The Bleiberg Project (Consortium Thriller) Read Online Free Page A

his plump, bearded cheek and straightened up. “See, that wasn’t hard, was it?”
    “Who the hell are you?”
    “A guy from far away with a mystery to solve. Far, far away. But if you’re keen to know my name, it’s Eytan Morg.”
    The wounded man hauled himself up against the tree stump. The blood gushing from his knee seemed to come straight from his cheeks. He was deathly pale. “That doesn’t sound very American.”
    “Correct. It’s Polish. From northeastern Poland, to be precise.”
    “You work for the commies?”
    “Sure! You really are stupid. I work for Mossad, my friend. You realize what that means.”
    Eyes closed, William Pettygrow recited a silent prayer. Morg slipped his rifle over his shoulder and drew a 9mm pistol with silencer. The execution was swift and painless. The Israeli agent holstered the weapon and dug into an inside pocket. He pulled out a curious object that looked like a hockey puck and placed it on the body. Then Morg doubled back through the woods and headed for the road a hundred yards or so below. Behind the wheel of his pickup, he scanned the trees. A gray cloud wafted out of the forest and disintegrated as it rose into the sky. Having obtained the information he so badly needed, the killer stepped on the gas and was gone.
    Later that afternoon, a hunter missed a deer. After an unsuccessful chase, he headed for the tree stump, a marker for all the local hunters. He trudged across a small crater, oblivious to the fact that an administrative operative from Langley had been killed there a few hours earlier. Back in Hampton, the guy stopped off for a beer in a hunters’ bar—the only one in the vicinity. To the other regulars he grumbled about his near-miss that afternoon. Close to the sympathetic group, a bald foreigner, taller than any of the other clients, bit into a hamburger and took a slug of Bud. He smiled into his glass. These new explosives really were something else!
    Morg hated driving at night on an empty stomach. A quick dessert, one more drink in this rat hole and tomorrow morning, he’d be having breakfast opposite Central Park.

CHAPTER 6
    I hang up. Actually, I smash the handset on the base. I have moist palms. My heart’s pounding. Any more, and it’ll burst through my rib cage. I stuff my keys into the pocket of my jeans. I leave the apartment. The elevator takes me down to the parking garage. What is it, six months since I came down here? At least.
    I recoil. The damn light comes on automatically. I perspire. It’s hot, but that’s not why I’m sweating like a pig. Instinctively, I check my pulse—a tip from the shrink in case of panic attacks. That was before I blew him off. Him and his dumbass way of thinking. Shit, 120 beats a minute. The cars are parked in rows in front of me. I don’t live in the projects. The majority are German makes. Porsches are a dime a dozen. To me, it’s just scrap metal. Sometimes I miss my beat-up old Beetle. All my friends in college made fun of it, but that car gave me nothing but good memories. OK, where is my car? Surrounded by a hundred or so cars, I take the remote from my pocket. Space 124. OK, I see it now. I see the cover it’s hiding under, at least. I’m scared I’ll faint. Keep going, Jay. Head up. There are cameras down here. I snap out of it. I’m in front of it now. Gee, it’s big. My Aston Martin. I’d forgotten how big it is. I have to pull the cover off. Sweat running in my eyes, my stomach in knots and a lump growing in my throat. No, not that. Close your eyes. Breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth. Visualize the air coming in and going out. Focus on your heartbeat. I’m calm. Calm. Breathe. Nearly there. I wipe my forehead. Now my legs are shaking. Screw it, I can’t do it. I can’t look at my own car. If this keeps up, I’ll never be able to hold the wheel again.
    I bang my fist on the bodywork and make a tactical retreat. What the hell was I thinking? I’d forgotten the fear.