Home > Robert Ludlum's the Treadstone Exile

Robert Ludlum's the Treadstone Exile
Author: Joshua Hood

 

 

PROLOGUE


   MAHÉ, SEYCHELLES


It was almost midnight when the Sikorsky S-92 clattered low over Petite Anse bay, the helo’s massive fifty-six-foot rotors bending the cocoa palms that stood guard over the Kempinski Seychelles Resort’s private beach.

   In the back of the helicopter, Andre Cabot sat comfortably ensconced in the Corinthian leather seat, gray eyes playing over the thousand-dollar bottle of eighteen-year-old Yamazaki single malt sitting in the chair beside him.

   He’d discovered the aged Japanese whisky the week before while on business in Macau, and while Cabot didn’t think it was anything special, his hosts could talk about nothing else.

   “You should buy a bottle, take it with you to Mahé,” one of them said. “Might put Pritchard in a better mood.”

   The comment sent the rest of the table into stitches, and while Cabot didn’t get the joke, it was obviously at his expense.

   But he took the hit, forced a smile, and played along. Knowing that he was being watched and that everything he said or did would make its way back to the Seychelles—to Nigel Pritchard.

   Cabot had been thinking about the conversation ever since, replaying every detail in his mind. His initial confusion at the laughter, followed by the spark of anger that came when he realized they were laughing at him.

   A month ago, they wouldn’t look me in the eye, now they dare disrespect me in public.

   The rage rushed through his blood like a flame up a fuse, but before it could ignite his notoriously vicious temper it was tamped by the same question that was plaguing him now.

   Did the men at the table know something that he did not?

   As the founder and CEO of DarkCloud Cybersecurity, Cabot had made both his name and his fortune by unearthing the secrets the rich and powerful paid millions to keep hidden. He’d hacked governments, rigged elections, and stolen corporate secrets from Fortune 500 companies—all without leaving a trace—and the thought that somewhere out there was a question that he couldn’t answer haunted his dreams.

   Cabot had made inquiries and used his network of spies, hackers, and snitches to get a sense of what might be going on, but both the streets and the digital ether were silent. No matter how many times he asked the question, the answer was always the same: “No problems here. Business as usual.”

   But Cabot’s gut told him otherwise.

   “They’re lying,” he said.

   His words were soft, barely audible over the hum of the engines, but when Cabot looked up, he wasn’t surprised to find the wide-shouldered man with the bone-white scar across his throat looking at him.

   “They’re lying, Beck,” he repeated. “I know they are.”

   “What do you want me to do?” the German asked, his damaged vocal cords leaving his voice little more than a gravelly whisper.

   “Be ready,” he said.

   The moment the helicopter touched down, Beck was on his feet, the SIG 226 looking like a toy in his meaty hand. He ducked out of the cabin, slipped to the door with a nimbleness that belied his size, and stepped out onto the tarmac.

   When he returned to the cabin a few moments later, his face was dark with anger.

   “Problem?” Cabot asked.

   “He didn’t send a car.”

   Business, like war, was all about keeping your enemy off balance, and Cabot, seeing the play, instinctively knew what Nigel was trying to pull.

   “Call the heliport, have them send the shuttle,” he said, moving to the walnut cabinets built into the bulkhead.

   “Of course,” Beck replied.

   While the German made the call, Cabot punched his code into the keypad and waited for the muted click of the magnetic lock before opening the panel.

   Inside were a pair of safes; one was for storing the cash and other valuables Cabot used to pay off the government officials and customs agents he encountered while conducting business abroad—the other one was for everything else.

   He opened the second safe, selected a Glock 42 from the weapons inside, racked a round into the chamber, and dropped the pistol into his coat pocket. By the time he closed the safe and secured the panel, Beck was waiting, a silver briefcase handcuffed to his wrist.

   “Let’s get this over with,” Cabot said, starting toward the cockpit.

   “What about the bottle?” the German asked.

   He contemplated leaving it there, but knowing that Nigel would have already been advised that he was bringing it, decided to keep up appearances.

   “Bring it,” he said.

   Compared to the Mercedes-Maybach Nigel usually sent to pick him up, the resort’s Cadillac Escalade was a marked step down. But Cabot had more pressing issues on his mind: mainly how much he had riding on this deal. So he settled in for the drive.

   They pulled out and drove north on Anse Soleil Road, their destination glinting like a fluorescent jewel in the distance. During the day, the Club Liberté Casino was barely noticeable, the elegant two-story glass-and-stone-fronted building effortlessly eclipsed by the shimmer of the Indian Ocean and the antifreeze-green fronds of the sandragon trees swaying in the salt-laden breeze.

   But once the sun went down, and the casino staff removed the protective covers from the Skybeam revolving spotlights mounted to the roof, Club Liberté came to life in a two-million-candlepower blaze of light.

   There weren’t many left on the island who remembered the casino’s humble beginnings, back when it was just a stuffy two-thousand-square-foot pole building where locals went for cheap drinks and to feed their spare change into the nickel slots.

   In 2002, Nigel came to town and bought the place for pennies on the dollar. Most people, Cabot included, thought he’d overpaid, but the cagey Englishman proved them wrong, betting that the poker fad sweeping the United States would eventually spread to their far corner of the world.

   He was right, and after spending a year strong-arming the rest of the casinos on the island—running them out of business—he unveiled the completely remodeled casino. As the only legal gaming facility left on the island, Club Liberté quickly established itself as the region’s premier entertainment venue.

   As an avid gambler himself, it was a place Cabot usually enjoyed visiting, but when the Escalade pulled through the gate and followed the cobblestone drive to the main entrance, he felt nothing but dread.

   The driver stopped beside the scarlet carpet, where a doorman in a black tuxedo stood waiting.

   Before he had a chance to open the door, Beck hopped out, the bulky German making no attempt to hide the pistol on his waist.

   He brushed the man aside with a gruff “Tell your boss that Monsieur Cabot is here,” and scanned the area. Once the man in the tuxedo scrambled through the main entrance, Beck turned back to the Escalade.

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