Bishop asked the question, and Nash wished he hadn’t. Pinchot was fired up enough as it was.
Pinchot clenched and unclenched his fists. “I should have seen it coming, but by the time I realised what the hell was happening it was all over. I’d worked with those people for years, many of them I called friends, and now they’re dead because some sadistic megalomaniac didn’t want the competition.”
“Is that your theory?” Nash asked. “That’s why Cavendish had them killed?”
Throwing up his palms, Pinchot asked, “What else is there?”
“There’s a new regime and Cavendish is clearing the decks. Excising the remnants of the old guard.” Nash chose not to mention that it had been under Pinchot’s rule that Tartarus had perpetrated their most reckless and murderous acts, those that had caused Cavendish to step from the shadows in the first place. Everyone in the room knew it, but given the precarious state of the uneasy alliance, it seemed best left unsaid. “You seem to have escaped unscathed.”
“Oh, they tried.” Pinchot issued a sardonic sneer. “A hit squad tracked me down in Montpellier. They almost had the drop on me, but I managed to take two out before they retreated to lick their wounds. Got out of France the same day.”
“The rest of the board didn’t fare so well,” Nash observed.
“The board Cavendish handpicked, me included. The board he manipulated from the very beginning. Is that the old guard you referred to?” Pinchot’s words were bitter, coated in venom. “Every member of the board did that old man’s bidding—we were loyal to a fault. He didn’t have to kill them, they would have continued to follow; they all believed in what he was doing. The egotistical puppet master had all his little marionettes dancing for his amusement, right up until he decided to cut the strings.” Pinchot’s jaw set like concrete. “No, he removed them so there would be no one left to challenge the man who would be king.”
“Except you?”
Pinchot’s head slowly swivelled towards Nash. “Except me.”
He was certainly bitter, perhaps even unhinged. Nash’s concern only grew. Misgivings notwithstanding, they had a terrorist plot to stop.
While they couldn’t afford to take Pinchot at his word, the evidence he presented was certainly compelling. In the space of an hour he demonstrated proof of the forthcoming terrorist attack. Tartarus had found and infiltrated a Yemen terrorist cell. In the past year their handlers—the real ones—had provided them several targets, set operations in motion, only for the plans to fall apart for various reasons. The cell were primed and ready to execute whatever order their leadership issued. Except, it wasn’t their leadership giving the orders anymore.
Terrorist cells don’t have access to their leaders. If they did, there would be too much potential for even the tiniest of breaches to bring the whole organisation tumbling down like a house of cards. Each cell was self-sufficient and capable, they just needed instructions. Tartarus was only too happy to provide them.
Every piece of evidence Pinchot provided from his clunky hard case laptop was scrutinised and challenged by Nash and his team. When they asked for proof, electronic trails, supporting evidence, Pinchot provided it every time. If it was a ruse, it was an exhaustive and convincing one. No question or request for verification went unanswered. No matter what they asked, Pinchot had not only the response, but the files on his laptop to back it up. And what emerged was a horrific and murderous plan.
The operation was to take place the following day, timed to ensure there would be the most civilians around. Tartarus had chosen their target well and the Yemen cell leapt to the assignment with relish, knowing the deaths would be catastrophic. Nash estimated a few hundred, possibly more. It had all been set in motion, and there was no one to stop the horrific event except for those standing in the room.
“Tartarus will send the vague warning to the CIA, FBI, Homeland Security and the rest this afternoon,” Pinchot said, seemingly reading Nash’s thoughts. “Their caution won’t contain much in the way of elaborate detail, of course, but enough to garner attention. Twenty-four hours to give every major agency enough time to fuck themselves royally in the arse when the shit finally goes down.”
Sophia asked, “What if one of those organisations takes Tartarus at their word and acts?”
“Then Yousif’s mate’s will probably die in a gun battle at their tiny little hovel instead of with explosives strapped to their chests.” Pinchot shrugged indifferently. “Even if they are captured, there’s nothing to tie them to Tartarus; they still think they’re receiving legitimate orders from their Yemen masters. Tartarus will come out of this clean either way.”
“Except what you’ve shown us.” Bishop pointed to the chunky laptop. “We could take all this to the cops now. You convinced us, you’d do the same with them.”
Nash was surprised the notion hadn’t even occurred to him. He was so wrapped up in contingencies and counter plans he forgot the most basic thing. No normal human being would want death on an unimaginable scale. The cops, the FBI, Homeland Security and whoever else, when presented with Pinchot’s files, would want to both prevent a horrendous fanatic assault and expose Tartarus. It was a long shot, but plausible. Salvation was within their grasp.
A malicious leer creased Pinchot’s thin lips. Casually, he pressed a small indentation on the side of the laptop. A small black piece of plastic poked out and before anyone could stop him Pinchot gave it a tug. Within seconds white phosphorous smoke poured from beneath the keys. The whole laptop burst into a toxic billowing cloud of noxious gases, sending the team running from the confines of the study.
Coughing, Nash grasped Pinchot by the shoulders and shook him. “What the hell?”
“Magnesium strip,” he hooted, indifferent to Nash’s anger. His eyes fixed on Nash’s. “That was the only copy.”
“But you’re condemning hundreds of blameless people to die,” Nash growled, shoving him against the wall in disgust. “We could have ended this here and now. We could arrest the terrorists before they harmed anyone.” Nash let out a poisonous cough. “Why the hell would you do that?”
“It’s quite simple: because I’m not interested in justice.” Pinchot straightened his back. “I’m here for revenge.” Seeing their gobsmacked faces, he continued. “I don’t want to see Cavendish behind bars—not like that would ever happen anyway, but let’s pretend there was the remotest possibility it could. So what? After everything he’s done to me, the board, my friends, that human shit-stain deserves to die. Christ, even you know it, surely? With his power and influence he’ll never even face a single charge. You saw how he manipulated past events and turned them back on you. I may be a master strategist, but that man is a god.” He shook his head. “No, we play this my way and we all get what we want.”
Sophia’s lips pursed and her eyes narrowed. Nash had seen her make that face only a few times, and each time the recipient of the look soon regretted crossing her. He doubted Pinchot understood the danger he was in. The wrath of a full-flight Sophia Ocon was not something you ever wanted to trigger.
Slowly, she asked, “What is it you want, Mr Pinchot?”
He made a fancy face. “What I want, Ms Ocon, is for us both to win. You save the day and I destroy Tartarus from the head down by getting my revenge. Here’s my one and only offer. You take me to the target tomorrow.” He checked his watch. “Actually, today. You can stop the terrorists and I get Cavendish. Everyone wins.”
“He’ll be there?” Nash couldn’t help himself interrupting.
“He will. You take me there and let me loose, I’ll let you idiots be heroes if that’s what you really want. It’s non-negotiable. I’m there or the deal’s off. That’s the only way this will play out. Do we have an accord?”
Looking at each of his companions, Nash saw the doubt dripping from their features. It was a reflection of his own uncertainty.
“We need to discuss this.” Nash motioned around the room.
“Take your time.” Pinchot clasped his hands in front of him. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Nash, Eva, Bishop and Sophia moved to the kitchen, leaving Claude to guard their prisoner. Though from the smugness on Pinchot’s face, it was uncertain if he believed he was a prisoner at all.
The mounting doubt was most palpable on Sophia’s face. “What I don’t understand is—”
“How giraffes throw up?” Eva asked.
“What?” Bemused, Sophia gave a slight shake of her head.
“Why paper beats rock?” Bishop suggested. “I mean, you’re just wrapping a rock, it’s still a fucking rock, so why does paper win? It doesn’t make any sense.”
“No… I—” She turned to Nash. “Do they always talk like this?”
“You get used to it.” Nash rubbed his beard. “He’s obviously a high-functioning sociopath. He cares nothing for others, seems utterly incapable of empathy and would sell any of us out if it got him what he wants. The question is, what do we do with him?”
