Free The Solomon Effect by C. S. Graham

Halloween, the tighter it’s going to be.” Chandler cleared his throat. “I hear you advised the President against canceling either today’s reception, or the Children of the Book Conference in Miami next weekend.”
    “That’s right.”
    “Was that wise?”
    Boyd huffed a rough laugh. “You know as well as I do how many terrorist threats we get every day. They’re always bullshit. The President leaks a few choice ones to the press, the people get nice and scared, and no one complains the next time Randolph wants to ram a special defense-spending bill through Congress. It’s a win-win situation all around.”
    “I have a nasty feeling this one’s different.”
    Boyd studied the long New England face of the man beside him. Gordon Chandler might be a ruthless son of a bitch, but like so many of the idiots down at Langley, he was still an effete Ivy League blueblood. “You got any new intelligence to back that up?”
    Chandler dropped his voice again. “You’ve heard about U-114?”
    Boyd shrugged. “Nazi subs are valuable commodities these days. I’ll be surprised if there are any left in shallow waters by the end of the decade.”
    “I hope to God that’s all there is to it.”
    Boyd was aware of his aide, Phillips, hovering a few feet away. Boyd gave the DCI a hearty clap on the shoulder. “I’ll tell you what, Chandler. Come next Sunday, if no crazy A-rabs have treated us to some nasty Halloween surprise, I’ll suspend my lifelong prohibition against imbibing on the Lord’s day, just so you can have the privilege of buying me a drink.”
    “And if you’re wrong?”
    “Then you can send a case of Jack Daniel’s to my funeral.”
    Captain Phillips waited until the DCI had laughed and moved off. Then he took a step forward and said, “There’ve been some developments.”
    Boyd drained his glass and set it aside. “It’s about time. Let’s go.”

15
    Berlin, Germany: Sunday 25 October 2:05 P.M. local time
    The newspaper was the latest edition of the International Herald Tribune, which told Jax nothing.
    Tossing it aside, he searched Tweed Coat’s pockets, the lining of his jacket, the soles of his shoes. But the assassin was obviously a professional. Jax found a handful of euros and rubles, but no ID.
    He started checking clothing labels. The guy’s jacket had come from London. His shirt was French. His shoes, Italian. A European, perhaps. Judging from the rubles, possibly a Russian. But not necessarily.
    Jax sat back on his heels, his gaze going to the dead man’s gun. A Walther P99. The Russian mafia liked Walthers. But so did a lot of other people. Jax knew guys in the Company who liked to carry Walthers.
    He pushed to his feet. He was getting hungry. Unwilling to take the chance of having Tweed Coat accidentally discovered by some room-service personnel, he rummaged around until he found a spare blanket on a shelf in the closet.Rolling the dead body up in blue polyester, he dragged the corpse into the closet and shut the door before dialing room service. Then he put in a call to Matt.
    Matt’s voice was gravelly with concern. “I heard your flight had been canceled,” he said. “This isn’t good, Jax. It means you won’t be in Kaliningrad to meet October when she lands.”
    “At the moment, babysitting Beckham’s remote viewer is the least of my problems.” The phone was encrypted, but Jax still chose his words carefully. “I had an unexpected visitor.”
    There was a moment’s pause. Matt said, “Was this someone we know?”
    “One of our competitors’ representatives. Fortunately I managed to convince him we had this market all sewn up, so he’s moved on to greener pastures.”
    Matt groaned. “Oh, jeez; not again. Did you call Peter Davidson?”
    “Petra. Petra Davidson.” Jax glanced at the closed closet doors. “My concern is, there are indications the competition found out that I was going to be working this market from our own home office. You might want to check