Threshold (42 page)

SIXTY-THREE

Washington, D.C.

BOUCHER SAT BEHIND
a large antique desk, leaning back in a brown leather chair that had conformed to its owner’s thick body over time. As a result, the chair was uncomfortable. It didn’t belong to him.

Nor did the office.

And no one knew he was there. Not the secretary sitting at the desk outside the closed doors. Not a single subordinate at the CIA. Not a single security guard. He was a ghost. But that was easy to do when your security clearance granted you access to most of Washington, including security feeds, keys, and schedules.

He’d waited for fifteen minutes now, but expected company soon. If Marrs stuck to his regular morning schedule, he’d swing through these doors, no doubt feeling light on his feet, in about thirty seconds.

Boucher passed the time by scanning the office and gleaning what he could about the man. There was a painting of Arches National Park. It was decent, but plain. There were photos of family on the desk, all smiling. All posed. A map of Utah hung opposite the painting. Diplomas. Awards. Certificates. An American flag stood behind the chair. Several framed photos with world leaders and former presidents hung between the windows.

Everything in the room screamed,
I care about Utah and the United States.

But it was all for show. No one who really cared about public service and the good of the people worked so hard to show it. Marrs put on a convincing show and ran his mouth like a good politician, but when it came to actions, to really doing what had to be done for the good of the people, the man was impotent.

Boucher almost got up and left. Helping Marrs in any way, even if it was the right thing to do, made him queasy. But before he could think on it, the door opened. Marrs’s silhouette filled the door.

“Maggie, why in the hell are the shades drawn?” he said.

Boucher heard an “I dunno” from the outer office. Marrs shook his head, entered, and closed the door behind him.

With a quick tug, Boucher sent the shade shooting up. It struck the top of the window frame and spun with a force that nearly launched it free. Marrs shrieked and jumped back, dropping his briefcase.

Marrs was squinting in the fresh light. “Who’s there?”

Boucher didn’t answer. He enjoyed the terrified expression on Marrs’s face. But his eyes must have adjusted to the light because he suddenly recognized his visitor. “Boucher?” Marrs circled the desk. “Don’t you have grunts to bug offices?”

“I do.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

“Deciding.”

Marrs picked up the phone and dialed a three-digit extension that Boucher recognized as the number for security. But he didn’t react. Didn’t need to. The phone was unplugged.

“Deciding what?” Marrs asked before putting the phone to his ear. When he heard no ringing or dial tone he knew the phone had been disconnected.

“If you’re the right person.”

Marrs had taken a step back toward the door. A bit of fear had crept back into his face.

“How about this,” Marrs said. “You can tell me what you decided from the inside of a cell. CIA chief or not, this is illegal.”

When he took another step toward the door, Boucher launched up, slid over the desk, and reached Marrs just as he was turning around to run. He took hold of the senator’s pinky and twisted it back. The man yelped as the digit neared the breaking point. Boucher pulled him back, leading him by the finger, and sat him down in a chair opposite the desk.

“Did Duncan send you to bully me? Is that it?” Marrs rubbed his finger. “I’m not going to back down.”

“I don’t want you to back down,” Boucher said, turning to the window so Marrs couldn’t see how hard these words were to say. “There’s a folder on your desk. Open it.”

Marrs looked at the desk. A folder sat at its center. He stared at it for a moment. Distrustful. But curiosity got the better of him. He leaned forward, snagged the folder, and opened it.

He froze on the first page, reading every word. When he finished, he asked, “Is this real?”

“All of it, yes.”

Marrs quickly scanned the rest of the documents.

“As you can see, I’ve been keeping a record of all the poor choices President Duncan has made. I can’t sit and watch things continue to unfold like this. I’ve … admired your passion and thought you might be the right man to take it to. The man who can do what needs to be done.”

Marrs slowly closed the folder. He looked horrified. For a moment, Boucher thought Marrs might back down. Was this too much? Did he lack the guts to really put his words into action?

“This will destroy him,” Marrs said. He wasn’t gloating. Just stunned.

But then a smile began to show. He was up to it all right. “You’ll testify in support of this?”

Boucher knelt down, picked up the phone line, and reconnected it to the wall jack. “I will.”

Marrs picked up the phone and dialed a three-digit number. A phone on the other side of the office door rang once before being answered. “Call a press conference,” Marrs said. “Get me everyone. Tell them I have proof.”

Boucher heard the secretary’s voice through the door. “About what?”

“About everything.”

SIXTY-FOUR

Haifa, Israel

“WE DON’T HAVE
time for this,” King said in frustration. His concern for Fiona coupled with the soaring temperature in the makeshift warehouse lab made him impatient.

“We’ll find her,” Queen assured him, her confidence unwavering, but her own thoughts half a world away with Rook.

“Tell me again what we have,” King said.

Knight looked over several photos that had been spread out on the table. He had taken them before leaving El Mirador. They showed the cuneiform scrawled on the walls beneath la Danta pyramid. “Cuneiform. We can’t read it, but we know its origin is in Sumer. That coupled with the oversized sandfish you bagged points to Iraq.”

“Which is a big country with plenty of places to hide,” King said.

“And with all the troops still stationed there, one of the last places we would think to find someone hiding from us,” Bishop added.

King looked at Davidson, who was waiting for test results at a laptop. “How long, Professor?”

“A few more minutes.” He turned to King. “I’ve been thinking. The level of violence you have described is beyond anything attributed to golems before. They’ve been killers, to be sure, but the wholesale killing of thousands is unheard of.”

“What’s your point?” Alexander said. His voice had been tinged with impatience since the confrontation with King.

“A warning I suppose. Back in my office—which no longer exists, thank you—I mentioned the cycle of, what’s the right word? Evil. The cycle of evil is said to be transferred from master to golem upon creation and from the golem to master after it has killed.”

“Black hearts,” Alexander said. “I remember.”

“From what I’ve heard, this Ridley character was dark to begin with.”

“The darkest,” Knight said. “He’s willing to kill anyone and do anything to achieve his goals.”

King eyed Alexander. Was he any different? Had he committed unforgivable crimes in the past? There was no way to know. The man had spent a lifetime covering his tracks and erasing himself from history.

“Then the first golems made would have contained that lack of regard for human life. And they’ve killed thousands over the past year?”

King nodded. He could see where Davidson’s line of thought led. “And all of that death, all of that evil, has been transferred back to Ridley.”

“Exactly,” Davidson said. “However evil your man started out, I assure you he is now much worse.”

“He is nothing,” Alexander mumbled.

King wasn’t sure what to make of the statement, but Queen had already shifted gears.

“When you said we should call Ridley Adam,” Queen said to Davidson. “Were you referring to the biblical Adam?”

“Who was molded from clay and given life through the breath, some would say the words, of God. To breathe something into being is to speak it into being. Yes, that Adam.” Davidson adjusted his glasses. “Which I find quite disturbing. Animating a golem is one thing. It’s simply animating a nonliving thing. We do it all the time with vehicles, robotics. Along with artificial intelligence we can create animated creations that are far more lifelike than an actual golem, though they are far less durable and coordinated.

“But what you described with this Richard Ridley fellow goes beyond that. Using clay, his creator imbued him with what appeared to be genuine life. He was intelligent. He could speak. He emoted and coexisted with a population of people for days without raising suspicions. As amazing as this is, it is also an abomination. That Ridley is using the protolanguage to create nearly human copies of himself is narcissistic in the extreme.”

“We already knew he had a god complex,” Knight said.

“No,” King said. “A man who can give and take life, who can cure nations or destroy them, who can perform the very act of creation, doesn’t have a god complex. He wants to
be
God.”

“I don’t understand how clay can become human,” Knight said. “It doesn’t sound possible.”

“Even the science world acknowledges that clay had a likely hand in the creation of life,” Davidson said. “Though I disagree with the concept of accidental, random creation, there are many who believe clay catalyzed the formation of organic molecules. Take hydrothermal vents for example, life is supported there, not just by the heat provided by the vents but also the vast amount of clay surrounding them and expelled by them. I agree it’s a stretch, but clay seems to be at the center of both religious and scientific theories on the creation of life.”

“And so we end up with golems that can create golems?” Queen asked.

“I think you might need to consider a new term for the Ridley duplicates. While they return to clay after being … killed, they are not simply inanimate objects given the illusion of life. They are
alive
. And capable of speech. Thus capable of using the same protolanguage to create more golems.”

King’s phone rang. He answered it quickly and listened to the voice on the other end. “So we’ll know if he enters any other countries?” King asked. “Good. Thanks for letting me know.”

He hung up the phone and looked at the others. “That was Boucher. Ridley—both of them—were traveling under aliases using fake passports.” He looked at Knight. “Your man at El Mirador was Enoch Richardson.” He turned to Alexander. “Our man from Stonhenge was Mahaleel Richardson.”

“They used the same last name?” Knight asked.

“Richardson,” Bishop said. “Son of Richard.”

“He’s naming them after himself,” Queen said. “Like they’re his children.”

Davidson stepped closer to the group, his expression grim. “I’m afraid their names reveal much more than the paternal feelings Ridley may have for his creations. Enoch and Mahaleel are both descendants of Adam—the biblical Adam—in a very specific genealogy leading up to Abraham and eventually to King David.”

“And if you believe in it,” Alexander said, “to Jesus Christ.”

Davidson conceded the point with a nod. “But what is important to note is that he is naming these golems using a very specific bloodline that leads back to the creator.” He turned to King. “Your earlier assessment was correct, he believes himself a god. And if he is naming them using this genealogy, you can assume there are at
least
six more of these Ridley golems.”

“
Six
more?” King asked.

“Enoch is the seventh in line,” Davidson said. “Before him are Jared, Mahaleel, Cainan, Enos, Seth, and Adam.”

Something nagged at King. Ridley wouldn’t put in so much time and effort, and risk exposing himself, without something significant to be gained. He could already live forever. Like Alexander, with time he could do anything and become anyone. The world was his eternal playground. There had to be more, something missing, something bigger. Something Alexander said during their confrontation finally clicked.