The Echelon Page 7

  “That’s a lot of people. Who would want to do that?”

  “Rich and powerful people who belong to a secret society. They want to lower the population to just five hundred million. Their chosen few who will survive are being sent what they are told are ‘stronger’ vaccines, but I believe they contain nothing of substance. Certainly, it is not a cure. Once the population is thinned, this group, The Echelon, will take over. Those who are left will band together to become one world, one country. It’s like the story of the Trojan horse.”

  “I don’t get it,” she says. “And I know the story well.”

  “The Trojan horse is the vaccine. People think it’s a gift, but it’s going to be used to kill them.

  “We don’t have more time for explanations. I need a decision from you. Are you going to help me or not? But, before you answer that, you need to know that I am highly trained in the art of espionage and killing. I also am fully capable of extracting information from people who don’t want to willingly give it.

  “Madelyn told me that your dad sent you a letter. I need to know what it said. We can do it the easy way, meaning you tell me now, or we can do it the hard way for you, where I cause you so much pain that you will give up the truth eventually. I’d prefer you take the easy route and that we work together on this. You really do owe it to your father. He gave his life for this.

  “I should also tell you that, if it wasn’t for me, your friend Madelyn would be dead. Her phone was tapped, and they heard her leave you a message. A duo of assassins was at her flat in minutes. They had her tied to a chair in her bedroom and were torturing her. If I hadn’t been there, she would have had a very traumatic ending to her short life.”

  “Is she okay?” Sophie asks, her eyes big.

  “Yes, I killed both men. MI6 were headed to the scene when I left to come to Ronda. They have taken both Madelyn and the woman who lives next door to a safe house until this is over.

  “I’m asking you one more time. Did your father send you information to stop this?”

  “I’m not sure.” She gets up and walks behind the nun’s desk. She takes a book from the shelf, pulls out an envelope, and hands it to me. “This is the letter. I haven’t read it yet. I just … haven’t been able to. Losing him is so fresh. I’ve been on the run. And I’ve honestly been afraid to know what’s in it.”

  I study what she’s given me. Inside the envelope addressed to Madelyn is another envelope. In place of an address, it says:

  Sophie,

  Go to the place we love and then open this letter.

  “Is Ronda the place you love?” I ask her, double-checking and praying we are in the right place.

  “Yes. We came here on holiday. We talked about going other places in the world but ended up here because we loved it so.”

  I carefully examine both the outer and inner envelope, looking for any possible clues, studying it in various forms of light—from darkness to brightness to black light.

  I check under the stamp for a microchip.

  Not finding anything, I proceed to unfold the paper.

  Written on a single white sheet are just a few lines.

  Many a man hath found

  sublime inspiration

  in the beauty that surrounds

  and bells that sound

  from a little chapel

  tucked into the hills.

  I hand the letter to Sophie. “Does this mean anything to you?”

  She immediately shakes her head but then says, “I think it’s referring to where we are now. This is our church—the little chapel tucked into the hills.”

  “What’s he talking about in the beginning? Did your father come here for inspiration?”

  “Sometimes. But I think he’s talking about two other men—the film director Orson Welles and the author Ernest Hemingway. A few years ago, there were statues erected of them outside the bullring. Both men had spent many of their summers here, inspired by the beauty. I think I heard that Welles’s ashes were buried in the countryside of Ronda on the property of a bullfighter he had known. And one of Hemingway’s most famous works, For Whom the Bell Tolls, has scenes that were inspired by historic events that had actually taken place here during the Spanish Civil War.”

  “Did those men come to this church? This is a clue. But one that is meant for only you to figure out. Where would you go if those words were all you were given?”

  “Here. But it’s odd since I come here every time I’m in Ronda. It wouldn’t be normal if I didn’t.”

  “Maybe there’s a specific place in the church he’s referring to? Was there somewhere in this church that intrigued you?”

  Tears fill her eyes, but a smile turns up the corners of her lips. “The bells. I’ve been obsessed with them ever since I was little.”

  “And have you ever been in the bell tower to see them?”

  Her smile morphs into a wide grin. “Yes, he and I snuck up there once when I was young,” she admits. “I was scared the whole time, afraid we would get caught and get in trouble. Although I don’t know why. No one goes up there anymore. The bells haven’t been rung by hand in years. They are set on a timer and done mechanically.”

  “Let’s go see if he left something for you there. It sounds like the perfect out-of-the-way place to stash something important.”

  T-MINUS:01:51:17

  Sophie takes me down a hallway and through a door leading to a spiral staircase. The staircase is quite narrow, and I know whoever used to make the climb to ring the bells must have been diminutive in size. Sophie has a slight spring to her step. The idea of finding something from her father seems to have perked her up a little.

  I keep thinking about the coffee shop man in black, who I shot with the dart, knowing he has woken up by now and is searching for her—hopefully, through the rubble and not on his way to the church where she and her father always went. The place she routinely came every morning.

  I screwed up. I should have shot him with a midnight dart to kill him, and I hope it doesn’t come back to haunt me.

  When we get to the top of the stairs, I shimmy into the bell tower next to her. She’s mesmerized momentarily by the gorgeous view out of the arched openings while I’m smiling at the leather messenger bag I see propped against the wall, behind the bell’s mechanisms.

  I push past her, quickly opening it and rifling through papers. There are formulas strewn across the page and notes written in the margins. What I’m not seeing is the blatant proof I need.

  But yet, there has to be a reason he hid this.

  I turn around and hand the papers to Sophie. She sits cross-legged on the floor, so I do the same, plopping the bag in my lap while she reads the notes. I look up, noticing our heads are now hidden from view. I guess, if we’re going to hide out somewhere for a little while, this is probably as safe a place as any.

  “I’m getting my PhD in biomolecular physics,” Sophie says. “These are my father’s notes on the deadly disease he created. The disease you believe was unleashed in Montrovia. But I’m not seeing anything to indicate that he was able to successfully cure it.”

  “Sophie, think about it. Your father was afraid. There is a reason he left you these notes.”

  “There is correspondence between my father and a man named Mark. But his email address doesn’t have a company name attached, so I’m not sure who he is. They were discussing the disease, however, and this man was asking a lot of questions about if it could be cured. What it would do to the body.”

  “What does it do?” I ask, morbidly wanting to know exactly how my life will end.

  “It causes white blood cells to reproduce exponentially at the same time an autoimmune reaction is causing red blood cells to be destroyed. That’s bad because we need the red blood cells to carry oxygen throughout our body.”

  “And what happens when the body doesn’t get enough oxygen?”

  “It becomes starved and shuts down.”

  “And how long does that take?”


  “A few weeks maybe,” she says.

  “I think that Mark is really Marquis Dupree.”

  “The man who owns the conglomerate that PureGen is a part of?” she gasps.

  “Yeah, but with just the name Mark, we can’t prove it was him. Keep looking.”

  After watching her diligently read through the papers for nearly fifteen minutes, I ask, “Is there anything else?”

  “No. It’s all about the disease and its makeup. He was trying to find a cure for all autoimmune diseases. While doing that, he writes that he accidentally discovered something that could wipe out the world. Unfortunately, there’s nothing else,” she says sadly. “I’m sorry. I really wish that there were.”

  T-MINUS:01:20:45

  I lean my elbows on top of the messenger bag in defeat.

  Then, I look down at it, realizing that it feels heavy in my lap even though we took all the papers out. I bounce it up and down on my knees.

  “There’s something else in here.”

  I reach inside, pull out a false bottom, and grab what’s underneath it.

  “A brick?” Sophie asks. “Why would my father put a brick in his bag? That would make it so heavy to carry up here.”

  I flip the brick over to find a yellow Post-it note attached.

  Go to where the fight changed.

  Find a box fit for Asclepius.

  Deliver it to where it started.

  My heart soars with hope. “Sophie! He left you more than just this. We have to go find it.”

  “Sure,” she says, rolling her eyes. She speaks in a frustrated tone, “All we have to do is figure out where the fight changed, find some box, and then take it to where something starts. That makes no sense!”

  “Part of it does,” I counter. “It started in Montrovia. Whatever is in the box, your father wants it taken there. And Asclepius was the Greek god of medicine, doctors, and healing, so—”

  “Do you think there could be something that would heal the people of Montrovia, the people of the world?”

  “Yes,” I say with confidence. I mean, it has to be, right?

  I wipe the back of my hand across my brow. The morning air is cool, particularly up here, but I’m all sweaty even though I feel chilled.

  I look down at my hands, pull my sleeves back, and exhale.

  “You have it, don’t you?” Sophie says, astutely watching me.

  “I was at the opening ceremonies, but I feel fine so far.”

  “No, you don’t. Your cheeks are flushed.” She puts her palm against the side of my neck. “You have a fever. Open your mouth.”

  I do as she asked.

  “And your throat is red. Probably pretty sore.”

  “Yeah,” I admit. “But no rash yet.”

  “You’re not just trying to save Montrovia; you need to save yourself.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t care if I die, Sophie,” I say even though I know I’m only telling her the way I used to feel. Now, I have lots of reasons to live, and one in particular. “In case you can’t tell, I’m not just some girl. I was hidden away after my mother was killed, and I was trained to be a spy and an assassin. I’m supposed to be on a mission. But, when the people I love got sick—”

  “It got personal?”

  “Yes. Very. And we’re on borrowed time here. The vaccines are set to be given to everyone in Montrovia starting at ten this morning.”

  “And in other places in the world starting this afternoon,” she adds somberly. “That means, we don’t have much time.”

  T-MINUS:01:16:16

  Maximillian Olivier has been watching news reports about a communications outage in Montrovia. Although the reporters are all speculating on the situation, he knows exactly what happened and exactly who caused it. This part of the plan fully rested on Sergey Olander’s shoulders. What most people don’t know is that, before Sergey sold his tech security products to governments and corporations for big bucks, he was a criminal who hacked into financial institutions and made money disappear.

  It was Ares Von Allister who found a trace of code that allowed the government to track down and arrest Sergey.

  And it was former president John F. Hillford who saw his potential. With the help of The Echelon and contacts within The Society, Sergey Olander quickly became one of the richest men in the world.

  One who owed his life to Hillford.

  They all did really, one way or another. Max had voiced his concerns over Hillford’s intent to reduce the world’s population years ago. He understood the lure of the great treasure and stupidly assumed that Hillford was greedy.

  What he learned was that all the money in the world couldn’t protect you from someone with power.

  Whoever said, “With great power comes great responsibility,” had it wrong. With great power comes great control.

  The kind of control that could crush your family with a flick of a wrist, even from the grave.

  And that is the kind of control The Echelon fortune represents.

  Hillford once told him that power was best described as the ability to create chaos, to effect change. And that the people who would be remembered in history were those who had the greatest impact.

  The world is about to see just exactly how powerful John F. Hillford truly was.

  Maximillian’s phone rings, startling him.

  He looks down, seeing the call is from Rutherford Elingston.

  “We might have a problem,” Rut says. “The two-man team sent to London was killed in duty.”

  “How?”

  “We assume the authorities,” Rut replies. “The roommate got away, but we had her phone bugged. She made a call to Ronda, Spain, and left a message for Sophie. It wasn’t long enough for pinpoint accuracy, but we got her general vicinity and already have a man there.”

  “Do you think she knows anything?” he asks.

  “Probably not, but I’d feel better if she couldn’t talk just the same.”

  “When can we expect results?”

  “The man has already discovered where she lives,” Rut says. “He looked through the window of her villa, saw her sleeping on the couch, broke the gas line, went to a nearby coffee shop, and patiently waited for her to die in a horrific accident, just like her father.”

  “So, she’s dead?”

  “He hasn’t been able to confirm it with the authorities, and honestly, his story regarding this is a little, um, fantastical.”

  “Tell me.”

  “He came out of the coffee shop and was walking toward where the explosion happened, pretending to be looking to help the victims. But he was shot along the way.”

  “Shot?” Max exclaims.

  “Yes, with the same kind of tranquilizer dart one of his now-dead teammates used when they helped Princess Ophelia kidnap Prince Lorenzo.”

  “Does he have a traitor in his midst?”

  “I’m not done yet,” Rut says. “He remembers feeling something sting his neck, and when he turned around, he swears that he saw—get this—Huntley Von Allister.”

  “But she’s in Montrovia. Reporters have mentioned seeing her at the hospital. She was helping Chef Pierre Dassi hand out baguettes to those in need, and if I recall correctly, they even mentioned the outfit she was wearing, which included—and I quote—‘adorable floral Versace shorts.’”

  “I heard that, too,” Rut replies. “And, while I’d like to think our man had a nice daydream about a pretty girl while he was knocked out, I’m just not convinced—”

  “I think we both know you should never underestimate a Von Allister. Can you imagine the damage Huntley could do if she found the scientist’s daughter and figured everything out?” Maximillian shudders.

  “It would only matter if his daughter had proof of anything,” Rut argues.

  “If she did, she would have told someone already.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” Rut agrees.

  “Regardless,” Maximillian says, “I want her and anyone she’s with�
��especially if it’s Huntley Von Allister—dead. And I mean, now!” he says, getting worked up. “We’re too close to risk anything else!”

  T-MINUS:01:12:43

  “Let’s go through this again,” I say to Sophie. “Where did the fight change? Could it be Iraq? At the TerraSphere? Is that when your dad went from fighting diseases to fighting something else?”

  Sophie shakes her head. “I suppose it could be but, if that were the case, why send me here first? It’s a long way to Iraq and not a particularly safe place to send your daughter alone. It doesn’t feel right.”

  I smile at her. “You’re trusting your instincts. That’s good. That’s what he would have wanted. Talk to me about Ronda. Did your dad ever get in a fight here?”

  “No.”

  I read through both clues again and point to a section. “This part here. Is it odd that your father would mention that many a man found inspiration here?”

  “I mean, not really because they did, and it’s something the town is known for.”

  “Maybe the fight changed means, when you die. But how would any of that relate to your father? Did Orson Welles and Ernest Hemingway know each other?”

  “I don’t know if they knew each other,” Sophie says, “but I think I mentioned earlier that Welles’s ashes are buried in the countryside on the property of a bullfighter he knew. And both men were really into it. That’s why there are statues of them outside the Plaza de Toros bullring.”

  “Wait. Could the fight have something to do with bullfighting?”

  Sophie’s eyes go wide. “Oh my gosh! That’s it! The fight definitely changed here, in Ronda. It happened when the fighters stopped riding on horseback and faced the bull on foot. I think that’s where we need to go. The bullfighting ring. There’s a museum that is open to the public.”