The Project 05 - The Tesla Secret

bitch.
    Now she was telling him it was his fault his mom had a stroke. He felt his blood pressure rising, a tight band across his forehead.
    "Shelley, drop the martyr act and the accusations and tell me how she is."
    "That's just like you," his sister had said. "You can't take any responsibility for her, you just want to keep George and me from getting our share. You won't even come out when your mother needs you."
    That was when he'd lost it. "Goddamn it, Shelley!" He'd shouted into the phone. "Just tell me how she is! You think you can do that?"
    His sister's voice was cold over the phone. "She's alive. I suppose that's all you need to know." She'd hung up.
    Nick had wanted to hurl the phone across the room. For a short time after Jerusalem, Shelley had been a little more understanding, a touch more willing to see him as her brother instead of an obstacle in her path. It hadn't lasted long.
    He'd put the phone away. He'd been so angry he'd forgotten about the vests.

    "The damn vests are back in Virginia."
    Ronnie looked at the cases. "Not much we can do about it. We probably won't need them. Plenty of times, we didn't have 'em."
    "Yeah." It didn't make him feel any better.
    They still wore the light civilian clothes they'd had on the plane. They changed for the jungle into heavy boots and camouflaged outfits that would blend into the greenery. Selena stripped with the others. No one except Nick paid attention. She was wearing red underwear. He remembered the dream of Selena wearing a red bikini.
    Don't go there, he thought. It doesn't mean anything.
    "Let's get the paint on," Nick said. They took turns covering their faces and hands with green and black and brown.
    Ronnie looked at Selena. "Now you look right."
    "Ready for Vogue," she said.
    No helmets, only soft brimmed covers. Aside from their packs, each carried a knife, an H-K pistol and an MP-5N. Both guns were chambered for the .40 S&W round.
    "Weapons check. Lock and load."
    The clacking sound of the weapons sent a flurry of birds into the air.
    He looked them over. His team. His family.
    "We'll stay with the trail at first," Nick said. "There might be traps, so pay attention. Ronnie, you take point, then me, then Selena. Lamont, you bring up our six."
    They headed into the jungle.

CHAPTER THIRTY-F IVE

    The Nimb Hotel was an architect's elaborate misconception of a Moorish palace, a five star monument to the craze for historical architecture that had swept the European continent at the turn of the twentieth century. The hotel featured an ornate facade of high Moorish arches fronting a covered veranda. Arched windows repeated the theme on the second story. An onion shaped dome topped with the crescent of Islam towered over the entry way. Six smaller towers suggested minarets.
    A broad, flat terrace extended away from the front of the building. A flight of steps led from the terrace to a landscaped garden area, where a large, circular fountain shot jets of water into the air. The water made a constant, soothing murmur in the background.
    Elizabeth walked out of the entrance to the hotel and scanned the area. She wore a long black coat and carried two manila folders in her left hand. Vysotsky sat in the sun at a table on the far side of the terrace, reading a newspaper and sipping espresso. He wore a medium length outdoor jacket, open to the fading summer warmth. He looked exactly like a tourist.
    Alexei Vysotsky was handsome in a European way. No one would ever mistake him for an American. He was not a big man, nor was he small. His eyes were black and penetrating as he watched her approach. He wore steel-rimmed tinted glasses that reminded her of movies about WWII. He was hatless. His hair was black, showing streaks of white. High cheekbones and the shape of his face hinted at an ancestor from the Mongolian steppes. He stood to greet her.
    "Director. You are even better looking than your picture."
    Elizabeth found herself smiling. A charmer. "As are you, General."
    Vysotsky held a chair for her. She sat down and laid the folders on the table, away from Vysotsky. He looked amused. A waiter appeared and took Elizabeth's order. Cappuccino, pastry. Vysotsky ordered another espresso.
    They waited in almost comfortable silence and watched the fountain bubble until the order came and the waiter left. Vysotsky took a sip.
    "I remember in the old days, in Berlin, how our two sides would sometimes have a quiet meeting to ensure there were no, ah, misunderstandings.