Page 95 of Clive Cussler's Quantum Tempest
Raven stood. “You were a SEAL. Don’t SEALs do water?”
“Sure do. But only so we can get to dry land and get to work. Ready?”
“Yeah. I just hope we’re not too late.”
52
Eidolon paced the floor, ready to go.
Where were they?
Overholt had promised two American operatives would pick him up before the kill squad arrived. The Americans would escort him out of the Darién Gap to safety, where transportation would be arranged for his evacuation to the States—all in exchange for information on Project Q.
Kaarel Varik was the Estonian savant known as the infamous Eidolon. In the hacker world he was a god—an omnipotent, omnipresent, and omniscient force in the infosphere. His reputation evoked reverential awe among his lesser peers and existential dread from his many victims.
But in person, the shy but brilliant Estonian made little physical impression. Slightly built and standing just five foot one as a grown adult, he endured endless humiliations including being forced to purchase his men’s clothing in the youth department. His physical deficiencies and poor personal hygiene attracted no women and his naturally abrasive and impatient personality prevented the possibility of any kind of male friendship. The resulting psychic rage only intensified through the lens of his mind like a laser, wreaking havoc on the unjust world tormenting him.
But even a man as brilliant as Varik had his resource limitations, and in recent years his enemies had nearly captured him. His retreat into the perilous Darién to his self-sustaining survivalist compoundhad saved his life, the jungle and its remoteness shielding him from scrutiny. More important, his encrypted satellite uplinks allowed him to continue his reign of vengeful terror on the internet. But now the noose had finally found his neck and he could feel the scratchy rope cutting into his throat. He was trading his greatest secret to save his life—but only if his rescuers arrived in time.
He checked his watch again. It was late in the evening. They should have been there two hours ago.
Suddenly, one of his security cameras alarmed. He dashed over to the monitor. He saw two hooded figures with rifles trudging out of the rainforest and heading straight for his shack.
Thank the gods…
But the flood of relief that surged through Eidolon’s body turned to ice water in his veins when he saw three more men follow suit.
Overholt said he was only sending two.
Varik’s heart raced. He spun his head around. His laptop and hard drives were packed up and ready to go—all of it destined for the Americans. But these were no doubt La Liga men—or mercs hired by them. There was no question they were there to kill him. He had no doubt they would add excruciating torture to the penalty for his theft of Project Q.
What to do?
Fight? Hide? Run? None were possible now. He could have fled earlier if he had known the Americans would fail him, though in truth he hardly had the strength or skill to navigate the long journey through the hazardous jungle. He only managed to arrive at his compound three years ago thanks to a highly paid escort of mercenaries and native porters.
Besides, where would he go? Nearly every intelligence agency on the planet was hunting for him. The Darién was his final refuge.
The promise of money he could offer them wouldn’t dissuade men like these. Neither would his threats, which would lack all credibility given the circumstance. And certainly not begging—not that Varik would resort to that. What could he bargain with? What could he offer in exchange for his life?
Perhaps there was a way.
Varik snatched up his laptop and hard drives and tossed them into the giant microwave oven in his kitchen, his only means of cooking. He stabbed the full-power button and the microwave roared to life. The oven’s magnetron poured out its electromagnetic radiation as he raced around the room, the superheating metallic casings already popping and pinging. A high-pitched whine erupted as delicate wiring vaporized, followed by the violent snap of rupturing lithium-ion batteries and cracking glass. Varik coughed as the acrid tang of burnt plastic filled the air.
Heavy boots shattered his front door and three La Liga thugs stormed in. The hawk-faced squad leader sniffed the air and his eyes fell on the humming microwave spitting out sparks and belching oily black plastic smoke.
Varik threw up his hands in surrender.
The squad leader charged over to the microwave and yanked on the handle. More smoke poured out, choking the room. He turned on his boot heel and slapped the smaller man hard across the face, knocking him to the ground.
“Qué demonios hiciste?” What the hell did you do?
“Sorry, my Spanish terrible,” Varik replied in Russian. Of course, that was a lie. Varik spoke twelve languages, including Spanish. He recognized the singsong tone and elongated vowels of the man’s Mexico City accent.
Another steel-toed boot crashed into Varik’s ribs.
“You’re no Russian,” the Cuban hissed in the same Slavic tongue.
Varik balled up in pain. “No, I’m not,” he said in English through gritted teeth.
