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Authors: Steve Berry, Raymond Khoury
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in his office at home, slumped at his desk with a gun by his hand and the back of his head blown off.
“What do you know about my dad?”
“The truth. Look, I’m prepared to tell you everything. All the information you need, proof to back it up. I’ve kept a record of it all and I’ll give it to you. But I need to know you’ll make sure it gets out.”
I was seething inside, but I knew how to keep it at bay and stay calm. I was fully aware that I was probably being played, but whoever it was was pressing some pretty nasty buttons inside me. “You didn’t answer my question.”
After a moment, I heard him cough—a weird, jarring sound, when it comes out through a voice box—then he said, “Let’s not play games and let’s not waste each other’s time. I can’t stay on this call much longer. All you need to know is, this is on the level and I need you to hear the truth—about your dad, about the others, about Azorian . . . just meet me.”
I didn’t have much choice. “Where and when?”
“Tomorrow. One o’clock. Times Square. By the Duffy statue. You know where it is, right?”
“Of course.”
“Come alone. I won’t show if I think you’ve got anyone else there. And, Reilly? Keep it quiet. I’m saying this for your own good.”
“Oh?”
“The last person I reached out to—the only person I tried to tell about it—he’s dead. And I’m sure it wasn’t pleasant, not that death ever is, but—burning to death in his own home because of some electrical fire the day after I called him? Give me a break. I told him not to look into it, but some of these guys, it’s just in their blood. They can’t help themselves.”
“Then why not cut the whole charade and come in to Federal Plaza? I can protect you.”
His voice stayed calm. “No. You can’t.”
“You’d be in federal custody. My custody.”
“No. The people I’m talking about—they’re your own people. That’s why I need you to hear it first. Alone. So you can think about what you’re going to do about it before they come after you too.”
I couldn’t help but sense that he was telling the truth. He was scared. Even with the voice box, the fear was palpably there.
“OK,” I said. “I’ll be there.”
“Good. Let’s just both hope you stay alive long enough for it.”
Then the line went dead.
Want to read on?
ORDER NOW by clicking HERE
Read on for a sneak preview of the next Cotton Malone novel
THE 14TH COLONY
Available in hardcover from Minotaur Books on April 5, 2016
ORDER NOW BY CLICKING HERE
Copyright © 2016 by Steve Berry
CHAPTER ONE
LAKE BAIKAL, SIBERIA
FRIDAY, JANUARY 18
3:00 P.M.
Bitter experience had taught Cotton Malone that the middle of nowhere usually signaled trouble.
And today was no exception.
He banked the plane 180 degrees for another peek downward before he landed. The pale orb of a brassy sun hung low to the west. Lake Baikal lay sheathed in winter ice thick enough to drive across. He’d already spotted transport trucks, buses, and passenger cars speeding in all directions atop milky-white fracture lines, their wheel marks defining temporary highways. Other cars sat parked around fishing holes. He recalled from history that in the early 20th century rail lines had been laid across the ice to move supplies east during the Russo-Japanese War.
The lake’s statistics seemed otherworldly. Formed from an ancient rift valley thirty million years old, it reigned as the world’s oldest reservoir and contained one-fifth of the planet’s freshwater. Three hundred rivers fed into it but only one drained out. Nearly four hundred miles long and up to fifty miles wide, its deepest point lay five thousand feet down. Twelve hundred miles of shoreline stretched in every direction and thirty islands dotted its crystalline surface. On maps it was a crescent-shaped arc in southern Siberia, 2,000 miles west from the Pacific and 3,200 miles east of Moscow, part of Russia’s
“What do you know about my dad?”
“The truth. Look, I’m prepared to tell you everything. All the information you need, proof to back it up. I’ve kept a record of it all and I’ll give it to you. But I need to know you’ll make sure it gets out.”
I was seething inside, but I knew how to keep it at bay and stay calm. I was fully aware that I was probably being played, but whoever it was was pressing some pretty nasty buttons inside me. “You didn’t answer my question.”
After a moment, I heard him cough—a weird, jarring sound, when it comes out through a voice box—then he said, “Let’s not play games and let’s not waste each other’s time. I can’t stay on this call much longer. All you need to know is, this is on the level and I need you to hear the truth—about your dad, about the others, about Azorian . . . just meet me.”
I didn’t have much choice. “Where and when?”
“Tomorrow. One o’clock. Times Square. By the Duffy statue. You know where it is, right?”
“Of course.”
“Come alone. I won’t show if I think you’ve got anyone else there. And, Reilly? Keep it quiet. I’m saying this for your own good.”
“Oh?”
“The last person I reached out to—the only person I tried to tell about it—he’s dead. And I’m sure it wasn’t pleasant, not that death ever is, but—burning to death in his own home because of some electrical fire the day after I called him? Give me a break. I told him not to look into it, but some of these guys, it’s just in their blood. They can’t help themselves.”
“Then why not cut the whole charade and come in to Federal Plaza? I can protect you.”
His voice stayed calm. “No. You can’t.”
“You’d be in federal custody. My custody.”
“No. The people I’m talking about—they’re your own people. That’s why I need you to hear it first. Alone. So you can think about what you’re going to do about it before they come after you too.”
I couldn’t help but sense that he was telling the truth. He was scared. Even with the voice box, the fear was palpably there.
“OK,” I said. “I’ll be there.”
“Good. Let’s just both hope you stay alive long enough for it.”
Then the line went dead.
Want to read on?
ORDER NOW by clicking HERE
Read on for a sneak preview of the next Cotton Malone novel
THE 14TH COLONY
Available in hardcover from Minotaur Books on April 5, 2016
ORDER NOW BY CLICKING HERE
Copyright © 2016 by Steve Berry
CHAPTER ONE
LAKE BAIKAL, SIBERIA
FRIDAY, JANUARY 18
3:00 P.M.
Bitter experience had taught Cotton Malone that the middle of nowhere usually signaled trouble.
And today was no exception.
He banked the plane 180 degrees for another peek downward before he landed. The pale orb of a brassy sun hung low to the west. Lake Baikal lay sheathed in winter ice thick enough to drive across. He’d already spotted transport trucks, buses, and passenger cars speeding in all directions atop milky-white fracture lines, their wheel marks defining temporary highways. Other cars sat parked around fishing holes. He recalled from history that in the early 20th century rail lines had been laid across the ice to move supplies east during the Russo-Japanese War.
The lake’s statistics seemed otherworldly. Formed from an ancient rift valley thirty million years old, it reigned as the world’s oldest reservoir and contained one-fifth of the planet’s freshwater. Three hundred rivers fed into it but only one drained out. Nearly four hundred miles long and up to fifty miles wide, its deepest point lay five thousand feet down. Twelve hundred miles of shoreline stretched in every direction and thirty islands dotted its crystalline surface. On maps it was a crescent-shaped arc in southern Siberia, 2,000 miles west from the Pacific and 3,200 miles east of Moscow, part of Russia’s