Calypso Directive Read Online Free PDF Page B

Two strong and healthy college students were suffering more in twelve hours after exposure than Will had suffered during his entire quarantine.
    At a quarter past twelve, Miss Sophie hurried into the room with a terrified look on her face. She grabbed Will firmly by the upper arm and whispered to him in heavily accented English. “The taxi driver, Mikiel, warn me this could happen. Right now, men are at the door; they are looking for you . They show me your picture. They say they are police. This is lie. I know how police look. I tell them they can’t come in and I shut the door. But they will come in anyway. It will be bad for me and bad for you if they find you here. You must go now! Follow me.”
    Without a word of protest, Will grabbed his new coat and followed her down a flight of stairs to a back door that opened into an alley. She unlocked the door and peeked outside, scanning first left and then right.
    â€œIt safe. Go now!”
    Loud repetitive pounding from the entry door echoed down the first floor hallway.
    He took a step across the threshold, then stopped. He looked her in the eyes, and she read his thoughts immediately.
    â€œI take care of the American boys. You go now.”
    He bowed his head to her. “Thank you, for everything,” he said and then sprinted off into the darkness.

Chapter Five

    Boston, Massachusetts
    B RIGGS CROSSED HIS legs and shifted his weight in a fruitless effort to get comfortable. The chairs in Robért Nicolora’s office were nice enough to look at, but despite their solid walnut construction and crimson leather upholstery, they were abysmally uncomfortable. Nicolora liked it that way. He preferred to keep his office guests distracted while they were in conference with him. “As goes the body, so goes the mind,” he had once told Briggs.
    Nicolora’s own chair, while similar in style, was contoured, soft, and supportive.
    Though he was five years Briggs’ senior, Nicolora looked at least ten years younger than his longtime friend. His lean frame, olive complexion, and full head of hair belied his fifty-nine years. A naturalized U.S. citizen of twelve years, he had been born in a small town outside of Budapest, Hungary. His linguistic capabilities had always left friends and colleagues awestruck. At the age of thirty, he was fluent in seven languages: Hungarian, Czech, Russian, German, French, Spanish, and English. His current project was Mandarin. He spoke English with a perceptible and yet charming accent that came from a subtle mix of his Eastern European roots and Western European schooling. He could shed the accent when necessary for negotiation purposes, but he preferred the sound of his English to that of native British or American speakers. Most of the women he courted seemed to prefer it as well.
    When he was a small child, Nicolora’s parents moved his sister and him to Madrid. On his eighteenth birthday, he left home to attend university in Barcelona. In his twenties, Nicolora lived and worked throughout Europe, spending time in Paris, Munich, Amsterdam, and London. It was during his time in London that he met an American named Bradley Wells. Over several months, the two men became close friends, and it was Wells who recruited Nicolora to join an elite think tank that served the U.S. government during the Cold War. Neither a government bureau nor a corporation, the brain trust did not officially exist on any government org-charts. Within the innermost circles of the State Department, however, the group was known as The Think Tank.
    To its members, it was simply and affectionately referred to as The Tank.
    In 1997, Nicolora was appointed Director. In December 2000, one month before President George W. Bush took office, the Think Tank Project was quietly disbanded and its members scattered to the wind.
    In theory, The Tank had ceased to exist.
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    â€œ DID HE ACCEPT