“That’s the right question,” said Circe, nodding, “and we’re looking into that. We can’t say for sure if it was because the reporters are cynical and suspicious, or if they speculated on the connection in hopes that there was one—thereby giving them a scoop while insuring that they appeared savvy and insightful—”
“So young to be so jaded,” I murmured. She ignored me, as was appropriate.
“—or if they were in some way tipped off. Because the coverage was so widespread, it’s taxing our resources to try to pin that down.”
I said something like “Hmm.”
She glanced at me. “What?”
“Mother Night seems pretty savvy herself, and she’s clearly using the media as a weapon. But at the same time we have to consider whether she knows how the investigative system works. If she’s the computer genius she appears to be—”
“She is,” said Bug.
“—then she might have counted on investigative agencies targeting the media for deep background checks and thereby allocating resources that might otherwise be useful in hunting her.”
“What else could we do, though?” asked Rudy. “Don’t we
have
to make those background searches?”
“Absolutely,” I agreed. “I’m not saying we’re making a wrong move. What I’m saying is that she may have played a good card and we have to accept it.”
Church nodded. “In light of her other moves, I think that’s a fair assumption.” He nodded to Circe to continue.
“I don’t think Mother Night’s ultimate goal is terrorism,” she said, and held up a silencing hand as we all started to speak. “Hear me out. Rudy and I have been wrangling with this all day. Most of you have heard this already.” She recounted what Rudy had said to me before the meeting regarding the elements of anarchy. “If she was using bombs in order to create chaos then her picks were clumsy and moderately ineffectual. A law library and a martial arts sporting event? Don’t get me wrong, those bombs were devastating and there was terrible loss of life, but this is Labor Day weekend. There are parades, mass gatherings, ball games, concerts. If she’d wanted to rack up a body count to create genuine chaos, she could have picked a thousand more useful targets.”
“So what was the point?” asked Aunt Sallie. “To get the media’s attention? She already had that.”
“No,” said Circe, “I think we can call the hacking phase one, with the goal being to energize the media. Phase two was the bombings, and that effectively brought every law enforcement agency to point. Bombings will do that in post-9/11 America. The way the media covers it and the pervasive buzz of social media only serve to reinforce that conditioning. It’s very Pavlovian.”
“And phase three is the subway?” asked Aunt Sallie.
Circe nodded. “Sure. Phases one and two nicely set up phase three so that the false message conveyed by the altered soundtrack—that the government is using illegal force on ordinary citizens—was something the media helped sell to a willing audience. It’s really very smart. Get the media and everyone in the country watching, then bring all emergency response teams to a state of high alert so that armed cops and soldiers are in the streets in certain places. It doesn’t matter that they’re not in every street, but the sensitized, ratings-hungry media will make it seem that way. Prior to the subway the media rolled footage of SWAT teams, cops, and other emergency responders as part of the message that ‘America is responding to terrorism’; but once that video went out, the message automatically changed to ‘America responds to a threat by using lethal force against its own people.’”
“The logic doesn’t hold,” said Hu.
“It doesn’t have to hold. It has to be big. In media terms it has to dominate the conversation, and right now that is the
only
conversation.”
I said, “I can see it, Circe, but then I hit a wall at high speed. What’s Mother Night want from all of this? Now that she has everyone’s attention, what’s she selling?”
“Ah,” said Circe, “that’s where I hit a wall, too.”
Rudy said, “If, as we agree, the logic does not hold, then we have to wonder if that is a known variable. In other words, does it
need
to hold? Mother Night would have to know that this would eventually be picked apart and, to some degree, defused. That would suggest that this is a plot of limited duration, yes?”
We all nodded.
“Then,” concluded Rudy, “if we can predict the time it would take for the story to crumble, then wouldn’t that give us an idea of the timetable for whatever Mother Night’s larger plan is?”
In the thoughtful silence that followed, everyone began nodding, first to themselves as they worked it through according to their own insights, and then to the group.
“That’s very good, doctor,” said Church. “Circe … public perception and reaction is your field. Can you project a timetable?”
She chewed her lip. “With the prevalence of social media everything is faster. Action and reaction. Ballpark guess? I think whatever Mother Night is doing—providing she needs the social and media disruption she’s created as a cover—then I think we have twelve to twenty-four hours to figure it out and stop her. And maybe not even that long.”
That was not good news. It took the clock that was ticking in my mind and bolted it to the wall in front of us. Twelve hours to make sense of the senseless, to solve a puzzle whose shape and meaning was completely unknown to us.
Swell.
Right around the time I wondered if we were doing any damn good at all, like maybe we should turn jurisdiction of this case over to a more competent group—say, the Cub Scouts or a group of mimes—Bug interrupted with a news update.
“What do you have?” asked Church.
“Nothing good.”
“Can I go home?” I asked. Church ignored me.
Bug said, “Our field lab in Virginia finished their preliminary examination of the mercenaries Shockwave ran into this morning. There’s absolutely no doubt about it … they’re Berserkers.”
We’d all been expecting that. Absolutely sucked, though.
“But here’s the kicker,” continued Bug, “we had a molecular biologist and two pathologists examine the bodies, and our field investigators did a load of interviews with family and known associates of the dead Berserkers. And … these guys are new to the whole mutant supersoldier job description. They were all normal eight to ten months ago, but there’s no way they were part of the Berserker team at the Dragon Factory. We’re running background checks on them, and so far we’ve proven that three of them were in the military on overseas deployment during the raid on Dogfish Cay. So … bottom line? Someone’s making new Berserkers.”
Chapter Seventy-one
Grand Hyatt Hotel
109 East Forty-second Street
New York City
Sunday, August 31, 4:17 p.m.
Violin had accompanied Junie back to the hotel and followed the DMS agents from room to room, making sure that everything was secure. Then, when they were positioned out in the hallway, Violin checked the suite again, this time scanning it with a small electronic device she produced from her bag. Once she determined that the room was truly secure, she and Junie sat on the couch and watched the news. They had some food sent up, which Violin again checked using a small chemical analyzer. They drank wine. They watched horrors on TV. They did not hear from Joe Ledger.
Finally, Violin stood up and reached for her bag, removed her cell phone, went into the bathroom, turned on the shower, and called her mother.
“What is it?” That was how her mother usually answered the phone. Lilith was not known for social graces.
“You are aware of what is happening in America?”
“Of course I am, girl,” snapped Lilith. “Do you think I’ve gone blind?”
Violin let that pass. “The Deacon’s people are being stretched dangerously thin.”
“So?”
“So, I would like to offer them our help.”
“
Our
help or
your
help?”
“Mine, if we have no one else here in the States.”
Lilith paused. “It is my understanding that Captain Ledger is in love with another woman.”
“Yes,” said Violin.
“Make sure that your motives are quite clear, girl.”
“Yes, Mother.”
“Don’t ‘Yes, Mother’ me.”
“Sorry.”
“And don’t say you’re sorry. If you truly want to help then I will clear it with the Deacon. But you’ll go where he needs you, not where you think you should be.”
“Of course, Mother.”
“‘Of course.’ God, save me from fools in love.”
Lilith ended the call.
Violin waited until the burning red was gone from her face before she left the bathroom. Junie was right there and she pushed abruptly past her and swung the door shut. Violin could hear the woman gagging and then the flush of the toilet. Water ran in the sink for a long time, and when Junie came out her face was flushed.
“Chemo?” asked Violin, realizing at once how awkward a question it was.
Junie shook her head. “It’s okay. I’m fine.”
“Very well,” said Violin uncertainly. She turned away, checked her equipment, and moved toward the door.
“You’re leaving?” asked Junie, surprised.
“Yes.” Violin nodded to the carnage on the TV. “I am going to see if I can help with this.”
“What can you do? They don’t even know where this Mother Night person is.”
“Well, I can’t very well sit around here all night, can I?”
Junie and she studied each other for a long, long time. “Violin,” she said softly, “Joe cares very much for you. He really does. We both do.”
Violin said nothing.
“I hope we can be friends.” When Violin still didn’t answer, Junie said, “Stay safe.”
Violin simply nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She closed the door quietly behind her as she left.
Chapter Seventy-two
The Hangar
Floyd Bennett Field
Brooklyn, New York
Sunday, August 31, 4:36 p.m.
“Who has the capability of making new Berserkers?” asked Rudy.
“Theoretically, anyone,” said Hu. “The Jakobys cracked the science. Any lab with the capability to perform gene therapy can replicate their processes if they have the notes.”
“And if they don’t?”
Hu shrugged. “The Jakobys were so advanced because they used their Pangaea computer system to steal research data from hundreds of other labs around the world. They were, in fact, standing on everyone else’s shoulders, and that allowed them to reach higher. Reusing their science is one thing; rediscovering it would take years. Conservative guess, ten to twenty.”
“Then we can reasonably conclude that someone has stolen their science, yes?” suggested Rudy. Hu and Church both nodded. “I think we—”
Before he could finish, Nikki appeared on the big screen and gave us the latest information about the crimes happening across the country. Mother Night was not slackening off. We stared in abject horror at what was happening. Murders by skinny kids in anarchist hoodies and Doc Martens, and murders by guys who looked like defensive linemen. The release of a quick-onset Ebola in an Indian restaurant in San Antonio.
Three more backpack bombs. At a flower show in Jacksonville: an estimated seventy dead and three times that many wounded. At a wedding on the beach in Malibu: twenty-eight dead. At a playground in Gary, Indiana, where a bunch of teenagers were playing pick-up basketball: thirty-four dead and wounded.
And more.
Much more. Beatings. Molotov cocktails thrown through windows in upscale neighborhoods in Connecticut and low-rent trailer homes in New Jersey. Random stabbings. More attacks in restaurants by Berserkers.
We watched in horror, but we were not idle.
Church and Aunt Sallie were on the phone, dispatching DMS teams to hotspots, especially those where a suspected bioweapon was being employed. Soon, though, we were stretched so thin that Church began splitting the teams, and then splitting them again. In California there were seven two- and three-person teams rolling out to cover situations where we would normally insert two full teams. SWAT, FBI hostage rescue, ATF, and Homeland’s various task forces were also being pushed to the limits. Every biological disaster team in the country was in play. Ordinary police were stretched just as thin, working crowds at each of the crime scenes, and establishing unbreakable perimeters around every site where a biohazard was known or suspected.
It became unreal. It was like running around putting Band-Aids on leaks on a sinking ship when God only knew what was happening below the water line. As we worked to move assets into place, we fought to carve out a few seconds to analyze these new attacks. We worked with limited information, relying on experience, intuition, and guesswork.
Minutes and then hours burned away. It was nearly dawn when we caught enough of a breather to go back to trying to assemble our puzzle.
“Dr. Sanchez,” said Church, “yesterday, when we were discussing the stolen Berserker technology, you were going to make a point. What was it?”
“Was I?” Rudy rubbed his eye, which was red and puffy. “Yes, yes … God, I’m exhausted.” He cleared his throat, looking grainy and old. “It wasn’t about the Berserkers per se. It’s just that we’ve been dealing with so many events over the last twenty-four hours that I’ve begun to wonder how much of that has been orchestrated to have the effect it’s been having. By that I mean we are being distracted from a simple progression of logic.”
Church twirled his finger in a go-ahead gesture.
“I’m no statistician, but it seems improbably ponderous to me to believe that a single group like Mother Night’s could rediscover the Jakoby science for the Berserkers, reinvent pathogens like the
seif-al-din
and quick-onset Ebola, build a microchip like Vox’s, and develop a computer comparable to MindReader.”
“Well, damn,” I said, “when you say it like that—”
“I agree, Dr. Sanchez,” said Church, “the timetable for development is as improbable as it is to assume they’ve merely come up with bioweapons and technologies coincidentally similar to those the DMS has faced.”