Deep Allegiance Read online

  DEEP ALLEGIANCE

  Copyright © 2019 by David Archer.

  All right reserved.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the author of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

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  PROLOGUE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  WHAT'D YOU THINK?

  ALSO BY DAVID ARCHER

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  PROLOGUE

  Donald Jefferson would have been the first to acknowledge that he didn’t spend a lot of time thinking about life. Most of the time, life just rolled by and he went along for the ride. Life is something that changed about as often as you thought about it, anyway. Donald thought it was beautiful, if somewhat frightening at times, and didn’t give it a lot more thought than that.

  Blatant, subtle, cold, amusing, incidental, sarcastic irony never ceased to entertain life’s spectators because it never ceased to surprise them. For Donald Jefferson, the experience never failed to give him pause. He was not a superstitious man, but he was a suspicious one and he believed in irony. He believed in irony the same way some men believe in God, but more than that, he believed in irony the way some believed in paranormal activity, government conspiracies, or alien invasions.

  While there were always a dozen or more people ready to stand up and argue the believing man’s lack of proof or truth, Donald knew the believers were not altogether wrong. After all, he was part of a government conspiracy, the number two man and operations director for the Elimination and Eradication Agency. In that position, he dealt with a number of United States allied governments who occasionally had need of the agency’s services and personnel, the acknowledged best in the field of assassination and espionage. E & E was so secret that it never allowed evidence of issued assignments to leave its offices, and occasionally had to leave their own people out in the cold in order to avoid discovery.

  Working for E & E had made Donald realize that the religion of irony was a religion of give and take. It gave by putting him in a profession that ran through his blood, a profession he couldn’t imagine not doing. It gave him the iron determination to make sure that the men and women he worked with, the men and women he had to send out to kill and infiltrate and destroy the lives of the enemies of America, were the best there could be at what they did.

  It took by the way it brought Donald to the knowledge that he was responsible for the lives of people like Noah Wolf and his team, as well as many others. It took by requiring him to trust his own ability to perform his duties in a competent manner, and that trust wasn’t something that came to him easily.

  Part of those duties involved dealing with the people who were constantly requesting their assistance. In that capacity, Donald occasionally had to travel around the world to meet with diplomatic officials and others who had the authority to request E & E services. It was his job to determine whether those requests were viable enough to pass up the line to his superior, Allison Peterson, the director of the agency.

  He constantly calculated every factor involved in each such meeting. This was a habit that was so deeply ingrained in his psyche that he rarely missed even the slightest detail.

  It was because of this belief, this honed skill, this ability to read expressions and body language better than almost anyone else, that he’d made the discovery that sent him down another road of intrigue. But it was the take part of irony that prevented him from seeing the full picture sooner.

  Donald Jefferson was walking into a trap.

  Of course, there was no way he could have known that at the time. His old friend Harold, the Austrian Ambassador to England, had asked him to come and visit for the purpose of arranging a liaison between Chechnya and E & E. The small country had many internal enemies, and some of them were so incorrigible that there was no way to remove them short of assassination, but they were also powerful and well-protected. It would take expertise such as E & E could offer to eradicate them, and Harold had been instrumental in arranging such liaisons in the past. In fact, it was Harold who had convinced the British government to allow the agency to operate in the U.K. when necessary.

  Donald and Harold went way back. During the Middle East conflicts, the two of them had been involved in intelligence and had several occasions to work together. Afterward, when Harold went into the diplomatic services, the friendship they had developed became an asset to both of them.

  Neither of them knew that Harold was one of many such men whose lives were manipulated and controlled by someone who considered himself the ultimate puppet master.

  * * *

  The wealthy and philanthropic Harold Ingemar’s penthouse party was in full swing when Caleb Dawson stepped out of the elevator and smoothly showed his invitation to the doorman.

  Inwardly, Dawson scoffed at calling the garish affair a party. He hated these things; the pointless yet pointed interactions that only added to the atmosphere of unreasoned privilege, and the arrogant belief of being untouchable. All in attendance were steadfastly ignoring the dirt and grime forty stories below, preferring to believe that the world was as they wished it to be. At one time, ‘party’ had meant casual clothes, loud music, the chance to act like a fool and be loved for it. This expensively catered event drew only those with expensive tastes in everything, people who had their fingers in everything else. These were the kind of people who thought themselves above everyone else, unreachable, even untouchable by the lower and baser parts of the world.

  They were really nothing more than idiots. Dawson knew better than anyone that absolutely everyone was touchable.

  As he strolled casually but directly across the room to the balcony doors, he tuned out the insignificant conversations and focused on identifying the number of people who were in attendance along with him. Dawson recognized some, but knew none would recognize him. That was how he worked. He didn’t often associate with the others. He never stuck around long enough to do so. He never stuck around long enough to even be noticed.

  Still in front of the balcony doors, Dawson stopped. Down the stairs to his right was a tall, athletic-looking
man in his fifties. This was his target, Donald Jefferson. He was easily identifiable, even without the physical description. Though his serious face fit perfectly with the small group of tuxedoed gentlemen surrounding him, the confident and easy way he stood set him subtly apart.

  Dawson held back a grin when he realized the Director himself was among the men Jefferson mingled with. Dawson was rarely given the opportunity to perform his skills right in front of his master.

  He would make this interesting, for Spear’s sake.

  He didn’t acknowledge the Director and the Director didn’t acknowledge him. Caleb Dawson was the consummate professional, and anonymity was of value to both of them.

  Watching Jefferson, Dawson smiled slightly. If all went well, he’d be free from this facade of a party in less than five minutes.

  He tucked his invitation smoothly into his pocket and moved onto the balcony. It was empty and he was glad. He pulled a vape pen from his left pocket, its innocent appearance already deadly, loaded with the two centimeter dart that held the drug. From his other pocket, he took the fake battery that held the pressurized CO2 charge that would launch the tiny dart. He felt an odd sense of pleasure as the pieces locked easily together. He had practice, and it all went together smoothly and soundlessly. There would be no issues.

  Fixing the device in his hand, Dawson turned back toward the doors and the elite society to be found behind them, not even glancing at the spectacular London skyline.

  When he stepped back into the room, he tracked Jefferson, seeing that he’d moved away from the balcony doors. Casually, Dawson lifted a glass of champagne from a strolling server and watched. Jefferson shifted nearer to the food table, seemingly also seeking a glass of champagne. Dawson sipped carefully. As he lowered the glass from his lips, the drug was fired unceremoniously into Jefferson’s neck. His aim was perfect, and no one noticed a thing. Not a ripple of disturbance buzzed the other partygoers.

  Jefferson’s hand flew to his neck, rubbing at the spot. His eyes were wide, and the “Oh, no,” that emerged from his lips was too soft to hear. Dawson couldn’t help admiring the instant recognition that shone from his victim’s eyes as he searched the room for his killer, realizing instantly what had happened even at a time when most others would have spent their last seconds clinging to denial.

  The clarity only lasted a moment, dissipating rapidly as the drug took over.

  Dawson’s work was done.

  Leaving his champagne on the table to his right, he returned to the elevators, ignoring Jefferson clutching his neck less than ten feet away.

  The elegant old age-style elevator welcomed him with a friendly ding as he entered calmly and pushed the button to take him back down to the main lobby. He’d traveled only two floors down when he started to hear the screams. By the time he walked out through the building’s front doors, a small crowd was gathering around Donald Jefferson’s body on the parking lot’s hard pavement.

  Sirens could already be heard ringing in the distance.

  Dawson ignored the first two cab drivers and he was ignored in turn, the drivers too distracted by all the noise and excitement to bother trying to pick up another fare. He slid into the back seat of the third taxi in the line, and the driver didn’t even realize he’d picked up a fare for a few seconds.

  The job had not taken anywhere near as long as he’d expected, after all, and it was a beautiful night. He’d always enjoyed some of the London night life, and so he decided to go and have a drink. With any luck, one of the girls he’d met the last time he was here would be around.

  ONE

  Noah Wolf was asleep and dreaming when the call came. This one was actually more like a memory, the kind of dream where the sounds and motions of the outside world merge so completely with the images of the mind that the line separating truth and the world of dreams is temporarily wiped away.

  In the dream, he was still suffering the effects of his last mission, still afflicted with the emotions that had come flooding back into him as the result of the trauma he had gone through. It was terrifying for Noah to be having those feelings again after so many years, so this dream was as much a nightmare as anything else.

  The phone woke him on its very first ring, and for a moment, he thought he was still in the hospital ward. His eyes searched the darkness of his bedroom, looking for any sign that he was still in that reality, but Noah is one of those whose dreams fade away quickly after he wakes.

  He blinked and the phone rang again. He snatched it up and put it to his ear, the horror of the dream already forgotten.

  “Camelot,” he said.

  “There is a plane waiting for you at Heathrow,” Allison said. “Get your team on board and get here as quickly as you can. As soon as you arrive, Noah, I need to see you. Just you, Noah. Nobody else right now.”

  There was something in her voice that made asking questions seem like a very bad idea.

  “We’re on the way,” Noah said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Sarah roused herself as he started to climb out of bed. “Noah? What’s going on?”

  “Allison wants us back at Neverland,” he said. “There’s a plane waiting for us at Heathrow, and I’m supposed to see her tomorrow, as soon as we arrive. She said to come to her office alone, so the rest of you will be able to go out to the house and relax.” He pulled on his jeans and started toward the door.

  Sarah picked up her phone and hit the button to make it light up. “It’s only three o’clock in the morning,” she said. “What could be so important it couldn’t wait until normal hours?”

  “I don’t know,” Noah said, “but I’m going to find out.” He stepped out into the hall and woke the others, letting them know that they needed to get up and pack quickly. He made it clear that he didn’t know the answer to their questions, so they simply packed up and then headed for the airport.

  * * *

  Because of the time difference and the ten hour flight, it was just after seven a.m. when the plane touched down in Kirtland. The van, driven by a new recruit who they didn’t recognize, was waiting for them at the airport, and dropped Noah off at the Brigadoon Investments building, the headquarters of E & E. The rest of them stayed in the van and headed out to Noah’s house. They would relax there until he came back to tell them what was going on.

  Noah rode up in the elevator and walked past the empty receptionist’s desk. He opened the door without hesitation to see Allison sitting behind her own desk, and for the first time in many years, Noah found himself slightly surprised when he saw her. Her face was red, especially around the eyes. Allison Peterson had been crying, and Noah hadn’t even believed such a thing would be possible.

  “Thank you for coming so quickly,” she said. “Sit down, Noah.” She tapped on the keyboard of her computer and the screen on the wall behind her snapped to life, showing a collage of photographs: a nondescript brown-haired man engaged in various activities.

  Noah instantly memorized the man’s face, even before Allison began speaking.

  “The first thing I have to tell you is that Donald Jefferson is dead,” she said.

  Noah’s expression did not change as he continued to stare at the photos displayed over her shoulder.

  “What happened?” he asked. It was the same way he might ask why the coffee pot was empty.

  “He was in London to meet with officials from one of the smaller European countries, to discuss the possibility of E & E helping them with some of their problems. He was attending a private party at the home of the Austrian ambassador that had more security than the President of the United States, and he should have been perfectly safe. Unfortunately, there are a few assassins out there who are almost as good as you. One of them got to Donald in the middle of the reception. He was injected with a drug, something that affected his mind within only a matter of seconds. It caused some sort of terror reaction, because he suddenly appeared frightened of everyone around him and jumped out a fortieth floor window as if he was trying t
o escape them.”

  “The killer would be the man on the screen behind you?” Noah asked.

  “The man you’re looking at is responsible for Donald’s death, yes. No one knows his real name. He uses many identities. In this case, he was using the name Caleb Dawson.”

  “How did you identify him?” Noah asked.

  “Security video, of course,” Allison replied. “As I said, the affair had terrific security, including hidden video cameras just about everywhere. The footage was handed over to MI6, who shared it with our people over there.” She sighed. “From what we have been able to learn, Dawson has for the past couple of years maintained an exclusive contract with a powerful underworld leader whom we know only by the name of Spear.”

  Spear, Noah thought, surprised that as he rolled the name through his mind, he still felt absolutely nothing. The name should have meant more; hearing the name of Donald’s killer should have caused at least a desire to punish the individual, but Noah only considered him a threat that needed to be eliminated. Who in the world was Caleb Dawson, and who was this Spear? What possible motive could they have had for killing Donald?

  “Spear,” Noah said. “I don’t think I’ve heard the name before. What can you tell me about him?”

  “Spear is a manipulator,” Allison replied. “All we know about him is that he is known for orchestrating terror events and assassinations that are designed to push governments into doing specific things. To give you an example, he is suspected of being behind the recent mass casualty attacks in Berlin that caused the German government to begin rounding up and deporting Muslim immigrants. That action has led to sanctions against Germany from almost every other nation and has crippled several parts of the German economy. As a result, Germany is now beholden to the rest of the European Union just to continue surviving as a nation.”

  Noah nodded. “What was Mr. Jefferson doing at the time of his death?”

  “Donald was discussing the possibility of opening a liaison office in Chechnya when he was killed. Chechnya has a lot of internal strife, and some of the players are too powerful to touch through conventional means. Harold Ingemar, the Austrian ambassador, was an old friend of Donald’s. The Chechnyan government approached him to act as a go-between, and he invited Donald to come and discuss the situation. In order to avoid having Donald go to the Chechnyan Embassy, Ingemar arranged a party at his own home and made sure the ambassador was there. Donald was supposed to speak with him, but never got the chance.” She paused for a second, her eyes misty. “We believe the motive for his assassination was to prevent Chechnya from pursuing a relationship with our organization. Their ambassador has declined to continue the discussion.”