynstone didn’t like being in the same place as this guy.

  Beginning with the Reagan administration, Zaki’s distant relative Bandar bin Sultan had served as the senior Saudi ambassador to the United States. As dean of Embassy Row, Prince Bandar had hosted parties in his Colorado mansion with a guest list that read like a who’s who of Beltway insiders. Aspen had been his favorite home—if a place with fifteen bedrooms and even more bathrooms could be called simply a home. Under Prince Bandar’s patronage, Hala Ranch—from an Arabic word meaning “welcome”—lived up to its name. After Prince Bandar’s retirement, Prince Turki al Faisal was given the job. When he stepped down due to health concerns, the House of Saud named a surprising choice for their new ambassador.

  Prince Zaki had proven a formidable businessman in negotiating with American defense contractors and oil companies. The secretary of state adored him. The president called Zaki a trusted ally. Unlike Prince Bandar, Zaki had a more controversial reputation outside the boardroom. Three years ago, he was rumored to have murdered Wayne Kissner, a U.S. guest worker in Saudi Arabia. The State Department brushed aside the call for an investigation and ruled Kissner’s death a suicide. Despite outrage from human-rights groups, the State Department deleted Prince Zaki’s involvement in Kissner’s homicide from its annual human-rights report.

  Emerging from the scandal, Zaki assumed the ambassador title and later purchased Bandar’s ninety-five-acre mountaintop estate. He was the only ambassador with his own State security detail. The State Department justified it based on death threats and his status as a prince.

  Brynstone knew otherwise.

  He looked around, wondering how Cregger had magically appeared in here. The chamber housed thirty mummy compartments, all occupied except one. He peeked inside the empty booth. Pushing on the back wall, he found it opened to a spiral staircase leading to the ground floor. He’d researched Hala Ranch’s blueprints, but hadn’t seen anything about this route. It offered the perfect escape.

  As the prince ranted in the background, Brynstone looted Cregger’s access card and keys. He removed a specimen bag from his backpack, then crouched beside Zanchetti’s corpse. Now that it was split open, the mummy showed recognizable tissue change. He collected bloody tissue chunks and dropped them into the bag.

  Cregger was crumpled on the floor. Out cold. Brynstone started to open the stone box.

  “Turn around, buddy,” a voice growled.

  He swallowed. Hearing the man behind him, he slipped the cista mystica into his belt pack. He’d have to wait to see if the Radix was inside the box.

  “Raise your hands,” the man demanded.

  Brynstone turned to face him. Not a State agent, but an American private contractor hired by Zaki. He was armed with a Glock.

  “Don’t you know?” Brynstone asked. “Guns aren’t allowed in here. House rules.”

  “I don’t sweat the rules.”

  “You’re my kind of guy, Anderson.”

  A surprised look. “Who are you?”

  “John Robie.”

  He seemed impressed to find Cregger on the floor. “You did that, huh, Mr. Robie?”

  “With a little help from a mummy. And an endoscope cord.”

  “Hands behind your head. Come with me.”

  The man punched the button, triggering the terrarium to slide across the floor. Anderson motioned for him to step into the library. Brynstone thought about ducking into the empty booth
, but decided against it. The guy could squeeze off several shots before Brynstone made it down the staircase.

  Anderson shoved him through the door leading into the library. Two State Department agents were talking to Zaki.

  “Mr. Ambassador,” Anderson said. “I found this intruder in your mummy chamber.”

  Dressed in a conservative suit, Zaki strutted over. A bead of sweat curved around his chubby face. “Who is this man?” he demanded in flawless English.

  “John Robie. He took out Cregger, if you can believe that.”

  “Did he destroy any mummies?”

  “One is smashed open. The Italian mummy, I think.”

  Zaki’s eyes widened. “Please say Alexander the Great is intact.”

  “Alex is fine,” Brynstone assured. “Although he could stand a nose job.”

  “Silence,” Zaki hissed.

  A guard rushed into the library. With broad shoulders and a square black beard, Tareef looked more intimidating than earlier in the night, when Brynstone had bashed him over the head. The guard aimed a Skorpion Model 61 submachine gun. Brynstone hadn’t seen one since he’d infiltrated a Czech security facility.

  “That man,” Tareef said. “He stole my smart card.”

  “Notify Aspen police,” Zaki growled.

  “Oh, you don’t want to have me arrested,” Brynstone advised. “I know things. Important things.”

  “What things do you know, Mr. Robie?”

  “Things that would unsettle the State Department. Perhaps I should tell the agents.”

  “Perhaps I should slice out your tongue,” Zaki snapped, before regaining composure. Walking to his desk, he waved at the State agents. “Please go. You, too, Mr. Anderson.”

  The agents started to leave. Anderson cocked his head. “You certain, Mr. Ambassador?”

  Zaki nodded. “I am most certain.”

  The man glared at Brynstone, then turned for the door.

  Chapter Five

  Baltimore, Maryland

  7:20 P.M.