“Schatzi’s got a thing for eagles,” Stoke said, crossing the atrium to the massive doors. To his left, visible through the floor-to-ceiling glass wall, the moonlit airfield was spread out before him. The margins of the criss-crossing runways were lit with faintly glowing blue lights set low to the ground. It was beautiful, and mercifully free of command cars and half-tracks full of guys in black with machine guns.
“Caesar had a thing for eagles. So did Napoleon. So does Schatzi.” Jet leaned into what looked like a fish-eye lens set behind black glass in the wall.
“What’s that?” Stoke said.
“Facial thermography. Identifies the characteristic heat patterns of the face. Over sixty-five thousand different temperature points, believe it or not.”
“I’d believe pretty much anything at this point.”
“Far greater accuracy than fingerprints. Can’t trick it with facial hair or even cosmetic surgery. Only way you can beat a thermograph is with alcohol.”
“You been drinking? Looks like you beat it.”
The doors parted, disappearing back into the walls. “No. He just forgot to lock my face out. Probably figured he’d never see it again.”
Beyond the doors, Stoke saw another stark white room, smaller, but with equally spectacular views of the field. Schatzi’s office was filled with moonlight and more grandiose art. The white marble floor was covered with a large Oriental rug. Very cozy. The entire wall behind the German tycoon’s desk was a Mercator projection map of the world painted on glass. On the desk itself, a gleaming model of a flying saucer.
“Guess he didn’t change the locks,” Stoke said as he walked over to the ornate carved desk. He picked up the model saucer and turned it over.
“No, he’s not that stupid. He changed them. But that keypad in the elevator allows you to enter a code to override all the locks in this part of the building. He forgot to change that code. And to delete my print from the print scanner.”
“Forgot he showed his girlfriend the escape hatch, too. Hey, Jet, is Schatzi building flying saucers here?”
“That’s the new disc prototype. The Messerschmitt ME-1. The Germans were working on antigravity flying discs in 1944, so it’s not exactly new technology. The idea is that an electrogravitational field can be created by a fast-rotating superconductive disc. Schatzi’s just picking up where they left off. So is Boeing, by the way, but they don’t talk about it.”
“No shit? Who’s the fat guy in the painting?”
“Hermann Goering. Founder of the Luftwaffe. This was his old office.” Jet hit a button that illuminated the wall-sized map.
Every square mile of Europe, Asia, and Africa was the same color blue. GERMANIA was splashed across the map in bright red foot-high letters. An old vision of a new world. A vision that died hard. And took an unthinkable number of people with it. Standing in this room, you got a definite feeling of bad déjà vu.
“Deutschland über alles,” Stoke said.
“That was the general idea.”
“Jet,” Stoke said, looking at her carefully. “You didn’t bring me all this way to look at Nazi maps and flying saucers.”
“No, I did not. Listen to me. Almost everything you and Hawke need to know right now is in this room. Three years’ worth of Leviathan correspondence, detailed project design drawings, financial records, everything. This keycard opens the desk. It also opens all those file cabinets along the wall.”
“Leviathan? Harry Brock mentioned that. What is it?”
“The sea beast.” Jet opened the center drawer of the desk and took out a black leather folder embossed with a gold crown. “Start with this file. Good luck.”
“Good luck?” Stoke said, peeking inside the file. “Where are you going?”
“I’m going home, Stoke. I thought about it the whole time we were flying. I’ve had all the betrayal and treachery I can stomach for a while. I’ve done what I could to help you and your friend Alex Hawke. You’re on your own now, I’m leaving.” She called to Blondi and headed for the door. “I’m going to sleep for a few days. Don’t forget to lock up.”
“Wait a damn minute, Jet. How do I know what to take? Half this stuff is in Chinese. You just can’t walk out now and say—good luck!”
“I can’t?”
She and Blondi were halfway across the atrium when he caught her.
“Jet, hold up. You said, almost everything I need is here. What else is there?”
“I have no idea. I’m just a cop, remember? But I can promise you this, that if my father, Luca Bonaparte, and von Draxis have a hand in it, it’s something very, very bad. Whatever it is, you’ll figure it out, Stoke. You’re a smart guy. If you want to talk at some point, call this number in Hong Kong. Maybe I’ll feel different about helping you then.”
She started to say something else, then stopped herself. She handed him a card with her name engraved on it and beneath that a handwritten number. “A friend of mine will answer. She’ll tell you how to find me. Good-bye, Stoke.”
She went up on her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek.
“Thanks, Stoke,” she said. “For saving my ass.”
Stoke watched Jet and Blondi disappear around the curving wall and then walked over to the glass overlooking the field. There was a faint red line glimmering on the eastern horizon. He figured it would take an hour to sort through everything in the office. Take whatever looked interesting. He’d love to take a look at the plans for Valkyrie. See what was up with that missing keel. With any luck, he and Arnold could be airborne before dawn.
Then he’d go find Alex Hawke down in Oman.
A few minutes later, he was still at the window, thinking about Jet’s kiss. Was it a “see you later” kiss? Or a “good-bye, dumbass” kiss? He couldn’t help thinking about what a perfect trap she could have led him into. Man shot dead while stealing secret documents on private property. Hell, it was true.
A moment later, he heard a muffled roar out on the runway. It was the black SLR. She had her night-vision goggles on all right, had the lights out, nearly invisible, a fast-moving blur streaking along the blue-lit runway at more than two hundred miles an hour. She was headed for the main gate. If they had any brains, the VDI guards would just put the damn gate up and to hell with it. One thing he knew for sure about Jet now. She sure as hell wasn’t going to stop for anything.
Or, anybody.
Had to get moving now, and be quick about it. He’d just seen an urgent text message on his PDA from Alex Hawke. He was in Oman and he needed help bad and he needed it now. He turned from the window.
Time to loot. And maybe, shoot.
Chapter Forty-six
New York City
AMBROSE CONGREVE WAS A LIGHT SLEEPER. THE SOUND OF sirens and garbage trucks on the streets of old New York nudged him awake at 5:00 A.M. He dozed fitfully for an hour or two, then, through sheer force of will, woke himself up. He slipped out of his warm bed and into his leather slippers and robe. He stretched and yawned and briefly considered jumping right back in bed. No, he was hungry. Ravenous. Small wonder. It was nearly tea back in London.
He fumbled for the bedside phone and rang room service. Yes, two eggs over easy, toast, a pot of black coffee and some fresh-squeezed grapefruit juice. Thirty minutes? Thanks very much.
He gently replaced the receiver in its cradle. Turned on the bedside lamp. Ouch. It was bright. A sensation one might describe as severe pain bloomed somewhere behind his eyeballs. What on earth was the matter? He was a vigorous chap long accustomed to rising at the crack of nine. Ah, yes. Jet lag. Two days in New York and he was still suffering mightily. True, he and Captain Mariucci had stopped off for a nightcap, but—ouch. His head was banging.