what it had been created for. The lab wreckage was carefully searched, and all traces of The Passover Project were removed and taken to the Pentagon. It was hushed up and swept under the rug. Not even Roosevelt knew of its existence.”
“Whoever was responsible for the explosives did a piss-poor job,” Logan said, his English accent barely noticeable. “If it had been my job, my first priority would have been to make sure there was nothing to sift out of the rubble.”
“Well for our sakes, I’m glad you didn’t handle the demolition.” Gabe went back to the table and took out the photographs he’d shown Grace on the plane. “As you can tell from the pictures, someone is trying to resurrect The Passover Project.”
“Just to play devil’s advocate, why would you make that leap?” Grace asked. “It does look like something bigger than an assassination attempt on one person happened in all of these photos. These places have been completely obliterated.”
“You’re right. But I had a little help in connecting the dots. Former Deputy Director of the CIA Frank Bennett sent me this information eighteen hours before his death. He made copies of everything that was left from the 1943 explosion site, and he included the current photos of the destruction done to these different locations. All he said in his note was that he trusted I would take care of this and find who was responsible.”
“I heard Bennett’s death was ruled a suicide,” Ethan said. “And I’ll look to be sure, but I believe that’s the final ruling in Frank Bennett’s CIA file. Rumor was that he was being forced to retire because of a drinking problem, and he just couldn’t handle being let go. His whole life was the agency.”
Ethan shifted uncomfortably in his chair as Gabe’s eyes narrowed to thin blue slits and addressed the rumor in question. “Bennett was found hanged in his office, and a suicide note was left on his desk in his handwriting. The medical examiner said it was an open-and-shut case, but everyone in this room knows how easy it is to fake a suicide and forge a note. It’s a basic tactic learned early on. Not to mention that Frank would be the last person I know who’d kill himself. I was the closest friend he had, and if anyone at the CIA had bothered to check before they started the rumors that he had a drinking problem, they’d know that Frank Bennett had never touched a drop of alcohol in his life because his father was an alcoholic and beat the shit out of him and his mom as often as he could. Frank Bennett was murdered.”
Gabe stuck his hands in his pockets and leaned against the bookshelf. Bennett’s death was still a bitter pill to swallow. The man had been like a father to him—more than his own father had ever been. There was no way in hell Frank had killed himself. Frank was dead because of The Passover Project.
“So if Frank didn’t kill himself, who did?” Ethan asked.
“I don’t know, but I know the documents in these folders are the reason he’s dead. Frank did all the beginning legwork for us. A portion of the formula base was found in the wreckage of the lab. It seems pretty obvious by the testing pattern in these photos that someone is trying to recreate the formula. They haven’t hit on the right combination just yet, but it’s only a matter of time. All I know is that we have to stop whoever it is. If we find out who’s behind recreating The Passover Project, then we’ll find Frank’s killer.
“They’ve got a pretty big hunting ground to choose from for these experiments,” Jack said. “We can’t keep eyes on every small, unknown tribe around the world. Hell, we both know there are tribes in the jungle that aren’t even documented. They have languages we’ve never heard spoken.”
“We’ll start with the scientists behind the testing. The list of those capable of recreating something like this can’t be long. But we have to hurry. The next step in any scientific experiment is moving to the next level—raising the bar higher. We don’t want them to start testing in major cities around the world.”
“If the knowledge of The Passover Project has been sitting in the CIA vaults for half a century, then it has to be someone high up who’s behind it all,” Grace said. “Especially factoring in Frank’s death. Only someone who had high-level security clearance would know what Frank had access to.”
“That’s not necessarily true,” Ethan said. “I hacked into top-level CIA security when I was a sophomore in high school. Nothing electronic is fail-safe. I’m guessing the only reason I’ve never heard of The Passover Project is that everything is still in hard copy. Breaking and entering that doesn’t involve a computer isn’t my style. So you’re looking for someone who has access to the vault and enough money to pay off the guards, or someone that could break into Langley and sneak past the guards without being noticed. The only person I know who could do that is you, Ghost.”
Ethan had his feet propped up on the corner of the table and was drumming his fingers restlessly on the arm of his chair. He seemed to be back in an affable mood, their earlier tension already forgotten. Gabe didn’t remember what it felt like to be that young or carefree. And he hoped above all else that Ethan grew up soon. He’d really hate to have to kill him.
Gabe sighed. “There’s always someone younger and better coming up behind you, kid. You’ll learn that someday. As far as suspects to Frank’s murder, no one is popping to the surface. I’m hoping you’ll have more luck in that regard once you start digging a little deeper.”
“So what’s the mission?” Jack asked.
Gabe gave his friend a hard smile. “This is where things get fun. Bennett had done quite a bit of research on Josef Schmidt. It turns out Schmidt was a Nazi sympathizer and had plans to turn the weapon over to Hitler when it was completed.”
“How do we know he didn’t succeed?” Ethan asked.
“I’ve been digging through the German government files. Their technology is outdated, and their data is disorganized.”
Ethan’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Did they know you were searching? Surely you know you leave a fingerprint every time you mess with technology. A good hacker could trace it back to here and find us.” Ethan mumbled something under his breath about safeguards and amateurs.
Jack laughed at Ethan’s naivety. “There’s a reason why they call him the Ghost. Stick around kid, and you may learn something.”
Ethan scowled at being called a kid. “It wouldn’t hurt for me to double-check and make sure. No offense, but as much as any of you could kick my ass, none of you are as good as I am with computers.”
“I know my way around computers, Ethan, but go ahead and take a look if it will make you feel better,” Gabe said. “You’re going to be going through all their files again anyway.”
“Did you find anything useful?” Logan asked.
“You could say that. When the German equivalent of the CIA—MAD—was created in the 1950s, they took control of everything seized during Hitler’s reign—artwork, journals, correspondence, family photos, everything. Most of the journals have been transferred to computer, and I found a very interesting reference to Josef Schmidt.”
Gabe walked back to the table and sat down in his chair. A dull ache was starting to form at the back of his neck, and his eyes burned and felt gritty with lack of sleep.
“It seems Hitler met with Schmidt twice. He writes about his frustration with Schmidt because the man’s demands for payment kept growing. Each time he met with Hitler, Schmidt gave him a portion of the formula. They were scheduled to meet one last time before the explosion destroyed Schmidt’s lab, and Hitler planned to execute him so he couldn’t sell the formula elsewhere. But Hitler only ended up with two-thirds of the formula.”
“Did he write them down?” Grace asked.
“No. He painted them.”
Grace sighed quietly, but even that small sound had Gabe looking at her sharply. Her green eyes were bright with anticipation, and her spine was straight. He could practically see the energy running across her skin. He leaned forward and set his arms on the table to cover the erection that had been plaguing him for the last twenty-four hours.
“That’s right,” she said. “Hitler was an amateur artist. He was never good enough to get accepted into the Royal Academy.”
“No, but after his death his paintings were sold for millions.”
“Oh, man,” said Ethan. “That is wicked awesome. Where are they? Do we get to steal them?”
Gabe wanted to laugh at Ethan’s enthusiasm but kept his mouth firm. God, had he ever been that young and eager? Maybe. When had the rose-colored glasses come off? After his first kill? After his twentieth?
“One of them is in the Tehran Museum,” Gabe answered. “The second was bought by a private collector from a Sotheby’s auction. The purchaser is hidden behind anonymous bidders and a couple of private corporations. I don’t
