Read The King of Plagues Online

Authors: Jonathan Maberry

The King of Plagues (16 page)

He sipped his tea. “What, do I think that there are radical Jews out there planning the downfall of the free world?” He shrugged. “Yeah, probably. Just like there are radical Muslims, Buddhists, Lutherans, and Hindus. There’s radical everything. That’s why there’s always a war somewhere. But if you’re asking if I think that these Web posts are being made by a vast secret society of Jews, then no. I don’t buy that for a moment.”
Interstate Route 95 South
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
December 18, 5:37 A.M. EST
Dr. Rudy Sanchez hurried through the terminal, collected his suitcase, and picked up the late-model Ford. His annoyance at having been sent back to the States before even setting foot in England had long since passed, replaced by a growing sense of unease about the man named Nicodemus.
Once he was on the road in Pennsylvania, Rudy called Mr. Church.
“Bug called me a few minutes ago,” Rudy explained. “We had another call from the psychiatrist at Graterford. Have you read the transcript?”
“No, and I can’t read it now. Give me the highlights.”
Rudy did. When he was finished, Church said, “He actually mentioned the Kings?”
“His exact words, as Dr. Stankevi
ius recited them to me, were: ‘Lo! And behold the rise of the Seven Kings. All shall fall before them!’”
“Interesting,” murmured Church. “I’ll see that and raise you one.” He told Rudy about the Kings symbol on Plympton’s door and the reference in the note the man had left in his murdered wife’s hand.
“What does it all mean?”
“I would give a lot to be able to answer that question, Doctor. Maybe you can coax some answers out of Nicodemus.”
“I hope so, but I’m not optimistic. Nicodemus is supposed to be in isolation, without TV or newspaper privileges, and yet he’s making references to the London Hospital and the Seven Kings. He shouldn’t be able to get outside information.”
“You question the likelihood of an information leak in a
prison
?” Church said. “That’s almost funny.”
“Almost,” Rudy agreed sourly. He absently wondered what Mr. Church would look like laughing. Rudy had never seen the man do anything more than smile, and even then the emotion looked unwelcome and unwanted on his features. “Someone at the prison must be feeding him information, and I doubt they’re doing it just so he can stick pins in the prison therapist.”
“While you’re there, don’t assume trust in anyone, and that includes the prison doctor and the warden.”
Rudy sighed. “It’s sad that paranoia has become an indispensable quality of good job performance here in the DMS. I’m finding it very hard to trust anyone.”
“It’s not paranoia if they really
are
out to get you,” said Church.
Rudy thought,
Why is it you only have a sense of humor when things are really bad?
But he didn’t say it.
“I’d like your full read on Nicodemus,” said Church, “as well as any observations you care to share about the staff.”
“What do you want me to look for?”
“I’ll leave you to determine that, Doctor. I don’t want to pollute your perceptions by sharing my speculations. We can compare notes later.”
“Okay.”
“One more thing, Doctor. I’m bringing in a consultant. Dr. Circe O’Tree. Are you familiar with her?”
“Not personally, but I know her work. I’ve seen her on TV, read her books. The new one,
The Terrorist Sophist,
should be required reading by everyone in the DMS. She makes some very important points on how terrorists rationalize what they do. She’s rather brilliant.”
“Yes. She’s also being largely wasted working as Hugo Vox’s assistant. I think she has more potential than Hugo gives her credit for. Do you have a problem with her consulting on this?”
“God, no. In fact, I welcome her insight.”
“Good. She’s already agreed and it’s our good fortune that she is currently in London working on another matter.”
He disconnected.
Rudy made the turn from I-95 to 476 West. He turned on the news and listened to the latest rehash of the London disaster. Nothing new, so he dialed through Sirius until he found a Mexican ska band, cranked the sound way up, and put the pedal down. As a driver, Rudy was usually careful to the point where Joe called him Tia when he was behind the wheel. He wasn’t feeling like an old aunt right now. As Joe was so fond of saying, the clock was ticking.
Whitechapel
London, England
December 18, 11:21 A.M. GMT
When Ghost and I came out of the apartment complex the street was crowded with police vehicles, ambulances, and a variety of nondescript government cars that were probably licensed to the various counterterrorism teams I’d met yesterday. Lots of stone-faced guys with wires behind their ears were watching up and down the street while local cops struggled to keep the crowd well back. Everyone looked scraped raw by the unrelenting winds.
I saw a limo idling down the street, well out of the press and angled for a quick departure. The driver gave the headlights a quick flash, so I headed that way, at times having to be ungentle with the rubberneckers who thronged the bystreet. By the time I reached it the driver—in the form of the squat and muscular Sgt. Gus Dietrich—had gotten out and stood by the rear passenger door. Not sure what Dietrich’s job description was with the DMS. He was gruff, tough, honest, and as dependable as the bulldog that he closely resembled.
“Good to see you, Captain.” He offered me a rock-hard hand.
“Skip the ‘Captain’ crap, Gus. Good to see you, too. Wish it was under better circumstances.”
“Ha! Let me know when those ‘better circumstances’ roll around, Joe. I’ll take the day off and go get a massage. In the meantime … good luck with this one. It’s going to be a real nut buster.”
He opened the door and we climbed inside, happy to be out of the vicious cold. I slid onto the bench seat and Dietrich closed the door and ran around to climb behind the wheel. There were two men on the opposite seat. One big, one small, neither smiling fuzzy-bunny warmth at me.
Guy on the left was Mr. Church. He was north of sixty, but he made it look like a fit forty. Blocky, hard, with big hands and a face you wouldn’t want to see across a poker table from you. Tinted sunglasses even in the backseat of the limo. He gave me a fraction of a nod and there was no expression at all on his face.
The other guy was a gangly, gawky collection of awkward limbs and comprehensive disapproval. Dr. William Hu, chief of scientific research for the DMS. He had a Mongol face, an Einstein brain, the pop-culture sensibilities of Joss Whedon, but the compassion of a ghoul. When I’d first joined the Department of Military Sciences I tried real hard to like him, but that got to be an expensive hobby. He didn’t burn up any calories trying to warm up to me, either.
“Captain Ledger,” Hu said in exactly the same way you might say “painful rectal itch.”
“Dr. Hu,” I said, meeting him on the same ground.
We didn’t shake hands.
Ghost sniffed the hand Church extended, gave the fingertips a tiny lick, and then sat back. Then Ghost turned and eyed Hu like he was a steak dinner. Hu never attempted to touch Ghost. Hu was an asshole, but he wasn’t stupid.
Gus Dietrich put it in gear and the limo pulled away from the curb like we were fleeing the scene of a crime. I grabbed an armrest to keep from falling out of my seat. “Where are we going?”
“Scotland,” said Church. “Specifically Fair Isle. Shetland Islands, in the North Sea, very remote, ultrahigh security. A chopper’s waiting.”
“Why? Has there been another attack?”
“More complicated than that. Short answer is that there is a situation at a viral research station there. A staff member is holding the rest of the employees hostage.”
“Why?”
“Unknown.”
“He connected to the Kings?”
“To be determined.”
“Working alone?”
“Possibly. It’s the impression he’s conveyed so far. Uses ‘I’ and ‘me’ rather than ‘we.’”
“Demands?”
“Aside from the usual precautionary requirements—keep our distance, don’t try anything, et cetera—he’s asked to speak to a representative of Homeland Security.”
“Homeland? Does this guy know he’s in Scotland?”
“He’s American,” said Hu. “Baker and Schloss lease half of the island from the Brits.”
“Baker and Schloss? The male enhancement company?”
Hu grinned. “Yeah, the pecker pill people. They’re a medium-sized pharmaceutical company with a board made up of American, British, German, and French members. Majority stockholders are the Baker family of Martha’s Vineyard. Old money. The male enhancement drug put them on the public radar, but they make their real money from government contracts.”
“For what? Enhanced soldiers?”
“Viral research,” said Church.
“What kind? Germ warfare?”
“Nobody uses that term anymore,” Hu said haughtily. “Baker and Schloss has government contracts for tactical-response bio-agents. TRBs.”
“Which means what?” I asked.
“Germ warfare,” said Church. “The point is that the situation is politically complicated. The title to the land is actually held by the U.S. Government. Baker and Schloss has access to it as part of their research contract.”
“Why is it in Scotland?”
Church said nothing.
“What?” I prompted.
Hu snorted. “It’s here because it’s not allowed to be in the U.S.”
I studied their faces. Church was a stone, but Hu was smiling, and he never smiled unless something unpleasant was happening. “I’m going out on a limb here and guess that it’s not allowed in the U.K., either.”
“No, it’s allowed,” said Church, “but only under the most exacting circumstances, which translates as ‘difficult and expensive.’ Those responsible for establishing this facility found it less expensive and more productive to simply move it outside of the scope of domestic regulars and congressional oversight. That itself is problematic in a variety of ugly ways. The nature of the work being done at Fair Isle contravenes half a dozen international agreements.”
“Why is it even in operation?” I demanded.
“It’s a holdover from a previous administration. And it’s one of those things that the layers of government power players fail to tell a new president.”
“How—,” I began, but he cut me off.
“There are too many secrets to tell any sitting president. At best the President can be briefed in general about the areas of research and given more complete information when the situation requires it. But the career politicians within the infrastructure have a skewed view of both ‘need to know’ and ‘plausible deniability.’ They believe they have the right to decide what the President is allowed to know, or not allowed to know.”
I knew what he was saying. As much as we don’t want to accept the truth, there were layers of government that remained in place no matter
which party held power in the White House. Shadow governments, cells and cabals, some of which believed that what they were doing was in the best interest of the American people, though in those rare cases when someone was able to shine a light on them it became pretty clear that money and the power it purchased was the only enduring motive.
“If this got out,” Church said, “it could cripple the current administration and it would almost certainly result in some kind of criminal charges for key members of the previous administration.”
I started to say something smart-ass, but he headed me off at the pass.
“This isn’t a time to collect scalps, Captain. Playing politics has hurt our country too many times. And while I agree that those responsible should be held accountable, that’s something best done quietly on our own turf. Spilling this in public would do greater harm than good. The stock market is already taking very bad hits because of the Hospital bombing; this could crash it into a depression. It would also strip the power of the United States in critical negotiations with North Korea, China, and Iran.”
“Yeah, stones and glass houses.”
He nodded.
I said, “Tell you, though … if someone wanted to do just that, this would be a good way to go about it. We have to consider that this might
be
a Seven Kings operation.”
“No! Really?” said Hu dryly.
Church adjusted his glasses. “We face three separate problems.”
“Let me see if I can guess,” I said, and ticked them off on my fingers. “First, we need to contain the situation and prevent any bugs from getting loose. Second, we need to make sure this doesn’t embarrass the ol’ U.S. of A.”
“Right. And the third?”
“We have to find out why this guy is doing this. You said he wants to talk to someone from Homeland? Not the Brits? Not the press? That’s interesting.”
“Isn’t it, though?” said Church. “He said one thing that I find particularly intriguing. He said that there’s still time to stop this.’”
“That doesn’t sound like a threat,” I said. “Maybe he’s not a bad guy. Maybe he’s just a scared guy.”
“Scared of what?” Hu asked.
“Don’t know yet. But you don’t take people hostage if you’re not scared of something. Not unless you’re in it for the money, and this doesn’t have that kind of feel.”
“Agreed,” said Church.
“Or maybe he’s part of this thing, whatever it is, and got either cold feet or an attack of conscience.”
“And if the Kings are involved we might finally have a doorway into them.”
I nodded. “Couple questions, though.”
“Go.”
“First … why me? Where the hell’s the rest of the DMS?”
“Everyone healthy enough to report for work has been scrambled and assigned to investigation or protection in the States. As for our teams here, Gog is still on the job in Prague and Magog has gone dark in Afghanistan, though that’s expected at this stage of that operation. We can’t get either of them here in time and this situation needs a shooter.”
I gave him a sour look. “Swell. Joe Ledger, gun for hire.”
“If your feelings are bruised, Captain, let me put it more delicately: this situation needs finesse.”
“Thanks, but I wasn’t about to break out in tears.”
Hu made a small grunting sound that I was free to interpret any way I wanted. I considered siccing Ghost on him.
“We do have some local assets, however,” said Church. “Barrier is sending Lionheart Team as backup.”
“I thought we had to keep the Brits out of this,” I said.
“Officially, we have to keep the British
government
out of it,” corrected Church. “Brigadier Prebble, head of Barrier’s Tactical Field Office in Scotland, is an old friend of mine. He understands our need for discretion and he’ll be meeting us in a few minutes.”
“Does Benson Childe know about this?”
“Officially, no. Unofficially, I briefed him on the matter and he advised me that Prebble’s goodwill is only going to last as far as containment. If there’s any kind of biological breach, then Prebble will disown us. As well he should.”
“As you would in the same circumstance.”
“Of course.”
The limo pulled out of traffic and through the gates of a large estate. A military helicopter was parked on the lawn behind the house, the rotors already turning, the engine whine rising to a scream.
Crown Island
St. Lawrence River, Ontario, Canada
Four Months Ago
Gault stepped out of the steaming shower and reached for a towel. It wasn’t on the rack. Instead Eris moved out of the mist and handed it to him.
Gault snatched the towel from her and pressed it to his naked, scarred face, turning half-away. But Eris moved closer still. She still wore the bikini top, but she had shed the tight pants and wore only the scraps of bright cloth that comprised the bottom of the bikini. Her body was strong and taut, with hard muscles under tanned skin.
“Let me see,” she said, touching the hand that pressed the towel to his face.
“No,” he said hoarsely.
“Don’t be a child, Sebastian,” she said in her low and smoky voice. “Neither of us is as pretty as we used to be. Life and time are monsters and they gnaw at us.”
She kissed the back of his hand and then tugged lightly at the towel.
“Please don’t …”
But Gault knew from too many years and too many encounters that Lady Eris could not be told no. She kissed his hand and tugged, and finally he yielded, as he had always yielded to her. She tossed the towel aside and touched his chin, turning his face toward her. Her sea green eyes took in everything, missed nothing. The smile on her parted lips never wavered as each of the bruises and surgical scars was revealed.
“This will heal,” she said softly.
“Not all of it.”
She touched the crow’s-feet at the corners of her eyes, then drifted her fingertips across her throat. “Neither will this. But only fools and mortals worry about these things.”
“You aged; I melted,” he said as she moved even closer. Her full breasts brushed the naked skin of his stomach. “Surely that’s proof of mortality.”
“No,” she said as she plucked the strings of her bikini. The pieces fell away except for the triangle that had covered her left breast, which was momentarily held in place by the pressure of one taut nipple against the rippled muscles of his abdomen. “No,” she said again, “we’re not mortals.”
She kissed his mouth, his cheek, the corner of his eye, her breath furnace hot against the crooked lines of his scars.
“We’re gods,” she whispered.
Gault suddenly pulled her to him, crushing her against his chest, her softness pressed to him, his hardness pressed to her, the steam swirling around them both. Her lips and hungry hands were everywhere, touching him, stroking him, guiding him toward wetness.
“Gods,” he breathed.
And then they both cried out together as two gods became one.

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