2
Los Angeles
a day earlier
The number killed during the November 1938 two-day riot is most often cited as 91. The thirty thousand Jewish men who had been imprisoned during Kristallnacht were released over the next three months but, by then, over two thousand had died.” Professor Martin Richter adjusted his tweed jacket and fiddled with the microphone. Many in the audience shifted uncomfortably in their seats.
Giving a lecture about the Night of Broken Glass was never an easy task, especially on Holocaust Remembrance Day. Martin raised his head and took a sip of water. Almost all of the fifteen hundred seats were occupied.
“After the two-day pogrom in which the emotional anti-Semitic elements of the Nazi party reigned, rational thought was restored and ended the riots.” Martin cleared his throat. “While November 1938 pre-dated overt articulation of the ‘Final Solution’, it nonetheless foreshadowed the genocide to come.”
Silence prevailed throughout the hall.
Flying from New York to give a lecture at the Simon Wiesenthal Center in L.A. was a great honor for Martin, especially when so many of the people here were from families of Holocaust survivors. He turned his head and nodded to his three colleagues, among them UCLA’s history faculty dean, Neil Allen, who had invited him for the event.
A noise from the auditorium’s entrance distracted Martin’s train of thought. The main door opened, and a tall couple entered. The woman wore a tailored gray business jacket and a matching skirt. Her long chestnut hair flowed down her shoulders in graceful waves. A black man with a Marine style haircut and a khaki army jacket walked beside her. Martin waited for them. The woman smiled and nodded, as if to apologize for the interruption. The couple went to the front row, where a pair of empty seats bore reserved signs.
“I hope humanity has learned its lessons from history,” Martin said. “I would like to thank everyone for being here today. I’ll be happy to take questions now.”
“Professor Richter.” The woman in the front row raised her hand.
“Yes?”
“Do you believe the Holocaust could have been prevented?”
Martin didn’t expect someone who had missed his lecture to be the one asking questions. This lady had lots of chutzpah. Whispers welled from the audience.
“Actually,” said Martin, “I would say that’s an excellent question, Miss, Mrs. … hmm.”
A few seconds passed. She didn’t volunteer her name. “Answering a ‘what if’ question can be tricky.” Martin forced himself to smile. “No one could anticipate what might have happened, or if the Holocaust might have been prevented, unless, of course,” he chuckled, “you have access to a time machine.”
Laughter came from the crowd at the joke.
“Can you make an educated guess, Professor?” The woman gave him a warm smile. “How, in your opinion, could the Holocaust have been prevented?”
From his many years at the academy, he was used to students asking direct questions. He nodded. “I’ll try,” he said, still attempting to remain polite. “Let’s assume World War II was unavoidable.”
“Fair enough,” the woman nodded.
Martin took a sip of mineral water. “In my opinion, the number of Holocaust victims might have been reduced if there had been at least one country that would have allowed unlimited immigration of Jewish refugees from the moment the Nazi party came to power in 1933; a law similar to the current Israeli Law of Return.”
He had everyone’s attention.
“I’ll explain why.” Martin held the lectern stand with both hands. “Before the ‘Final Solution’ decision was made in mid-1941, the Nazis tried to get rid of the European Jewry by encouraging emigration. Unfortunately, all Western countries closed their borders to refugees, taking only those who would be of economic benefit to the country. Needless to say, that was but a tiny fraction of those seeking refuge. Given sufficient time, and no legal restrictions, I would assume many would have fled Europe, thus reducing the chances of the Holocaust happening, or at least limiting the number of deaths.”
The rustle from the audience suggested that at least some agreed with Martin’s theory.
“Suppose you had the option to go back to 1938,” the woman said. “What would you do?”
“Go back? To 1938?” Martin raised his eyebrows.
“It’s a theoretical question, of course,” the woman said softly.
Martin looked at his three peers, trying to gather his thoughts. Then he stared at the beautiful woman for a long moment. He wanted to give her an answer that would please her. “Have you read my book, The Needless War?”
“Of course.” The woman smiled. “Based on what I know, you’re the number one expert on pre-World War II Germany.”
“I wouldn’t go as far as that.” Martin’s face grew warm. “As for your question, the war broke out in September 1939. 1938 might have been too late for emigration to have a sufficient outcome.” He paused. “1938 you say? When in 1938? Many believe that before the Munich Agreement, it was possible to stop World War II altogether.” Martin scratched his head. He looked at the woman. “Talk to me later. I can provide you with references from my thesis on the German resistance to Hitler and the Nazi party.”
“Thank you so much, Professor,” said the woman. “You are very kind.”
Martin checked the time. “Any more questions?” He looked around.
After answering more predictable questions, Martin started to collect his papers.
“Thank you for the enlightening lecture,” said the dean, Neil Allen. He stood up and started to applaud.
Following his example, the audience stood, applauding.
While the applause echoed throughout the auditorium, Martin heard the tap of high-heeled steps. He looked up. In front of him stood the woman.
A subtle perfume attracted Martin’s attention, a wisp of vanilla. Her tailored gray skirt accentuated her long legs. She had striking taste in clothing—respectable, yet with a hint of intrigue.
Martin opened his mouth, trying to say hello.
“Hello, Professor,” she said, a slight foreign lilt in her voice. “My name is Vera Pulaski.” She extended her hand and shook his. “Would you care to join me for a drink in the lounge? I have a proposal that you might find interesting.”
Martin remained speechless for a few seconds. He wondered what kind of proposition a beautiful woman, perhaps twenty years younger than him, would have. He considered himself in good shape for a fifty-two-year-old, and he still had all his hair, but still … “I’m sorry. I have other engagements, and I need to pack.”
“It is an important matter,” said Vera. She gazed right at him and the smile on her face grew. “I promise you won’t regret it.” She took a step back, lowered her eyes and played with her hair. “You’re staying at the Mr. C Beverly Hills hotel two blocks from here, right?” She didn’t wait for a response. “I’ll wait in the lounge.” She turned around and walked toward the exit, leaving Martin with a wisp of that vanilla.
“What was that all about?” asked the dean.
“She said she wants to discuss some proposal in my hotel’s lounge.”
“Well,” Neil chuckled, “be careful not to fall for her. She seems like the type of woman who would chew you up for breakfast and spit you right out, without even giving it a second thought.”
Martin nodded. “I know I shouldn’t go, but I also know I’ll never forgive myself if I don’t.”
The dean laughed. “Too true.” After a warm farewell, Neil left to tend to his other guests.
Martin collected his things and walked out of the Simon Wiesenthal Center. The two-minute walk along West Pico Boulevard did not give him much time to gather his thoughts. He stopped as he entered his hotel’s lobby. Turning one way would lead to the lounge; the other, the elevators.
I must finish packing and get some rest. I have a flight early in the morning. I need to prepare for the anti-war rally tomorrow in Boston.
He pulled his keycard out of his pocket and walked away from the lounge, toward the elevators.
Martin walked into the lounge.
When Vera noticed him, she looked delighted. “Hi, Professor.” She waved her hand. “I’m so glad you came.” She tucked her hair behind her ear and stood up.
Martin looked at her, at her warm eyes when she smiled at him, and at her luscious lips. She glided gracefully across the room to meet him.
“I only have a few minutes,” Martin said. “I have a flight early in the morning to attend the peace rally tomorrow in Boston.”
With the mention of the peace rally came childhood memories. When Martin was four, his father took him to the Woodstock Festival, which was his father’s way of showing his discontent with the Vietnam War, the arms race, and all the rest. Martin was unique in that matter. No one but his crazy dad brought children to the festival. Years later, he searched news clippings and images. A few people had brought babies, yet he never saw any children.
Martin sighed. He missed his father. And besides, tomorrow’s demonstration was just as important as Woodstock was in its time. “Our troops in the Middle East are dying, and the Administration continues with …”
Vera raised her hand and put two fingers to his lips, which silenced him. She looked at him with her warm, almond eyes. “We’re both short on time, so let’s get down to business.”
Martin nodded.
“My employer has an urgent need for someone with your skill set,” she said flatly. “I want you to fly with me to Nassau to meet him. Three days, that’s all I’m asking for. Of course we don’t expect you to go empty-handed. Even if you choose to decline the offer, he’ll pay you generously for your trouble.” She stood still. “So, what do you say?”
“I don’t know.” Martin looked around the room. “The peace rally is extremely important. As the head of Columbia’s History Department, and as a concerned citizen, I must attend.” He changed his tone. “Who is this mysterious employer of yours?”
Vera appeared amused. “His name is Eric Sobol.”
The name rang a bell. “Eric Sobol? The billionaire? What does he want from me?”
Vera stepped closer. “Did you know he is a Holocaust survivor?”
“Of course,” said Martin. “Eric was born in Budapest, in 1935. In 1944, or was it ’45, both his parents were killed in Auschwitz. If I recall correctly, he fled by himself into the forest and was saved by Soviet troops.”
“I see you’re well informed.” Vera’s smile grew wider. She took out a red smartphone from her purse and tapped a quick text message. “Listen, Professor, why don’t you come with me to Nassau and meet Eric? His private jet will take us there.” She took his hand with her left hand, and slid something into it. “Take this envelope. It’s for your trouble.”
Martin looked inside the envelope; his eyes widened. It was a Sobol Foundation one hundred thousand-dollar check to the order of Martin Richter.
“Mr. Sobol is giving me this sum just for meeting me?”
Vera nodded, her deep brown eyes staring at him.
Martin looked at the check again. Not that he needed the money, but still, it was a pretty significant sum. He could give it to a number of charities. He could donate it to support the peace movement or even assist PTSD rehabilitation efforts for Iraq and Afghanistan war veterans.
Then again, what could be more important than the peace rally? If he could help bring the troops home, it must be worth more than this check. He owed it to the soldiers. He owed it to the public. Dammit, he owed it to his late father.
“I’m afraid I’ll have to decline this generous offer.” Martin handed the check back to Vera. “Please tell Mr. Sobol that I sincerely appreciate his generosity.”
“May I ask why?”
“I have my personal reasons.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, but I respect your decision.” Vera took the check and inserted it into her purse. “Now you’ll have to excuse me, I need to be on my way. I have a flight to catch.” She smiled, nodded once more, turned and left the lobby.
Martin followed her with his eyes as she entered a dark limousine. Perhaps declining Mr. Sobol’s offer wasn’t the smartest move. He sighed. Then he strolled toward the elevators.
The elevator’s bell dinged and the door opened. A figure wearing a black leather outfit and a blackened motorcycle helmet that covered the face stepped out.
“Professor Richter?” the motorcyclist asked.
“Um, yes. Who wants to know?” Martin wondered why someone would wear a motorcycle helmet inside an elevator.
The biker pulled out a mean-looking handgun.
Martin’s knees weakened. The one thing he feared most, his biggest phobia since childhood, was firearms. Some people called it hoplophobia; he called it being smart. Nevertheless, the realization that someone was aiming a gun at his head compelled his body to freeze. Martin just stood there, his eyes wide open, staring at the biker as the latter slowly squeezed the trigger.
BANG! Martin shut his eyes and waited for the pain, wondering which part of his body had been penetrated by the bullet. Then he heard a second, much louder, shot. He felt a sting in his arm. He tried to take a breath, but he couldn’t. His lungs didn’t obey. He couldn’t force himself to open his eyes.
Sounds of struggle; the biker grunted. Then something struck Martin’s legs and he collapsed.
“You better come with me,” a deep voice said.
Martin opened his eyes. In front of him stood the black guy with the khaki jacket he had seen earlier with Vera.
“The name is Jack. Here, let me give you a hand.” The man’s dark eyes seemed fixed on Martin as a hawk might eye its prey. Without any apparent effort, he lifted Martin with his left hand, and helped him stand.
“Thank you.” Martin barely managed to speak, as he regained control over his own muscles. “What happened?”
“Someone tried to kill you.” Jack stood almost four inches taller than Martin. His finger was pointing at Martin’s sleeve. “Unfortunately, the assassin split.”
Martin lifted his arm. His heart stopped when he saw a bullet-hole rip on the edge of his sleeve. He examined the hole; there were no traces of blood. “Why would someone want to kill me?” Martin’s voice quivered. He couldn’t imagine anyone wanting him dead.
“I’m afraid it’s our fault,” said Jack. “Apparently, some people want to sabotage Eric’s plan.” Jack’s face remained frozen. Martin noticed a black pistol grip peeking out of his khaki jacket. Martin swore silently. Seeing the concealed weapon didn’t help Martin’s hoplophobia.
“But why me?” Martin wondered. “I rejected Mr. Sobol’s offer.” Martin recognized the military efficiency in the man’s speech. He never liked army types; those guys always resolved conflicts by resorting to force. And the fact that they followed orders without questions didn’t make them any better. But on the other hand, this man did save his life.
“The only way I can guarantee your protection,” Jack said without even a blink, “is by taking you with us to Nassau.”
The elevator’s door closed. The digits climbed from G to 1, 2 … “Do I really have a choice?” Martin wondered who might step out of the elevator next.
“I won’t be able to protect you if you stay.” Jack shrugged. “Come with us, meet Eric. If you choose to leave after the meeting, leave, no questions asked. The hundred grand Vera gave you would still be yours to keep.”
It took a few seconds for Martin to make up his mind. Not that he had a say in the matter. “I’ll get my luggage.”
“We don’t have time for that.” Jack checked his wristwatch. “We must leave now.”
A black limousine with tinted windows waited for them in front of the Mr. C Beverly Hills hotel.
“Thank you,” Martin told Jack again. He didn’t want Jack to think he wasn’t grateful to him for saving his life.
Without saying a word, Jack got into the driver’s seat.
The back door opened; Vera’s head popped out. “I’m glad you’ve decided to join,” she beamed and pulled her head back in.
Martin followed her inside and sat on the back seat across from her. The soft black leather seats smelled new, as if this car had just come from the dealership. They were lavishly comfortable.
The vehicle shot out of the parking lot in a hair-raising maneuver, almost hitting a passing truck.
“What’s wrong with him?” yelped Martin, gripping the edge of his seat.
“He’s just showing off.”
The car accelerated past the speed limit. Martin wasn’t sure if he should be thrilled or terrified. He hoped Jack knew what he was doing. He looked around at the two large seats facing each other. Each could comfortably fit three adults. As far as he could tell, the black limo had all the luxuries one could think of—TV, Blu-ray, bar, stereo, dark windows, intercom … his eyes stopped on Vera. She crossed her legs, her right high heel tapping against the side door.
Fresh air came from the air-conditioning. Vera leaned back, her almond gaze on Martin. “You don’t know how much this means to me.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“That you agreed to come to Nassau with me.” Vera smiled.
“Don’t mention it.” Martin liked her voice. It sounded so trustworthy. At the same time, he suspected that the attack was staged by Eric’s people. But why would they? What can they gain? He wondered if Vera regarded him only as a mission or if she looked at every man like that.
“Can I offer you anything?” She paused. “Do you drink red wine?”
Martin swallowed. He wanted to say something sophisticated, but all that came out was, “No thanks, I had something to drink at the Center.”
“Suit yourself.”
Martin wanted to slap himself for acting like an idiot.
At World Way, Jack honked and ran a red light at almost sixty miles per hour, barely missing a couple of pedestrians. The man was insane, thought Martin, and he should have turned at the intersection. World Way was the main entrance to the Los Angeles International Airport terminal complex.
The vehicle raced south on Sepulveda Boulevard. Eventually, leaving dark skid marks, the limousine stopped in front of a small side gate. The driver honked, and a security guard rushed to meet them.
Vera moved and sat beside Martin. She extended her hand beyond him, pressing up against him, and clicked on a door button. He could feel her warm body and smell her perfume again as she leaned above him in her jacket, short skirt and intriguing stockings. The dark window slid down, and she handed the security officer a piece of paper. He examined the document carefully. Following a quick radio check, he opened the gate. Vera thanked the guard.
The limousine drove in. Martin looked around. This was the first time he’d ever visited a private hangar.
The jet came into view. Its sleek silhouette reflected the limo’s lights. The jet proudly stood on the runway like a shining star, ready for takeoff.
Mr. Sobol must have spent a fortune to see him. He wondered why a middle-aged historian was so important to the eccentric billionaire.
“Thank God we arrived in one piece,” Martin muttered. “He drives way too fast.”
“Not really,” replied Vera in a dismissive tone. “He’s just flying too low.”
Luxurious Persian rugs covered the floor, and golden spotlights illuminated the shining white walls with rich, vivid colors. The seats were each equipped with a high tech satellite phone and a touch screen monitor. To the front, Martin saw an empty leather couch, right beside the mini-bar.
“Wow!” Martin stepped into the lavishly designed aircraft, feeling a little out of place.
“Money is not an issue here,” explained Vera. “Eric’s single priority is the success of this mission.”
“Fasten your seatbelts,” the pilot announced through the speakers. “We’ll take off shortly. Have a pleasant flight.” The voice sounded agitated. Martin wondered what the big rush was all about.
“Where’s Darryl?” Vera turned her head back and forth, then she looked at the monitor that displayed the time. “We’ll have to take off without him.”
Two people, a young man and a woman, sat in the passenger cabin, engaged in a conversation. Martin didn’t recognize either of them.
“Nice meeting you, dude.” The young man raised his head and waved at the new arrivals. “And you too,” he winked at Vera. He wore a white T-shirt with a small SpaceX company logo featuring a picture of a rocket.
The red-haired woman beside him reminded Martin of a typical university nerd. She wore a green plaid shirt, and was armed with round glasses and a laptop case marked by a small maple leaf sticker. She slowly turned her head from the young guy and looked at Martin with curiosity.
The sound of skidding tires drew Martin’s attention away from the passengers. Outside, a yellow sports car let out a tall, unshaven guy. He wore a leather jacket and blue jeans. A black business case was attached to his right wrist by a pair of handcuffs.
“Darryl, I presume?” Martin whispered.
The man climbed the air-stairs. When he entered the cabin, Martin could see dark circles under his eyes, and sweat covering his forehead. The man stared right at Martin with his eyes wide open. Then he turned to Vera. “Don’t you say a word!” He raised his free hand into the air, and then he moved his finger across his neck, making a cutthroat gesture.
What kind of sick people had Sobol invited to Nassau?
Martin stumbled when the plane started to taxi toward the runway.
“Will you sit beside me?” Vera suggested.
“Sure.” Martin sank to an empty armchair next to Vera. He had never experienced such a comfortable seat, not even four years ago, when his ticket was upgraded to first class. Being a billionaire had some advantages.
“How come the ugly old dudes always get the girl?”
Martin looked over his shoulder. The comment came from the “dude” guy with the SpaceX T-shirt.
“Hey!” The red-haired girl elbowed the “dude” fellow.
“It looks like the handsome young Prince Charming couldn’t hold his tongue.” Vera laughed.
Martin glanced through the window as the jet left the ground. He watched the L.A. night lights, and the darkness of Santa Monica Bay. As they gained altitude, he recognized Long Beach. They were flying due east.
“Before we get down to business, I suppose you deserve a short introduction.” Vera secured her handbag beneath her seat.
She fixed her suit, while remaining fastened. “It would be appropriate to start with myself.” She turned to Martin. “My name is Vera Pulaski, daughter of a Polish diplomat.” She moved her chestnut hair behind her ear. “I graduated from the University of Warsaw with a master’s degree in Russian and German. I also speak a little Spanish.”
“So you’re a translator,” said Martin. This was a surprise; why would Eric send a translator to recruit me?
“Not precisely.” Vera shook a finger at Martin. “A translator is a person who translates books and written documents. I’m an interpreter. I can translate speech on the fly. Like the simultaneous interpreters you can see in UN sessions.”
“Ah. Sorry,” said Martin.
“I’m impressed,” said the red-haired woman. “I could never be fluent in more than one language. When I was a kid, my parents sent me to a French immersion school. I remember nothing. Of course, programming languages come easy.”
“Thanks for the compliment,” Vera said with a smile.
“Crap,” said Darryl. “I still don’t know how in hell I let you talk me into joining this pathetic wild-goose chase.”
“Darryl Belin.” Vera said in a clipped tone. “Stop being so negative.” She looked back at Martin. “He’s been working for Eric for eighteen months. Whenever Eric needs someone to do his dirty jobs, Darryl is his man.”
“Don’t blow my cover.” Darryl sighed and shook his head. “Women. Go figure.”
Vera looked at Martin. “In addition to special operations, Darryl’s expertise is forgery. Where we’re going, we may need to get our hands on some special documents, passports, and perhaps even fake money.”
The jet engines’ rumble sounded unusually high. Martin could have sworn it was on the verge of exploding. He looked through the window, watching the wing vibrating. He wondered if that was normal. They seemed to be in a big hurry. He hoped the plane could take it.
Vera pointed at Jack. “Jacob Tober is a former Navy SEAL captain, Special Operations. He’ll be our security officer for this mission. Darryl works for him.”
Martin flinched. He didn’t like Vera’s tone. As much as he was grateful to Jack for saving his life, he resented all this talk about security measures. The idea of being in the same plane with a professional killer who carried a gun was slightly less than cheerful. This meeting with Mr. Sobol was turning into a military operation. Martin glanced once more at Jack, and shivered.
“Don’t look at me like that.” Jack reached out to shake Martin’s hand. “I also write children's books.”
Martin raised his eyebrows. “I beg your pardon?”
“I have some free time between missions. Perhaps you’ve heard of The Mermaid and the Little Shark, or How to Ride a Dolphin?”
“Sorry.” Martin shook the hand. “I don’t have kids.”
“This is Geri Bland.” Vera nodded toward the red-headed Canadian girl. “Would you like to introduce yourself?”
“Hi, folks.” Geri paused for a short moment, and lifted her eyes to meet Vera’s. “Well, this is awkward. I feel like I’m in a job interview. I guess I should say something.” She folded her laptop and inserted it into the pocket of the aircraft seat in front of her. “I have a PhD in mathematics and physics from MIT and a master’s degree in computer science from York University in Toronto. My specialty is prediction models. I worked for hedge funds, predicting financial swings. Before Eric engaged me, I delivered a project to the Dupuy Institute—upgrading their Tactical Numerical Deterministic Model.”
Martin scratched his head. It sounded technical, but he had no idea what Geri was talking about. She would most definitely fit in with the gang from Big Bang Theory.
“In plain English,” Geri explained, “Tactical Numerical Deterministic Model means a computer model that can predict the outcome of military conflicts based on various mathematical parameters.” She looked around at her astonished audience. “It’s a sort of a crystal ball for generals. Some people say I’m a computer wizard.”
Damn, thought Martin. From the look of it, it seemed more and more as if Eric was planning some sort of a well-thought-out military campaign. Since his father had left the service, Martin loathed anything that smelled like army.
“My role model is Asimov.” Geri’s eyes shone. “Making psychohistory a reality.” She gazed at Martin and Vera, who remained motionless. “You know. From the Foundation series?”
Martin nodded. He’d read Asimov’s Foundation. But that was ages ago.
“The guy with the SpaceX T-shirt is Steve T. Stiles.” Vera said. “He is our astrophysics and aeronautics expert. He has been employed by the Sobol Foundation for eight months, not with this mission, though.”
Steve burst into laughter. “That’s just perfect.”
All eyes turned to him.
“Dudes, don’t you see?” Steve pointed his fingers at Geri, Jack, and Darryl. “We have a wizard, a fighter, and a thief. Vera, why don’t you be the dungeon master, and we’ll start a D&D game?”
Vera didn’t look amused. “The fact that you’ve been on astronaut training doesn’t give you the right to be a smartass.”
“An astronaut, eh?” Darryl laughed. “How did you get into space? Was it by shoving a rocket up your ass?”
Steve didn’t laugh. “Rectal rockets shouldn’t be a new concept for you, dumbass.”
Darryl’s face turned red, and his eyes hardened. He unfastened his seatbelt and lunged toward Steve.
“Calm down, kids.” Jack blocked his way.
“Move aside, Jack.” Darryl advanced. “I’m gonna teach this jerk a lesson.” Then he turned his attention to Steve. “You better watch your back, rocket boy. The big fish won’t always be here to protect you.”
Jack gripped the briefcase. “Sit!” he barked.
Darryl hesitated, and took a step back. “Sorry, boss. You know I was just kidding.” He raised his hand in a surrender gesture and slowly returned his seat. “No harm done.”
“Does anyone know what Mr. Sobol’s plan is?” Martin attempted to defuse the tension.
“Maybe Mr. Sobol is some kind of Dr. Evil, dude,” said Steve, “who is collecting experts from different fields of expertise, and bringing them to his secret lair on a tropical volcanic island. Maybe he wants us to build him a doomsday device, so he can take over the world.”
“Nice theory.” Geri laughed.
Darryl scoffed, “Yeah, right. Eric is rich enough to buy the world, you moron.”
“If Mr. Sobol’s goal is a secret weapon,” said Martin, “it may explain why he made an offer to you, Steve, and to Geri. But why does he need an old historian?”
The noise coming from the jet engine increased. The wing vibrated wildly. It looked as if it was about to snap. The pilot was willing to risk their lives to cut a few minutes off his schedule. That’s insane.
“Damn.” Martin suddenly remembered that Nassau is outside the US. He took out his wallet, and searched through his pockets. “I don’t have my passport. We need a passport to enter the Bahamas, don’t we?”
“Don’t worry,” replied Darryl in a sarcastic tone, “I can print you one.”
“No need to worry, Professor,” said Vera, touching his hand softly. “We’ll be landing in a private terminal. From there you will be taken to Eric’s yacht.”
Martin wanted to protest. One look from Jack was enough to discourage him from opening his mouth. He stared again at the wing. Nothing good can come out of this.
“Your attention please,” said Vera, this time addressing everyone. “It’s time for the briefings.” She looked at Jack, who nodded in reply. “For the last few years, we have been working on a secret project funded by the Sobol Foundation. The final phase was supposed to occur next year. Unfortunately, due to some, um, unexpected circumstances, we had to modify our schedule.” She looked around as if trying to read the passengers’ faces. No one spoke. “The experiment will take place in less than seven hours. This is why Eric is now in the Bahamas. This is why he had to enlist you on such short notice.”
“What experiment?” asked Martin.
Jack stepped forward and stopped in front of Darryl. He pulled a key out of his pocket and unlocked the handcuff, jacking the briefcase from Darryl and opening it. “I will give each of you a form. Sign it!”
“Don’t look at me.” Darryl shrugged. “I never knew what was in the case. Eric paid me a shitload of cash to bring it here. That’s all.”
Vera laughed. “Don’t be such a Neanderthal, Jack.” She took the papers from Jack’s hand. “It’s a contract, for God’s sake. For security reasons, we’re unable to continue with the briefing unless all of you sign.” Vera started to hand out the forms. “It says that you have to hear Eric’s offer, and if you choose to decline, you agree to remain on his yacht for three days. Then you’ll be free to go, with an extra payment of two hundred thousand dollars on top of what you’ve already received.”
Vera looked first at Martin, and then she shifted her gaze to Darryl, Steve, and Geri. “What have you got to lose? In the worst-case scenario, say ‘no’, and you’ll be paid handsomely for spending three days on a luxury yacht in the Caribbean.”
Martin studied the people Sobol had gathered. The screaming engine almost fell apart trying to squeeze out a little extra speed. He wondered, what did he have to lose? There didn’t seem to be any choice in the matter anyway.