The Eye of Moses - Vatican Knights Series 22 (2020), Rick Jones [learn to read books txt] 📗

Salt, without invitation, took a seat before Caspari’s desk.

CHAPTER FORTY

After Mr. Galileo transferred the data from Kristoffel’s burner into the BGAN system, the Consortium team in Germany immediately began the decrypting and retracing process. After the software program broke the data down to probable positions within Lucerne, they were able to determine the precise coordinates not by the pinging method of cellphone towers, but by pinging satellites. Since the decrypted ciphers were specific to a geospatial satellite system, they were able to home onto the point of origin through triangulation, which happened to be a mountaintop corporation called AI Dynamic. According to the registries, it was a major industry that was involved with the research and development of artificial intelligence within the computer industry.

After the Consortium Tech Machine tapped into the satellite system, they were able to bring up an aerial view of the mountaintop establishment. It was isolated and difficult to reach, with the only means of approach either by cable-car or by chopper. The south side of the mountain was a sheer barrier, straight up, nothing but a thousand-foot wall of rock and ice.

Once the data was obtained, it was summarily sent to Mr. Spartan at the Lucerne safehouse, who was surprised that the scrambled material had been decrypted so quickly.

After reviewing the attached documents regarding the history of AI Dynamic, which appeared to be legitimate, even with shareholders and stocks, Mr. Spartan then examined the photos. Though the facility had a helipad, the chief means of transportation appeared to be by cable car. There was no doubt that the access facility to the cable-car platform was manned by high-end security. And to reach it by chopper was also out of the question, too invasive without covert capabilities.

Mr. Spartan, after reviewing the photos, nodded. It was completely isolated and a perfect location to conduct trials and research without interruption if the licenses and registrations to AI Dynamic remained current. He then went over the tax documents of the organization but found no red flags or indications of fraud, since AI Dynamic had paid their taxes annually with no audits.

Now he was beginning to doubt the Consortium’s findings, believing that technology had failed them on this one.

Delving deeper into AI Dynamic’s payroll, he discovered that the CEO and the company’s top linemen were legit as well, which further bolstered his doubts.

After printing off aerial photos of the mountaintop stronghold, Mr. Spartan closed the system and made his way to the weapons depository. Once there, he dressed in black military attire, donned a Kevlar vest, and equipped himself with a suppressed Glock and holster. Then from the depository, Mr. Spartan made his way to the lower chambers of the safehouse.

At the end of a long corridor that smelled of must and mildew, Mr. Spartan came to a large door created from thick planks of oak that was pieced together by black metal bands and rivets, the door itself having a medieval touch to it.

Drawing back on the two-foot long deadbolt, Mr. Spartan opened the door to a dank room that was filled with the scents of urine and feces. Tethered to a bed against the opposite wall lay Alix Kristoffel.

Mr. Spartan, who stepped into the feeble light that had been cast from a single bulb, said, “Mr. Kristoffel, before I leave, I believe that you’d be interested in knowing your fate, yes?”

Kristoffel remained silent.

At this, Mr. Spartan moved into Kristoffel’s peripheral vision, even though the man lying on the bed continued to stare ceilingward. But Mr. Spartan’s plan was for Kristoffel to see the battle attire he was wearing, and hopefully to drum up curiosity.

“You’ve been branded as a terrorist,” Mr. Spartan continued. “Therefore, you’ll be sent to a black site in the United States. Once there, you will have no rights other than those given by the captors.” He took another step closer, this time drawing a wandering eye from Kristoffel, who appraised Mr. Spartan inquisitively.

“Your life from here on in will have no meaning,” added Mr. Spartan. “All you will do is exist until the day you die. And believe me when I say that there’s no use in hanging out for hope. There is none. Not for you . . . And not for those who pretend to find refuge upon that mountainside stronghold you call AI Dynamic.” Mr. Spartan had tossed out the bait, a juicy tender. All he had to do now was to reel Kristoffel in. And, if necessary, by the inches.

Kristoffel finally sat up in bed. His left eye had swollen shut and his face remained a mash. His wrists were bound by metal cuffs, with the chain links moored to a plate against the brick wall. Nevertheless, he offered a one-sided smile and said, “Look at you all dressed up with no place to go.”

“Oh, I have a place to go all right,” Mr. Spartan told him. “Lucky thing for you, however, is that your life has already been mapped out. Those on the mountainside who believe they’re too isolated to be reachable will soon find themselves incorrect on that assessment.”

“You think so, huh?”

There, a mistake from Kristoffel of not denying Mr. Spartan’s lead. But not exactly an admission, either.

Mr. Spartan then held one of the aerial photos for Kristoffel to view. It was an overhead shot of the facility and its helipad. “Late tonight,” he said, “we’ll move against the fortress by way of helicopter. Teams will repel onto the landing, breach the facility, and take back what you stole from us. In the interim of doing so, and once we have the Eye of Moses, all of those you know will be terminated. You will be the last of your kind.” Mr. Spartan rolled the photo into a scroll and held it like a baton.

“I ain’t going to be the last of nothing,” Kristoffel told him. “You don’t think they’ll see you coming?” Then he chortled. “They’ll blow your choppers right out of the air