The Geneva Seduction

Opening Chapter

Weekend pleasure boats drifted back and forth across the lake like unsuspecting targets in a shooting gallery. The location seemed idyllic enough that Sunday afternoon as Central Europe's largest body of water, Lake Geneva lapped calmly in its crescent-shaped bowl cradled by snow-capped Alps.

Shirtless and wearing cutoff jeans, undercover CIA operative Alec Pierce leaned over to let out more sail on the borrowed yacht when he felt the first hint of danger. It came in the form of cold, wet prickles spraying his back.

He glanced over his shoulder. A sudden wind had begun howling through the rigging. A blast of rain caught him square in his handsome, tanned face.

He grabbed a taut brace amidships and stood erect, his blond hair plastered to his brow in wet ringlets. The lake's surface was turning an ominous gray. Wind had begun scattering boats across the water like a broom chasing dust.

Then he caught a bank of thunderheads bounding down the slopes.

So much for a relaxing day with his colleague.

"Catch all the wind you can," he shouted to Omar Naftir at the helm. "We'll race this storm back to the marina."

Then the hail hit like a truckload of gravel.

Omar was already spinning the wheel. "The stones will shred our sails before we can reach port," he yelled across the open deck.

Who cared about saving the sails when the whole boat was about to capsize? It would be a close race against the killer squall.

"We can't get stuck in this storm," Alec cried, shielding his head from the hailstones. "Just let 'em out."

The wind accelerated as it squeezed between the precipitous Alps. It whipped the glassy surface into towering, chaotic waves. Their heavy wooden sloop, the Celeste, wasn't going anywhere.

"Okay, I'll let out more sail," Omar grumbled.

Smart thinking.

Omar let go of the helm, reached for a stay, and released it. He yelped as the rope burned through his fingers.

Over the Celeste's turning bow, Alec saw fleeing boats flip over like ducks feeding on the bottom of a pond.

God help them. The trip had completely lost its aim, to unwind for a day, and to give him a chance to fully debrief Omar.

The Celeste caught a strong gust off the starboard. Wind filled her sail, and nearly capsized her onto her port side.

He winced and wound his strapping thirty-six-year-old frame around the rope brace for support.

Then the storm whipped up a towering wave, and scooped out a huge trough into which the Celeste plunged. When the hull hit the bottom of the trough, he saw Omar's frail body crash against the cabin door.

"Omar!"

He screamed the name several times, but heard no response as a wall of water thundered down upon him.

Through the foamy spray, the Celeste righted herself, and a blood-smeared face appeared over the cabin roof.

Omar held a handkerchief to his bloody nose. "Broke the cabin door."

The Celeste began to ride the crest of the newly formed wave. Drenched, Alec looked for warning beacons along the shore. Their sloop just might beat the storm back to Geneva.

Then he caught a speedboat racing straight toward the flotilla of retreating pleasure boats.

Who the hell was that?

A hooded figure leaned over the windscreen with an automatic rifle. A burst of fire spat from the muzzle.

A bullet screamed over Alec's head.

Holy shit. "Turn this bucket around."

"Why?" Omar yelled. "That's back into the storm."

"That's why," he shouted, pointing at their new assailant. Another bullet splintered the base of the wooden mast.

He dropped to his hands and knees, and scrambled toward Omar in the recessed cockpit.

"That's him," Omar said, his voice suddenly flat. "That's Proteus."

In a moment, the oncoming speedboat would ram them.

Alec caught the spinning helm and held it fast. "Head her back into the friggin' storm," he ordered.

Omar chased after the slithering rope that he had just loosened.

The bow swung into the gale. The main sail flapped loosely. Lake water swamped the cabin through the broken door.

Omar hauled in the stay and fastened it.

"We need more speed," Alec shouted. "Crank the foresail."

The young man slipped and reeled backward, then commanded his spindly legs toward the prow. At last he cranked up the sail. It fluttered at first, then snapped stoutly in the wind.

The speedboat gunned its inboard motor, and bobbed hazardously close to the Celeste. The machine gun pivoted their way.

"Look out," Alec shouted, and dropped to the cockpit floor once more.

From there he watched Omar slide off the boat. At the last moment, his friend grabbed a chrome bulwark.

Bullets grazed the deck, splintering wood against Omar's knuckles as he dangled half-overboard.

The Celeste carved an efficient arc through the oncoming waves. Alec listened to the rhythmic thud of Omar's bony body against the wooden hull. Above them, the mast groaned under the weight of wet canvas.

Three-meter swells beat back the speedboat, pitching it from one watery crater to the next.

Driven back by the storm, the gunman gave an exasperated toss of his head. He fired a final volley, and spun away from the Celeste. Bullets drilled a line of smoking holes in her sails.

The freshwater lake had begun to swallow the sloop. Through the smashed cabin door, cookware and cushions washed against Alec's thighs.

He cupped his hands and yelled to Omar, "Get your ass back up here and help me man the pumps."

Omar tried to drag his soaked body back on deck. Exhausted from his battle with the surf, he coughed up water.

"If you don't mind," he called, stretching out a hand for help.

Did Alec have to do everything?

His legs felt weary and nearly buckled under him as he launched himself onto the slick fore deck. He landed with a splash by Omar, who still hung half off the ship.

"I'm not doing so well," the young Moroccan said.

"Join the club."

Alec pulled him the rest of the way onto the deck.

Omar's voice barely carried above an ear-splitting thunderclap and the roaring waves. "I swallowed half the lake."

"Then cough it up. Now, where were you shot?"

"Nowhere."

"You weren't hit? Then don't expect me to sail this tub alone."

"Alec," Omar said in a hoarse whisper as he tried to sit up. "Did you believe the story I told you before the storm?"

"Forget the story. We're sinking."

Omar persisted. "The jihad wants to scare you out of the accelerator laboratory."

"You explained the threat to American interests already."

"They've selected you as their main target," Omar said. "The Proteus Jihad's after you personally."

Alec felt his fingers suddenly go limp, and Omar slid to the deck.

"Okay, so who exactly is in this jihad?" Alec asked fiercely. "And how can I stop them?"

"That's the trouble," Omar said, his voice barely rising above the storm. "He's only one person, but he's everywhere."

Then the young man's eyes widened as he stared beyond Alec. "Allahu Akbar!" God is great!

Alec looked up. Two immense walls of water converged on the boat. Milky-colored froth arched overhead.

The Celeste's mast complained, then popped like a twig under saturated sails.

The heavy timber and canvas crashed down on them in a veil of white.