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    The Tesla Secret: Books 1, 2 & 3
    The Tesla Secret: Books 1, 2 & 3
    The Tesla Secret: Books 1, 2 & 3
    Ebook483 pages8 hours

    The Tesla Secret: Books 1, 2 & 3

    By Mike Wells

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    About this ebook

    When a Stanford University physicist is kidnapped and whisked away to a top-secret research facility near Moscow, he finds that a Russian oligarch has developed a “free energy” machine based on the lost work of Nikola Tesla. There, he is forced to finish developing the earthshaking invention. If perfected, the machine will provide unlimited, pollution-free electrical energy extracted from the earth’s very atmosphere. In so doing, it would make the oil, gas and alternative energy industries obsolete. It could also solve the world’s problems with poverty and perhaps even climate change.

    Torn between his scientific ego and the fact that people driven by profit alone are in control of technology that has such monumental humanitarian potential, the professor reluctantly begins to help with the project. Working side-by-side with him is a beautiful woman from Tajikistan who has special knowledge related to the device’s operation and is also being held against her will. The professor soon develops feelings for her, and they both try to escape, which takes them on a harrowing chase through Moscow. The two are relentlessly pursued not only by the Russian oligarch and his henchmen, but by an oil industry cartel who will stop at nothing to keep the disruptive technology hidden from the world.

    Readers of Dan Brown, Michael Crichton, Robert Ludlum, Blake Crouch, and Nelson DeMille will enjoy this exciting, well-researched techno-thriller.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherMike Wells
    Release dateDec 11, 2019
    ISBN9780463340509
    The Tesla Secret: Books 1, 2 & 3
    Author

    Mike Wells

    Mike Wells is an author of both walking and cycling guides. He has been walking long-distance footpaths for 25 years, after a holiday in New Zealand gave him the long-distance walking bug. Within a few years, he had walked the major British trails, enjoying their range of terrain from straightforward downland tracks through to upland paths and challenging mountain routes. He then ventured into France, walking sections of the Grande Randonnee network (including the GR5 through the Alps from Lake Geneva to the Mediterranean), and Italy to explore the Dolomites Alta Via routes. Further afield, he has walked in Poland, Slovakia, Slovenia, Norway and Patagonia. Mike has also been a keen cyclist for over 20 years. After completing various UK Sustrans routes, such as Lon Las Cymru in Wales and the C2C route across northern England, he then moved on to cycling long-distance routes in continental Europe and beyond. These include cycling both the Camino and Ruta de la Plata to Santiago de la Compostela, a traverse of Cuba from end to end, a circumnavigation of Iceland and a trip across Lapland to the North Cape. He has written a series of cycling guides for Cicerone following the great rivers of Europe.

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      Book preview

      The Tesla Secret - Mike Wells

      Prologue

      Dubai, United Arab Emirates

      L adies and gentlemen, the Viper said in his soft Dutch accent, I apologize for any inconvenience this impromptu gathering may have caused you. His masked face turned to the Saudi prince. And I thank you, Your Royal Highness, for arranging this secure location on such short notice.

      Holding this meeting so far from my home is an imposition, the queen said huffily. Not to mention the risk involved. She fingered a gold necklace, from which hung a pendant engraved with an ibis, or Nile bird. It was the symbol for the one hundred-year-old group. I do hope it will be justified.

      Due to the highly irregular nature of the emergency gathering, only ten of the twelve Benefactors’ Elders were able to attend. In addition to the European queen, who currently served as chairman, and the Saudi prince, who represented OPEC, the others were: the CEO of the largest American oil corporation; the dictator of a South American country; the prime minister of a former Soviet republic; the owner of the largest Asian energy conglomerate; a Russian oil and gas oligarch who was also a high ranking member of the Russian parliament; the great-great grandson of a Chinese emperor; the president of one of the largest utility companies in Europe; and the heiress of the Malaysian energy cartel which controlled the lion’s share of the market in that region.

      The eleven individuals sitting around the table commandeered, either directly or through their political spheres of influence, more than seventy percent of the world’s energy resources. Add the two missing Elders, and the figure jumped to a mind-numbing eight-six percent. The sum of the wealth they represented far exceeded the GNPs of the most developed nations.

      As you all know from the encrypted communiqué, the Viper began, one of the Elders has received a rather disturbing message. Behind the Viper, on the wall of the ultra-secure meeting room, the screen came to life. The scanned image was composed of letters cut out from newspapers:

      ImPOrtAnT inFORmaTION foR YoUr GroUP: wE ARe BuiLDiNG A FRee EnERgy MAchInE iN RuSSia. PrOfEssOR STepHen SAWyer WiLL HeLp fiNisH. YOu MUsT sTOP uS aNd HiM.

      —YouR FRiEnD

      Jesus Christ, the American CEO said.

      "Us and him?" the prime minister said.

      The queen looked alarmed. Does this have any credibility?

      The Viper peered at her, only his grey eyes visible behind the mask. I’m afraid it may. He clicked a new slide onto the screen. It was the title page of an academic paper, by Stephen Sawyer. Stamped diagonally across it in thick red letters were the words TESLA CONFIDENTIAL.

      I thought we made that paper disappear, the American said.

      We should have made Sawyer disappear, too, the dictator said. I recommended that, if you remember.

      What’s happened in the past is irrelevant, the queen said testily. She looked back at the Viper. Please continue."

      He gave her a deferential nod, then turned to the others, his expression impossible to read behind the mask. We did eradicate this paper ten years ago—Technical Paper Number 634, to be exact—and quite effectively. All known copies were eliminated, with the exception of those in Sawyer’s personal files.

      Could Sawyer have given it to these Russians, whoever they are, himself? the Chinese Elder asked. Sold it to them?

      That’s certainly a possibility. As some of you may remember, he spent a year teaching in Russia, at Moscow State, shortly after he attempted to publish this.

      But our people kept a tight watch on him, the Russian parliament member said. He behaved himself.

      Yes. He responded well to the usual...deterrents. He’s been on our A Watch List ever since he attempted to publish this paper, and hasn’t engaged in any suspicious activity.

      What I want to know, the Saudi prince said, is how this situation has progressed this far. He motioned angrily to the Viper. Do we have to remind you that your job is to detect and eliminate this kind of activity long before it becomes a serious threat?

      We have yet to confirm the existence of a such free energy machine in Russia, the Viper said smoothly. He nodded to the member of the Russian parliament, who concurred. If such a device is actually under development, our Sentries will track it down, I assure you. They’re working the problem 24/7.

      The Saudi looked at the queen. With all due respect, Your Majesty, if he cannot do his job—

      I believe he is doing his job very well, she said. And I warn you not to try and take this situation into your own hands, or to pass any of this information on to OPEC.

      The Viper gave the queen a deferential bow, then pushed another button on his computer. A photograph of a slender middle-aged man appeared on the wall. He was smiling, standing casually on the sidewalk of a college campus, one hand in his pocket, a satchel slung over his shoulder, chatting with two students whose backs were to the camera.

      If Sawyer does prove to be involved in a project like this, the Viper said, we have a decision to make.

      Indeed we do, the queen said. With a sigh, she opened the wooden box in front of her. The mahogany container was ancient and well worn, the ibis symbol inlaid in blue pearl on its cover. Underneath the symbol, carved into the wood in Latin, was the Benefactors’ motto:

      Status Quo Conservo, or Maintain the Status Quo.

      Her bejeweled hands carefully removed eleven of the twelve Voting Tokens from their felt-padded slots and distributed them to the other Elders. The weighty round disks were white on one side, engraved with the ibis symbol. The other side was polished to a smooth black sheen.

      One by one, the Elders went through the one hundred-year-old ritual, sliding their tokens forward. The disks formed a rough circle in the center of the table.

      Black.

      Black.

      Black….

      Book 1

      1

      Las Vegas, Nevada

      Professor Stephen Sawyer was snoring, his mouth half open. He was having a disjointed dream, an unpleasant montage of blackjack tables, one-armed bandits, and endlessly spinning roulette wheels. He’d spent most of the evening at the casino with his old friend Jack Waterman, performing an experiment of sorts—to see if the laws of physics still applied to a tumbling pair of white cubes with little dots scattered on their faces.

      The laws still applied. Sawyer’s wallet was five hundred dollars lighter to prove it.

      He rolled over and felt something touching his forehead. Thinking it was a bug or a feather from the pillow, he took a swat at it.

      That’s when his fingers made contact with the gun barrel.

      You must help me, a voice said.

      Sawyer opened his eyes. Through the Mai Tai-induced haze, he dimly understood that the voice belonged to the female holding the pistol to his head. Encased almost entirely in black leather, she looked like she was in her late twenties. Straight black hair, with bangs cropped straight across her dark eyebrows.

      She looked like a hooker.

      Adrenaline began pumping frantically into Sawyer’s sleep-fogged brain. His eyes flicked to the right and he spotted his blue blazer hanging over the back of a chair, his name tag clipped to his pocket. DR. STEPHEN SAWYER, STANFORD UNIVERSITY.

      He was attending a conference on polymer physics. And this was his room at the Flamingo hotel. How the hell did a hooker—

      You must help me, she repeated.

      Sawyer was too terrified to move. Somewhere in the back of his mind he understood that she was Russian—he recognized the accent. You must hyelp me.

      He finally found his voice. Look, if you need money, my wallet is over there—

      Stand up, she said, her tone becoming firm. She motioned with the pistol to Sawyer’s slacks, which lay across the arm of an easy chair. Put zem on.

      Her features—the cat-like blue eyes, the long, straight nose, and the triangular jawline—were Slavic-looking. She was definitely Russian.

      Move! the girl hissed, motioning again to his slacks.

      Sawyer stumbled over to the chair, thankful that he had been too tired last night to take off his jockey shorts before collapsing into bed. As he stepped into his pants and zipped them up, he watched her with trepidation. If he turned and started pounding on the wall, Jack would wake up, he was in the next room...

      Ze shirt, she said, pointing with the pistol.

      Sawyer stepped over to pick it up off the back of the desk chair. He glanced at the telephone—it was within easy reach.

      Do not be stupid, she said.

      Sawyer put on the wrinkled garment and buttoned it up with trembling fingers. Keep it together, he told himself. He knew he had been in worse situations, although at the moment, he couldn’t actually think of one. She won’t shoot you, he told himself, not in the middle of a large hotel…

      Jacket, the girl said, motioning again with the gun.

      As soon as he donned the blazer, she yanked the name tag off, then shoved the pistol in his back and guided him towards the door.

      It only now dawned on Sawyer that she planned on taking him somewhere.

      Across the street, in the parking lot of the Tropicana Hotel, a woman in an unmarked van was engaged in a frenzy of activity. Four minutes ago she had been jarred awake by the alarm from the sensor that she had attached to the top of Stephen Sawyer’s hotel room door.

      One hand held her secure satellite phone, a monotonous ringing on the line. Her other hand manipulated one of the electronic consoles, replaying the conversation that had just been recorded—some female had entered Sawyer’s room and abducted him. A Russian, by the sound of the accent.

      A kidnapping operation was not something for which the Viper had briefed her. If Sawyer was helping the Russians develop a free energy machine, she had assumed he was a voluntarily participant. Her job was to immediately report any suspicious contact Sawyer made and wait for further instructions.

      She listened to the endless ringing on her satellite phone and cut the connection. It figured—the Viper always seemed to be unavailable at the worst times.

      She’d just have to wing it. She certainly couldn’t let Sawyer out of her hands. To hell with the Viper if he didn’t like how she handled this.

      After starting the engine, she drove the van to a spot where she had a clear view of all the Flamingo’s exits.

      2

      Sawyer found himself in the rear seat of a black limo, the girl in the opposing seat, facing him. She held the gun in her lap casually, on its side, but it was still pointed at him. At his crotch, actually.

      To his left was a huge guy with a crew cut, about the same age as the young woman. He had an ugly scar across the back of his neck which looked like it could have been from a knife or bullet wound. Sawyer couldn’t see the driver, or the limo’s front seats, as the partition was closed.

      Only in the last few moments had he realized who these people probably were—a couple of the Crazies. Since his book had made it big, they had come out of the woodwork. Knowing who they were made him somewhat less afraid—most of the Crazies were not particularly dangerous, just slightly obsessive folks who insisted that he listen to their ideas about how to build free energy machines and tell them they would become overnight multimillionaires. Still, she had a pistol pointed at him.

      Sometimes he’d regretted ever publishing his book. Blind Spot: How In-the-Box Thinking is Thwarting the Development of New Technology had first been rejected by Stanford University Press for being too unscholarly, then he had been rebuffed by all the commercial houses for being too academic. Frustrated but firmly convinced that he had something important to say, Sawyer had finally paid a local printer to make 5,000 copies and organized his own low-cost and unconventional promotional campaign.

      As soon as the spring semester ended, he began a tour of California—on his bicycle—to demonstrate his commitment to energy conservation. His secretary sent press releases to each city or town, announcing the day of his arrival, and would also coordinate the delivery of a box of his books to some independently-owned bookstore, which knew nothing of him or his tour. When he rolled into town, he would pedal directly to one of the radio talk show stations and politely annoy them until they gave him a little air time. However, the moment he sat front of the microphone and started talking about how in-the-box thinking by government, big business, and academia were impeding the flow of fresh new technology— particularly the development of cheap, non-polluting sources of energy, to make the world less dependent on Middle Eastern oil—the telephone switchboard would light up like a Christmas tree, and the DJ would be ecstatic. Sawyer would often speak to callers for an hour or more.

      At the end, the DJ would ask, And Dr. Sawyer, where can listeners buy a copy of your book? Sawyer would give the name of the store where he’d sent his parcel and say that he would be there in a few minutes to autograph copies. The bookstore owners were usually dumbfounded when this unannounced celebrity showed up, climbed off his bike, covered in road grit, greeted by a few fans who were already waiting for him and clamoring for a signed copy of his book, a whole box of which—miraculously—had just arrived the day before...

      By the time he finished his tour of California, the book had gotten so much publicity he arranged for a second printing of thirty thousand copies and flew out to Raleigh, North Carolina, where he began a bike tour up the East Coast. He rode to Richmond, Washington, D.C., Baltimore, Philadelphia, New York City...when he arrived in Hartford, he was greeted by a crowd of two thousand college students and environmentalists, along with a TV crew. By mid-August, when he finally reached Boston, Blind Spot was selling in such large numbers that it broke into the bottom of the non-fiction bestseller lists. He was also in better physical shape than he’d ever been in his life. Just a week before classes started again, Prentice Hall bought the rights for his book for $1.6 million. The peak of his publicity came the second week of the semester, when he was flown back to New York, first class, to be a guest on The David Letterman Show.

      But now, as he sat in the back of the limo with these two Russian nutcases, he wondered if he should have ever published it in the first place. Stanford certainly wasn’t thrilled about it, neither with the subject matter nor the fact that it drew so many of the Crazies onto the campus, seeking him out in his office. A few had become aggressive—one factory worker who had driven all the way from Michigan had to be cuffed and escorted out of the building by Security when Sawyer told him why his idea was not feasible. Another, a pig farmer from Tennessee, had become so upset Sawyer thought things might get violent. After the overalls-clad man had drawn a sketch of his idea on the board, Sawyer had calmly explained how his machine would consume more Joules (of energy) than it generated. The farmer had become red in the face and had screamed, "It don’t need no jewels to operate—no gold, diamonds, nothin’ like that. This machine runs on electricity!"

      The young Russian woman was silently watching him as the limo made its way through the parking lot.

      Can I ask where we’re going? Sawyer said.

      She didn’t respond. There was an odd look on her face—her dark red lips hinted at a smile. Sawyer shifted in his seat—the girl’s legs were so long her knees were pressed against his. With the refrigerator-sized man’s shoulder crowding his own, he felt cramped, almost claustrophobic.

      The car stopped momentarily and the partition slid open slightly. A voice from the front said, "Stanislav, cartochka."

      The side of beef sitting next to Sawyer leaned forward and passed a magnetic card through the opening. The partition slid closed again.

      The limo rolled out of the Flamingo’s VIP parking garage and turned left onto the Strip, heading south. To their right, behind Caesar’s Palace, the sharp silhouette of the Sierra Nevada Mountains was visible. The range was backlit by the first light of dawn, the orange light muted by the limo’s heavily tinted windows.

      Look, Sawyer said, I really don’t understand what’s going on here. You—

      We go to Russia, Stanislav said, gazing at the hotels, looking bored.

      Sawyer swallowed hard. To Russia?

      The girl just gazed at Sawyer.

      Trying to keep his panic under control, Sawyer said, I’ll be happy to listen to any ideas you have about free energy machines, if that’s what this is about. You don’t have to take me to Rus—

      "Sashenka, davai moyu igru, the man muttered to the girl. Frightened, Sawyer quickly translated it to himself: give me the game." At least that’s what he thought the cretin said. Sawyer had studied Russian during the year he’d spent teaching at Moscow State, but he was a bit rusty now.

      The young woman reached into a pocket behind the passenger seat and passed a small blue-colored box to Stanislav. Sawyer breathed a sigh of relief when it started beeping and squawking—it was only some kind of electronic gambling toy. The big Russian began punching buttons with his thick fingers, snickering dumbly at the display.

      The limo sped along the Strip, and the hotels began to thin out. The vehicle slowed down a bit as they approached an intersection—Sawyer glimpsed a sign that said RANDOLPH EXECUTIVE AIRPORT with an arrow to the right.

      As they decelerated to make the turn, Sawyer glanced down at the door handle. It was only inches away...

      Do not be foolish, professor, the girl said, her grip tightening on the pistol. Ze doors are locked.

      Sawyer forced himself to stay calm and rational, but it took all his willpower. He kept telling himself this was just something to do with a far-fetched free energy machine idea, but he couldn’t imagine these two wanting to build anything more complicated than a strip club.

      The limo was flying down the highway now. Sawyer glimpsed another sign that said RANDOLPH EXECUTIVE AIRPORT – 3. Unable to keep his mouth shut any longer, he said, What you’re doing is very serious, you know. It’s called kidnapping.

      Shhh, Stanislav said, still playing his gambling game. "Dai podumat." I’m trying to think.

      Sawyer looked back at the girl. She seemed more approachable, and he thought he detected some intelligence behind her blue eyes. He had noticed that Stanislav had called her Sashenka. This was one of a half dozen affectionate forms of the name Alexandra—the Russian language seemed to have thousands of such variants, for both objects and names. Sasha, Sashka, Sashenka…

      Sawyer leaned towards her a little bit. Alexandra?

      She looked a bit surprised by this. She raised her eyebrows and waited for him to continue.

      Please hear me out for a minute. I have no idea why you want to kidnap me, but—

      Not kidnap, Stanislav interrupted, glancing over at him. Protect you.

      Sawyer felt even more tense. Now he was sure they were Russian mafia—protection was their euphemism for extortion.

      After a few seconds, Alexandra said to Stanislav, in Russian, Maybe we should show him the video? It seems a little rude...

      Stanislav gave an indifferent shrug. It’s your project, Sasha. Do what you want.

      Alexandra considered this, gazing out the window—there were wide expanses of desert on both sides of the highway. She finally handed the pistol to Stanislav, who took it almost absent-mindedly, then pulled a small computer out from underneath her seat. Peering at the screen, she opened her mouth to say something, but Stanislav interrupted.

      Take off that stupid hair. It makes you look provincial.

      Alexandra blushed, glancing at herself in the window’s reflection.

      It’s supposed to look like this, she said defensively.

      And drop that overdone accent. ‘Eeetz suppozed to look like zis.’ You want him to think you grew up in Muhosransk?"

      Sawyer translated this last word as Flyshitville.

      Alexandra glared at Stanislav, then pulled off the wig, revealing lush blonde hair. She gave Sawyer another rather odd glance, as though he might recognize her. Her appearance had completely altered without the bangs—she almost looked sophisticated. She had a broad, and quite lovely, forehead.

      For an instant, Sawyer thought she did look familiar…could he have known her from Russia?

      Alexandra looked down at the computer screen. The video clip I am about to show you was made seven years ago, in Tajikistan. She still had a Russian accent, but it wasn’t so thick—she spoke English with a precise, academic air.

      The limo’s partition slammed open with a bang.

      "Za nami hvost!" the driver yelled.

      Sawyer didn’t understand this phrase, but Stanislav’s reaction immediately made its meaning crystal clear. He had turned and peered out the back window.

      Somebody was following them.

      3

      The Benefactors’ sentry was steering with one hand, her satellite phone in the other—she was still trying to reach the Viper, but to no avail. She cut off the connection and slipped the phone into her jacket pocket, glancing to the left and right—this was the least populated area along the highway between Las Vegas and the private airport. It was now or never.

      She stomped on the accelerator and began to close the gap between her van and the limo.

      On the floor in front of the passenger seat was a small arsenal—a Scorpion machine gun, two Kalashnikovs, and an armed RPG launcher. She deftly picked up the Scorpion machine gun and leaned out of the van, squinting into the wind, taking aim. She wanted to knock out the back window of the limo before she used the RPG, as the window was likely made of reinforced glass. The RPG wouldn’t strike its surface straight-on, which would weaken the impact of the grenade. She couldn’t risk the bomb simply bouncing off. She only had one chance at this, and if she screwed up, the Viper would be upset. Very upset.

      4

      Sawyer was looking out the limo’s rear window, watching the van close in on them. He was scared, but he was also cautiously hopeful, thinking maybe the pursuers were the police. But there were no flashing lights or sirens.

      Down! Stanislav yelled, shoving Sawyer into the corner of the vehicle.

      Who is it? Alexandra said.

      "Dobrazhelateli, Stanislav said. Sawyer translated this in his head—it sounded like a combination of two other simple words, well and wish." Well-wishers?

      He hoped this was a Russian nickname for the police, but he doubted it. Before he had time to think about this any further, there was a rapid, thunderous series of explosions behind his head. Sawyer screamed, and when he turned around, he saw that the rear window was riddled with pockmarks. The glass had shattered but had not caved in.

      Get down! Alexandra shouted, crawling on top of Sawyer and jamming her left knee into his chest. She and Stanislav both pressed their guns up against the battered back window and pulled their triggers almost simultaneously. Stanislav blasted off several deafening bursts from the machine gun, his mouth twisted into a hideous grimace, while Alexandra steadily fired the pistol. She looked scared to death, as if she wasn’t accustomed to this kind of activity.

      Sawyer expected glass to rain down all over him, but the window held.

      Polyvinyl butyral, Sawyer thought dazedly. When layered with glass, and also used as the outer sheet on one side, the special plastic could be used to create a one-way bullet resistant window. It was one of those theoretical examples he used to spice up his Flexible Materials class, but he had never dreamed he would actually witness a piece of the stuff being tested to its limit in the real world. The very real world...

      And why he was thinking about this right now, he had no earthly idea.

      Stanislav and Alexandra stopped firing. Stanislav peered out the side window, squinting into the wind—they were still going sixty or seventy miles per hour. He screamed and yanked his head back in, throwing himself on top of Alexandra and Sawyer.

      There was another deafening explosion. Glass went everywhere. Sawyer looked up and saw that the partition that separated them from the driver was gone. Beyond it, the front windshield was shattered in a spider-web pattern emanating from a small, clean hole in the middle.

      The driver was unhurt but looked shaken, still driving fast, his eyes moving rapidly between the road and the rearview mirror.

      Stanislav peered over the edge of the back seat, and his eyes widened. Slam on the brakes!

      The driver glanced up in the rearview again, contorted his face, and then all three of them in the back were thrown violently forward. There was a spine-tingling screeching sound. A split second later—an impact from behind, a horrific grinding of metal. Sawyer found himself at the bottom of a tangle of arms and legs. He was face to face with something on the floorboard, only a few inches from his nose.

      It looked like some kind of grenade.

      Sawyer heard an elephant-like roar. Simultaneously, Stanislav’s big hand snatched up the explosive and hurled it out the side window. A painfully long two seconds of silence under the crushing weight of Stanislav and Alexandra. Then another blast that knocked the wind out of Sawyer’s chest.

      Alexandra managed to open the door on Sawyer’s side. She pushed him out and down into the gravel just beside the rear wheel. There was a burst of machine gun fire, bullets ringing off the limo’s rear bumper. Sawyer felt something whip across his right thigh, like he had been lashed with a red-hot wire. Stanislav scrambled out next, machine gun in his hands. He hit the ground, rolled over once in the sand, and began firing.

      The van was barreling backwards in reverse. Sawyer glimpsed the windshield cave in under Stanislav’s heavy fire, but the driver was not visible. The van suddenly screeched to one side, turning complete around, and with burning rubber, sped away, back in the direction from where it had come.

      Stanislav jumped to his feet and stuck his head inside the limo’s passenger window. You okay? he said to the driver.

      Sawyer had shakily stood up. Alexandra grabbed the machine gun from Stanislav and tossed it into the back seat, then climbed in and tried to pull Sawyer in alongside her, but only managed to catch the sleeve of his blazer.

      Sawyer stared numbly off at the orange horizon, then looked down.

      There was a rip in his right trouser leg, with a widening red spot around it.

      The impulse to run was something he could not control. He wasn’t conscious of the decision—he simply found his legs somehow carrying himself quickly across the desert sand, away from the limo, towards a cluster of cactus plants. He was in good shape—he no longer owned a car, lived close to campus and went everywhere by bicycle—but the sharp pain in his leg slowed him considerably.

      Professor! Alexandra shouted from behind.

      Sawyer wondered how badly he had been wounded, resisting the urge to look down again. He didn’t really care, as long as his two lower limbs were intact enough to carry him away from this insanity. Beyond the cactus plants was a house—he could go there. As he continued on, he wondered when the machine gun would start firing.

      Then he heard footsteps behind him, gaining on him. He kept running, or limping, along. He made it about halfway to the cactus cluster before he felt something grab hold of his collar.

      Professor, stop, Stanislav said in between gasps.

      Sawyer whirled around and started swinging at the Russian, teetering on his bad leg, determined not to be recaptured.

      One swing from the big Russian took Sawyer down, and, his mouth full of sand, he blacked out.

      5

      Sawyer felt like he was floating. Floating on a bed of fluffy white clouds.

      He sat bolt upright in the bed, blinking a few times in the dim light. For a fleeting instant he thought he was back at the Flamingo Hotel and that maybe it had all been just a bad dream.

      He was naked, with a blanket over him. The room he found himself in was tiny, the ceiling curved, like a bedroom but built into a ship, or a . . .

      There was a window covered with a heavy mauve curtain. His heart thudding, he leaned over and swept it to one side. It was oval-shaped, with two panes of glass. And nothing beyond it but blackness, and few stars.

      Ah, professor, you’re awake.

      Alexandra was standing in the doorway, in jeans and a loose-fitting blue turtleneck sweater. She’d let her silky blonde hair down around her shoulders.

      How do you feel? she asked.

      He could only stare at her for a moment. Where the hell are we?

      Over the Baltic Sea. Are you hungry? You must join us and have something to eat. This will make you feel better.

      The Baltic Sea.

      Sawyer gazed at her another few seconds, then looked down at the blanket and felt his knee. It was bandaged.

      Only a graze, she said. Nothing serious.

      Sawyer gazed back at her. Who—

      Stas. She meant Stanislav—that was the short form of the name.

      She added, Please do not worry. He has training. He was in medical school.

      Was in medical school. Great. As in flunked out. But Stas probably did know what he was doing—Sawyer was sure he had a wealth of real-life experience removing slugs from his own body.

      We did not expect such problems, Alexandra said.

      Looking more closely at her, Sawyer noticed she seemed shaken—there were dark rings under her eyes. She motioned to a door to her right. There is shower. You will find clean clothes in wardrobe.

      Alexandra slid the door shut, leaving him alone.

      Sawyer sank back into the soft bed, trying to come to grips with the fact that these two thugs had kidnapped him and taken him out of the United States.

      He glanced at his watch—the only thing he was wearing—and wondered if anyone even knew he was missing.

      6

      Fifteen minutes later, Sawyer shakily emerged from the small bedroom on the jet. He wore a pair of black wool slacks and cream-colored dress shirt—he looked like a badly dressed hit man. There were no shoes in the closet, but he came across some furry blue topochki —Russian style house slippers—and put them on. He felt a bit silly wearing them on the jet.

      The bedroom was built into the aircraft’s tail section. Ahead of him were several plush leather seats, all empty, some of them partially reclined, with pillows and a blanket scattered around. Alexandra was sitting at a conference table, her computer in front of her. Stanislav stood behind her, his back to Sawyer, in a small kitchen nook.

      Sit, please, Alexandra said to Sawyer. Stas prepares pancakes.

      The brawny Russian glanced over his shoulder at Sawyer. "Privyet!" he said enthusiastically.

      Sawyer stared a moment, surprised by the chummy greeting, as if they were all close pals now. He was acutely aware of the dull ache in the back of his head caused by this delightful new friend.

      Stanislav was wearing a knee-length cooking apron, a black holster strap snaking out of the top

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