Page 57 of Centurion

“That’s a bomb. The writing is in Spanish, right?” Jewell asked no one in particular.

The man on the video said something before they grunted beneath the weight and started walking toward the building. “What did he say?” Archangel asked.

“I’m playing it again.”

The words were muffled except for one word. “Yuma.” The men didn’t speak again as they made their way into the building.

Brando typed furiously. “In Cuban, according to my translation program, Yuma is a term that refers to strangers but is mainly meant for Americans. There are subtle differences in some of the words from Mexican Spanish to Cuban to traditional Spanish.”

Con let the film go forward and turned the sound up as far as it would go. The door slammed behind the men, and they grunted as they entered the building. There was a flap of plastic they walked through, then another, and finally a third.

“Hold the video. Is that what I think it is?” Jacob asked.

“It sure as hell looks like a nuclear marking.” Joseph sighed. “So, we aren’t talking bombs; we’re talking dirty bombs or, God forbid, nuclear-capable devices.”

“Isn’t it too small for that?” Con asked.

“The material itself isn’t the issue. It’s the design of whatever they’re carrying,” Archangel said as they watched the men put the box on the workbench.

A woman’s laugh turned the men. “Freeze that,” Archangel barked, and Con clicked the mouse. “The bitch.”

“Who is it?” Fury demanded.

“Trueman,” Archangel growled.

Brando asked, “What? You mean she’s the same lady who was killed at the ball?”

“Yes, the Undersecretary of Defense.” Jacob nodded.

“Hey … wait, she has long hair here. Hold on. I mean, continue. I have something I want to check out.” Con had seen that profile before.

He listened as others discussed who they needed to notify, but Con headed to the mission on that island. The one where he and Gabby had jumped from a fucking plane and landed smack dab in the middle of. “Bingo!” He pulled the picture up and put it beside the image of Trueman. Then he clicked the woman’s face, drawing a box around it, and did the same to the picture of the woman on the helicopter at that island. Only her chin and cheekbone were exposed, but by using AI, the program could fill in the blanks when comparing it to the other photo. The facial recognition program did its thing.

Jewell whistled. “A ninety-three percent match.”

Jacob frowned. “Where is this?”

“You dropped Centurion and me onto this island. It’s where Ice and Londyn were. The one with the computer systems you needed to get information from,” Con responded.

“Shit. The man in the pilot’s seat,” Fury growled. “Can you enlarge it?”

“Hold on.” Con clipped it out of the video and pulled it as close as he could.

“Could that be …” Fury shook his head. “Am I going insane, or does that man have the same profile as Molchalin?”

Con narrowed his eyes and completed the facial scan on the pilot’s profile and the pictures he’d been able to get from Pierre Archambeau’s facility the night in France just under a week ago when they’d tried to capture the bastard. The program came back with an eighty-nine percent chance of a match.

“Let’s see the rest of the video,” Archangel directed them forward. Con hit the play button. The woman’s voice was garbled.

“I can clean it up and do a voice match with what we have on her.” There were no doubt numerous recordings of meetings, speeches, and reporters hounding her. He’d be able to get enough.

“Do it,” Archangel ordered. “But after we get done.” They watched as the woman looked at four boxes, all the same as the one the two men had brought in. That was when shit hit the fan. The woman leaned over, and the video got a direct shot of a black booklet in the side pouch of her purse.

“That’s a diplomatic passport. You can see the seal!” Fury yelled, and Con turned down the volume a bit.

“Black passport. Freeze it again.” Jewell swung around to her other monitor, and Con wondered what in the hell she was doing. “When we were working on Dr. Whitehead’s disappearance, I went through all the information about their time in Cuba. In one of the interviews … hold on.” She typed furiously and then slid two different documents into the shared file. “Here, the men who Bear, Whitehead, Sage, and company detained. The techs or so-called scientists assembling the dirty bombs. They said a foreigner, or was it an American … Hold on, let me find it. There. American woman with a black passport was in charge.”

“You think this is the woman? That Anne Trueman was the woman who conspired to build the dirty bombs?” Archangel asked.

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