The Days of Tao Read online

  Table of Contents

  The Most Important Man

  Cameron

  The Mission

  The Plan

  None Left Behind

  Ira’s Hearth

  Escape

  The Villa

  Found

  The Final Leg

  In Their Midst

  Consequences

  The Days of Tao

  WESLEY CHU

  SUBTERRANEAN PRESS 2016

  The Days of Tao Copyright © 2016 by Wesley Chu.

  All rights reserved.

  Dust jacket illustration Copyright © 2016 by Galen Dara.

  All rights reserved.

  Interior design Copyright © 2016 by Desert Isle Design, LLC.

  All rights reserved.

  Electronic Edition

  ISBN

  978-1-59606-788-2

  Subterranean Press

  PO Box 190106

  Burton, MI 48519

  subterraneanpress.com

  The Most Important Man

  Nazar Savaryn was good at two things in life: mixing drinks and staying off of people’s minds. In his military days, those two skills served him well, because he could drink heavily, and nobody noticed. That all came to an end when he accidentally saved a man he was meant to kill. These days, he still mixed drinks and stayed off of people’s minds. However, the man he used to be and the man he was now were complete strangers.

  He stared at the oil undulating on the surface of the murky ocean water, his distorted image dancing back at him. There was something wrong with this picture. For a moment, he lost himself in his reflection and wondered where all the years had gone. The person staring back at him looked livelier, thinner and dirtier, just like his youth. That face had none of the dozens of creases and scars time had etched into Nazar’s own.

  A dead fish and a shredded rubber tire drifted into view, breaking up the reflection and bringing him back to the present. The sounds of waves slopping against the pier and seagulls perched on lamps overhead squawking their ugly song had intruded on his quiet thoughts.

  Nazar looked up and scanned the rest of the Port of Piraeus in Athens. There was also something wrong with this picture. For thousands of years, the port had been one of the busiest in the world. It was the heart that pumped commerce throughout the Mediterranean Sea. Now, it was missing one important thing: ships. There were only a handful moored at the piers. He looked down at his mangled left arm tucked close to his body. Literally one handful. Any more, and he wouldn’t be able to count the number on his fingers.

  Nazar sucked on the dregs of his hand-rolled cigarette, flicked the butt into the water, and headed back toward the warehouse. He noted the sedan parked just outside the building gates and then swept his gaze once more across the port for signs of anything suspicious. His practiced eye saw movement in eight separate locations: workers walking, lifting, lounging and driving utility vehicles.

  The warehouse interior was a far cry from the abandoned and desolate piers. Where the port would be lucky to pull in five fingers’ worth of ships a day, this warehouse, and almost every other one here at the docks, was packed to the rafters with supplies. They were getting ready for something big, a large-scale construction project, a new trade route, perhaps a new supply chain. Or something worse.

  Nazar found whom he was seeking standing just inside the building’s massive double-gates, and moved silently behind him, his hand drifting to the pistol holstered at his waist. The man noticed him approach, and his one-sided conversation with the foremen stopped abruptly.

  Nazar filled that beat. “Nine minutes, sir. The delegation will be missing you shortly.”

  As Anton Boyko’s body man for the last fifteen years, it had been his responsibility to be the minister’s personal assistant, valet, driver and mixer of old fashioneds. He also kept Anton organized, on-schedule and was tasked with remembering the names of people the minister met.

  Without responding, Anton continued to dictate to the three dockworkers standing nearby. Nazar stayed in the background and scanned the premises. On top of his other duties, he was also the minister’s first line of defense. He could shoot a man with a pistol one-handed at fifty meters. During his service to the minister, Nazar had never had to draw his weapon. Anton Boyko wasn’t the sort of public official or ex-general who one would consider a high-profile target.

  Except for that one time.

  Anton waved his finger at all the entrances. He had always been quite the finger swordsman. “Security is far too lax here. Double it up.” He pointed outside the warehouse to the edge of the property. “Barbwire that fence and establish a no-man’s-land all the way up to Leoforos Irinis.”

  “But Minister,” the foreman frowned. “That is a residential area. We do not have the authority—”

  “No excuses. Begin today,” Anton snapped, and walked away.

  Most definitely something worse. Much worse.

  Nazar led Anton back to the sedan and opened the door, lighting the minister’s cigar before he climbed inside. The cigar smoke filled the interior of the car as the minister grumbled about the many vulnerabilities of the port.

  “Where to next?” Anton asked once Nazar got in the driver’s side.

  “Meeting with your Chinese counterpart at two, one with your senior staff at three, dinner with the Greek president at six, and a massage at nine. Your flight to Tripoli tomorrow morning is scheduled for eight. You also just received a priority message from Russia, informing you that tomorrow is Lucia’s birthday.”

  Anton sat up. “Are you sure that’s what it said?”

  “Yes, sir.” Nazar paused. “I am not familiar with that name. Do you need me to purchase a gift for this person?”

  There was renewed urgency in the old man’s voice. “Cancel everything. Take me back to the Grand Bretagne immediately. I need to be in the air heading to Moscow within two hours.”

  Nazar ran through the logistics and political fallout of the sudden change in plans. “Minister, the Greek president is hosting a large gala to honor you—”

  “Immediately.”

  In the fifteen years that Nazar had served the former general and now minister, he had rarely seen the man so affected. “Is everything all right, sir?”

  “The next few months will be long, my old friend. Fly your family in to Moscow as well and spend some time with them. It may be a while before you see them again.”

  That wouldn’t take any time at all. Nazar’s parents had been dead for sixteen years. He looked in the rearview mirror. Anton’s fingers drummed the leather seats. He looked on edge, restless, and preoccupied. Nazar hadn’t seen the retired general this way since his military days, though really this civil position was just window-dressing. It was much easier to explain a minister touring foreign lands than a general. The sedan fought through the dense traffic of Leoforos Andrea Siggrou, cutting through the heart of the city. It was taking longer than anticipated and the minister became more agitated by the second.

  Nazar took the opportunity to probe Anton about what “Lucia’s birthday” meant. The two of them had known each other since the Crimean conflicts, when Nazar first served under the former general. He had saved the man’s life, earning him a medal for valor, a promotion to his body man and this mangled arm. Ever since, he had followed Anton as he transitioned out of military life into the political realm. The two of them were now nearly inseparable, and Anton considered Nazar his closest and most important confidant.

  As soon as the car pulled in front of the hotel, Anton leaped out and hurried inside. Nazar had to rush after him and nearly missed the elevator to their suite. He stayed silent while Anton ripped off last minute instructions, ordering him to move his staff meeting up to during his flight
, to move his own family from Crimea to meet him in Moscow, and, of all things, to make sure his villa at the capital was stocked with American bourbon.

  “We might not have many more opportunities to obtain more in the near future.”

  That last part told Nazar everything he needed to know. The minister had an obsession with many things American: movies, music, basketball, but most of all, he loved Kentucky bourbon. Once in his suite, Anton went to the desk to arrange his documents and classified files, instructing Nazar to pack their things.

  Nazar dutifully complied, first going into the servant’s room. It took only a few minutes to fill his single briefcase. He scanned the room and then, satisfied, walked out to the main living area.

  Anton was still working at the desk. Nazar noticed the bricksized air-drive plugged into his laptop. The minister finished whatever he was doing, unplugged the air drive, and handed it over to Nazar. “Keep this on your person. I’m going to shower. Make sure we’re ready to leave by the time I’m done.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Nazar waited until the minister had gone into the bathroom before pressing his thumb down on the air drive’s scanner. He spoke in a clear voice, “Ventidius”—Viqo’s greatest achievement— and waited as the voice, password, and thumbprint identification verified his access. A faint green light on the rubber-coated drive appeared for just a brief moment. Satisfied, he patted his pocket for his lighter and awkwardly scooped it into his left hand. His broken fingers grappled the lighter clumsily as he flicked it on. It would have to do.

  He gave himself a beat to gather his thoughts and prepare for what he was about to do before walking into the bathroom.

  The room was filled with steam from the shower’s half-dozen jets blasting Anton’s naked body. Nazar could just make out the old man’s bare wrinkled ass through the haze. He fanned the air, trying to clear away some of the mist. That was going to be a problem. Still, he had to risk it. Viqo escaping was not an option.

  Anton must have somehow felt his presence. He looked behind him and barked out, “what is it?” When Nazar didn’t answer, he continued more sternly. “What’s gotten into you? Get out of here, and close the blasted door.”

  Nazar closed the door firmly behind him and approached the showering minister. He cleared his throat. “You remember when I saved you from that assassination attempt?”

  “What of it? You’re acting very strange, Nazar.”

  “You got it all backward, sir. I was the assassin. I botched it. The explosive embedded in the binding of the book went off while I was placing it on your desk. Nazar raised his mangled arm. “It earned me this. I appreciate your gratitude though, taking me on as your body man. It afforded other opportunities for those I truly serve. However, it’s time I correct that one mistake.”

  He drew his pistol.

  To his credit, Anton Boyko refused to be cowed. “You fuc—”

  Nazar fired twice, shattering the shower glass and striking the minister in the stomach. He slammed into the back tiles and slid down to the ground, leaving a streak of red along the wall. The water continued to rain down on him, mixing with blood and soap.

  “After all we’ve been through,” Anton uttered in short, brief gasps. “Why?”

  “Savaryn is not my real surname,” said Nazar. “It’s Sajjadi.”

  “I…” Anton coughed. “You’re a Kurd.”

  “This is revenge for my family. You killed them during the Night of the Bulshov.”

  “That’s…that’s impossible. You’ve introduced me… I’ve helped…”

  “Hired actors. This has been a long time coming. I’ve played you for a fool.” Nazar pulled the trigger twice more, hitting Anton once through the heart and once more through the head. He holstered his pistol and grabbed a can of hair spray off the counter. He waited as the thick curling steam wrapped around a gaseous sparkling mass rising from Anton’s body.

  Nazar flicked the lighter several times in his left hand, managing to light a small flame on the fourth try. With his right hand, he shot a jet of fire with the can of hair spray, consuming the shower with the flames until the last of the sparks of light had disappeared. It was hazy enough in here to make it difficult to determine what was steam and what was Quasing, so just to be safe, he continued spraying the flames, blanketing the entire room until the last remnants of steam or Quasing were gone.

  “Die, Viqo,” he growled.

  The lighter and spray can fell from his fingers, and he collapsed to the ground. His chest heaved as long-overdue tears rolled down his face. He thought about his mother and father and his little sister Arryi. He shuddered uncontrollably and wept from the overwhelming relief for having finally avenged them. In the first few years he had served the minister, he had to fight the urge every night to not walk into Anton’s bedroom and strangle him in his sleep.

  Lastly, he cried for his friend, Anton, the murderer of his family whom he was forced to befriend and serve in order to reach this point, but also a man he had learned to respect and admire. In the end, it became almost as difficult to kill Anton now as it had been to not kill him fifteen years ago. Finally, after twenty minutes, drained from releasing all those deeply-buried emotions, Nazar picked himself off the floor, wiped his wet face, and stared into the mirror. “Get ahold of yourself, man. Now comes the hard part.”

  He had work to do. He still had to escape. Nazar had to get the black air drive sitting on the desk to Command. That was the most important thing. The information in that drive would not only save lives, but possibly change the course of history. Anton would be missed in a few hours. Every additional minute Nazar spent in Greece was a minute he was in danger.

  He hurried back to the living room and grabbed his bag, making sure to put the air drive in the hidden compartment at the bottom. He pulled out his cell phone, took the battery out, and replaced it with another specially-encrypted one he had pulled out from that same hidden compartment. He dialed a number and waited.

  “Twenty-four hour wake up service. We wake up to wake you up. Can I help you?”

  “Identification: Slot Machine.”

  “Voice identification matches Nazar Sajjadi. Duress condition verification. Base binary required.”

  “Binary code zero, zero, zero, one, one, zero, one, one, zero, zero, one, one.”

  “Cover agent Slot Machine verified with non-duress condition. Transferring. Please hold.”

  Jazz music began to play.

  Nazar placed the phone on the desk and began to clean the room. He threw a match into the trash can and began to add every document, identification and reference to him he could find to feed the flames. For a second, he considered setting the entire suite ablaze, but decided against it. He would need the few hours head-start if he were going to escape.

  “Hey, Nazar,” a tired voice on the other line finally spoke. “It’s been a while since your last report. What’s your status?”

  Nazar grabbed the phone and put it to his ear. “Wyatt, I need to come in.”

  Analyst Wyatt Smith put both hands on his headset, removed it, and then placed it on his desk. He stared at his monitor for a good ten-count. He made a slow pivot clockwise in his chair, his gaze sweeping across the room at the mostly empty desks. Pre-dawn was off-hours, after all. Important things rarely happened at this time. Important things happening often required important people to decide they had to happen, and most important people were asleep right now.

  Not this time.

  Wyatt inhaled. He exhaled. “Holy shit!”

  He sent a message to Dawson, the shift supervisor, and then sprinted out of the room, down the narrow concrete hallway of the underground bunker a quarter kilometer below the frozen ground of Greenland. He reached the shift office gasping for air—there wasn’t much call for exercise in his line of work—and banged on the door.

  “Come in.”

  “I need someone on the ground in Greece right away.” The words came out of his mouth so fast they stumbled over e
ach other. “One of my guys has critical intel. He needs to come in yesterday.”

  “Slow down, Wyatt. Figure it out. That’s your job.” Dawson didn’t bother looking up from his novel. “Have him send it through encrypted channels. Hell, have him email it.”

  Wyatt shook his head. “Can’t. It’s packet-blocked. The data can only transfer through hard-line protocols and requires three tiered live authentication to access.”

  “Well, he’ll have to figure out how to hoof it here on his own,” Dawson replied. “We don’t have anyone in Greece. We haven’t had anyone around there for two years.”

  “It’s critical matter, sir. An Alert One that is going global in the next five minutes. I forwarded you my notes.”

  Dawson sighed, dog-eared a page of his book, and then checked his email. There was a lengthy pause between the time the supervisor read the email, dropped his jaw, and spoke. “Oh. Shit. We need to get that man out of there now!”

  “Yes, sir, I know.” Wyatt did his best to talk slower and less high-pitched. “How can we have no operatives there at all?”

  “Well…” A pained look crossed Dawson’s face. “There is one, but senior staff made it very, very clear to not activate him at any cost.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he got a ‘D’ in Art History.”

  Cameron

  Tell me what you see wrong with this picture.

  Cameron Tan stood in front of the large stone carving of a naked one-armed man fighting a naked one-armed three-legged centaur. The plaque in front of it said ‘Centaur and Lapith - Loaned from The British Museum in London’. He grunted. “You mean other than the fact the Greeks are getting their own artwork loaned back to them?”

  No wonder you flunked Art History.

  “Now you really sound like mom. A ‘D’ is a whole grade away from failing.”

  Now you sound like your father. But really, what is wrong with this carving?