Lucy suspected she wasn’t getting the whole briefing and she waited, silence stretching between them on the line. She listened to Allison clear her throat, then Delphi’s hesitant breaths as if what was about to be said was highly classified.
Finally the altered voice said, “You should know this international blackmailer has been on all U.S. intel-gathering agencies’ radars for years. In Russia she’s known as Madame Web. Weaver, Spider, Webcrawler and Arachne are just a few of her other personas. Not only the U.S. but nations across the globe have a price on her head. She’s managed to avoid capture by staying one step ahead of us. We’re certain her wealth figures into the equation.”
“Like how wealthy are we talking?”
“Billions.”
“Jeez, that’s a lot of extortion.” Lucy couldn’t imagine the number of lives this blackmailer had destroyed.
“You don’t know the half of it.”
“So you believe Arachne is behind these kidnappings and threats to Athena grads.” Lucy watched two young boys riding a camel pass her on the road.
“Yes, and we’re trying to locate her before she strikes again. All the information you need, as well as your fee, is being forwarded to you by courier and will arrive at a safe house in Cape Town. Proceed there and wait for the courier. You can rendezvous with your team there as well. The house’s address will be texted to you, along with the keypad entry code.”
“Fine.”
“And Lucy, Arachne is, above all, a killer. If she’s cornered, your life, as well as your team’s lives, could be in the balance. Be careful.”
“I will.”
“Keep me posted on your progress at [email protected].”
Click.
“Goodbye, Lucy,” Allison said, “and good luck.”
“Goodbye.”
The dial tone sounded in Lucy’s ear.
She stared at the phone. Why was Arachne targeting Athena Academy alumnae? What did she hope to gain from the kidnappings? The very notion that someone was trying to harm the Athena Academy and its grads awakened Lucy’s protective instincts and caused them to roar to the surface. Anger stirred in her breast as she thought of Arachne. One thing Lucy was good at was destroying a target, and Arachne was now in Lucy’s crosshairs.
The Flats, Cape Town
“Listen, mate, leave my suitcase at the Waterfront Arabella Sheraton.” Nolan handed the taxi driver the fare, keeping one eye on the Taurus as it pulled in behind a bus. He knew his suitcase might not make it, so he added, “There’ll be another twenty in it for you if you come back for me in half an hour.”
“You sure you want to get out here, boss?” The driver motioned to gang drug dealers standing on the corner.
When the driver hadn’t been able to lose Viking, Nolan had directed him through the city to the low-lying Cape Flats, southeast of the city. From memory, Nolan could have drawn a complete map of the Flats and Cape Town proper. He’d been here before and he never entered a city without knowing the quickest exits and entrances, the airports and the bus and train terminals. And the most dangerous areas.
Shantytowns melded into each other in the Cape Flats and gangland violence contributed to the highest murder rate in the world. Known as “apartheid’s dumping ground” of the 1950s, the area became home to people the apartheid government designated as “non-White.” Race-based legislation made it illegal for those people to live in “White” areas. So they were forced into the Flats, an area scarred by apartheid’s influence. And an ideal playing ground to deal with Viking types.
“Absolutely,” he said, pulling his long legs out of the cab.
He tapped the top of the hood, to let the driver know he was clear, then the taxi sped off as he walked in the other direction. The air was redolent of suntan lotion and dirty sand. The beach, only a block away, heightened the water’s glare and forced him to squint.
He strode past bleak metal and wooden sheds, made of lumber, tin and plastic scraps. Lean-tos and metal shacks served as pool parlors, coffeehouses and shebeens, a local word for bars. Sidewalk vendors sold cheap beach towels, sunglasses, sunscreen and woven hats. He passed some gang-bangers selling coke on a corner. He might have stopped and forced them to move on, if he didn’t have a more pressing matter behind him.
Several hookers waved at him from a doorway. One wore a string bikini, the other a halter top and short shorts that left nothing to the imagination.
“Hey, boss, a discount you,” Halter Top said to him in broken English.
“Hmm, baby, baby you’re a big one. I like ’em big,” Bikini called out in Afrikaans, touching her breasts suggestively.
“Not today, ladies.” Nolan winked at them, handed them a twenty-pound note and said, “Get off the streets.”
They purred a thank-you.
He knew they’d still be there tomorrow and kept walking. He glanced behind him.
Viking still followed. He stared directly at Nolan, all pretense of stealth gone. His lips thinned in a threatening smile.
Nolan grinned back, silent code that he accepted the challenge.
Nolan broke into a jog.
Viking followed.
Chapter 3
Fish Hoek Village, False Bay, South Africa
Lucy stood looking out on the balcony of the safe house, polishing off a glass of sangria. She’d just finished eating a meal of bobotie, a kind of shepherd’s pie made with a lightly curried mince topped with savory egg custard, served on a bed of turmeric-flavored rice with a dab of chutney. Lucy loved the pungent spices. The dish, a local favorite, came from the Cape Malay cuisine, a blending of early European Dutch and Malay fare.
The July wind gusted and whipped Lucy’s hair against her face. South Africa’s winters ran from June to October, so different from America’s. She set down her glass on the railing and zipped up her sweatshirt. The wind hadn’t stopped blowing since she’d arrived, and she’d quickly learned that she hadn’t packed enough warm clothes. She’d had to make a run to the local market to buy another sweatshirt.
The safe house was in Fish Hoek Village, about thirty minutes from Cape Town. The village faced the Indian Ocean side of the Cape Peninsula and, like most of the Cape, the winds tore at the shore, molding the beaches to its will. She’d since learned that the wind blew constantly here, sometimes at twenty knots. Monster thunderstorms were known to rise up without notice. Even now dark clouds gathered to the west. She watched a janitor emptying a trash can on the beach, struggling to corral the plastic bags, paper cups and empty soda cans. A bag got away from him, flitted across the beach, smashed into the sea froth and was swallowed by the thick lengths of black kelp that chopped against the shore. The kelp was so thick, two surfers in wetsuits fought it to paddle away from the beach.
She looked out at the horizon and saw whale-watching boats bob and list in the wave swells. Miles up the beach, penguins guarded eggs, cavorted in the surf and wobbled up and down the beach like stiff wind-up toys.
The three-story safe house itself was shaped like a Far Eastern pagoda with a curved smiling roof, wide pillars standing tall across the front. A balcony wrapped around the top floor, providing awesome vistas of the Cape. Behind the house were the sharp jagged peaks of Simonstown Mountains. Mountain ranges seemed to cover the western coast of South Africa. Jagged escarpments coughed up pristine white beaches, creating