Read Online War Hawk: A Tucker Wayne Novel by James Rollins, Grant Blackwood - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: James Rollins, Grant Blackwood
Tags: United States, thriller, Suspense, Literature & Fiction, Thrillers, Action & Adventure, Mystery, Military, War & Military, Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, Conspiracies, Contemporary Fiction, Thrillers & Suspense, Thriller & Suspense, Spies & Politics
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The fact that she was doing it here , and in this fashion, meant she didn’t want anyone to know about it.
“Sandy, what were you up to?”
A low growl rose from outside.
Clenching a fist, he stood and looked back at the rolling door.
Someone was coming.
6
October 13, 8:14 A . M . CEST
Belgrade, Serbia
War is business . . . and business started early .
Pruitt Kellerman had left his public meetings in Athens before dawn and flown two hours north to the capital of Serbia. His private jet had landed in Belgrade as the sun crested the horizon. He had been driven in a bulletproof limo with blacked-out windows to Beli Dvor, the presidential palace located in the royal compound. He had given strict instructions to his advance team to keep this meeting private, to avoid even a whisper of press coverage. Even his daughter, Laura, was unaware of this side trip. To the world at large, the head of Horizon Media remained at his hotel in Athens, awaiting more meetings regarding Greece’s telecom industry.
Unfortunately, the president of Serbia, Marko Davidovic, had chosen to ignore this memo. Upon arriving at the official residence, Pruitt found a lavish brunch awaiting him, attended by a slew of Davidovic’s political cronies. The meal was in a grand hall, with black-and-white checkerboard marble floors, vaulted ceilings, and wrapped all around by grand staircases and balconies.
Pruitt endured the welcoming brunch with a smile fixed to his face and glad-handed whomever Davidovic put in front of him. He engaged the president’s wife in polite talk regarding the midterm elections. In the end, it seemed those invited were the president’s innermost circle, as Davidovic seemed equally keen to keep their upcoming joint endeavor a secret.
After an interminable time, Davidovic finally led Pruitt to a bookshelf-lined study and gestured to a leather captain’s chair before a crackling fireplace, then took the opposite seat. The president was relatively young, in his late forties, with a boxy build and the broad shoulders of a farmer. His hair was still pitch-black, with a hint of silver at the temples.
A servant appeared and offered Pruitt a snifter of a dark liqueur.
“We call this Slivovitz,” Davidovic explained as the servant left. “A native plum brandy.” He lifted his glass. “ Ziveli! To long life.”
Pruitt raised his own glass, nodded at his host, and took a sip. The liqueur burned his throat, leaving a sweet aftertaste.
Not bad .
Pruitt sat straighter, ready to firm up their mutual plans. “You’re a most gracious host,” he started. “And your wife is lovely.”
“My wife is a cow, but it is kind of you to say. She and I are comfortable with one another, and she has given me two strong boys. And the people love her, so who am I to complain? You never married, yes?”
Pruitt smiled inwardly. He knew Davidovic’s chief of staff would have fully informed the president regarding the tragic death of Pruitt’s wife. It was a question designed to unbalance his guest. Instead, Pruitt kept his face impassive.
“Widowed.”
“Ah, yes, forgive me. And now I remember you have a beautiful daughter. Very smart, that one.”
“Yes, she is,” he answered with a touch of pride. Other emotions briefly flickered inside him: shame at deceiving Laura about all of this, but also fear that she might someday discover the truth.
“It is unfortunate she lost her mother so young.”
Pruitt gave a bow of his head in acknowledgment, using the moment to settle himself. “It was long ago. But let us turn from the past to the future.” He smiled blandly and cut abruptly to the heart of the matter. “I hear you have some reservations of late regarding our arrangements.”
The president shifted in his seat, his dark eyes flicking to the flames of the fireplace.
That is how you unbalance an opponent . . . to let them think you know all their secrets .
“I am . . . reconsidering,” Davidovic admitted.
Pruitt
“Sandy, what were you up to?”
A low growl rose from outside.
Clenching a fist, he stood and looked back at the rolling door.
Someone was coming.
6
October 13, 8:14 A . M . CEST
Belgrade, Serbia
War is business . . . and business started early .
Pruitt Kellerman had left his public meetings in Athens before dawn and flown two hours north to the capital of Serbia. His private jet had landed in Belgrade as the sun crested the horizon. He had been driven in a bulletproof limo with blacked-out windows to Beli Dvor, the presidential palace located in the royal compound. He had given strict instructions to his advance team to keep this meeting private, to avoid even a whisper of press coverage. Even his daughter, Laura, was unaware of this side trip. To the world at large, the head of Horizon Media remained at his hotel in Athens, awaiting more meetings regarding Greece’s telecom industry.
Unfortunately, the president of Serbia, Marko Davidovic, had chosen to ignore this memo. Upon arriving at the official residence, Pruitt found a lavish brunch awaiting him, attended by a slew of Davidovic’s political cronies. The meal was in a grand hall, with black-and-white checkerboard marble floors, vaulted ceilings, and wrapped all around by grand staircases and balconies.
Pruitt endured the welcoming brunch with a smile fixed to his face and glad-handed whomever Davidovic put in front of him. He engaged the president’s wife in polite talk regarding the midterm elections. In the end, it seemed those invited were the president’s innermost circle, as Davidovic seemed equally keen to keep their upcoming joint endeavor a secret.
After an interminable time, Davidovic finally led Pruitt to a bookshelf-lined study and gestured to a leather captain’s chair before a crackling fireplace, then took the opposite seat. The president was relatively young, in his late forties, with a boxy build and the broad shoulders of a farmer. His hair was still pitch-black, with a hint of silver at the temples.
A servant appeared and offered Pruitt a snifter of a dark liqueur.
“We call this Slivovitz,” Davidovic explained as the servant left. “A native plum brandy.” He lifted his glass. “ Ziveli! To long life.”
Pruitt raised his own glass, nodded at his host, and took a sip. The liqueur burned his throat, leaving a sweet aftertaste.
Not bad .
Pruitt sat straighter, ready to firm up their mutual plans. “You’re a most gracious host,” he started. “And your wife is lovely.”
“My wife is a cow, but it is kind of you to say. She and I are comfortable with one another, and she has given me two strong boys. And the people love her, so who am I to complain? You never married, yes?”
Pruitt smiled inwardly. He knew Davidovic’s chief of staff would have fully informed the president regarding the tragic death of Pruitt’s wife. It was a question designed to unbalance his guest. Instead, Pruitt kept his face impassive.
“Widowed.”
“Ah, yes, forgive me. And now I remember you have a beautiful daughter. Very smart, that one.”
“Yes, she is,” he answered with a touch of pride. Other emotions briefly flickered inside him: shame at deceiving Laura about all of this, but also fear that she might someday discover the truth.
“It is unfortunate she lost her mother so young.”
Pruitt gave a bow of his head in acknowledgment, using the moment to settle himself. “It was long ago. But let us turn from the past to the future.” He smiled blandly and cut abruptly to the heart of the matter. “I hear you have some reservations of late regarding our arrangements.”
The president shifted in his seat, his dark eyes flicking to the flames of the fireplace.
That is how you unbalance an opponent . . . to let them think you know all their secrets .
“I am . . . reconsidering,” Davidovic admitted.
Pruitt
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