“Your mind is not in the game, Doc,” Muhammad growled after she finished her last grouped shots.
Circe cleared and benched the gun. There was no one else on the range, but the proper etiquette had become ingrained. You earned a sharp rebuke only once from Muhammad, and you never forgot it. On her second day at T-Town Circe had stepped past the firing line before all of the other shooters had declared their weapons benched. Muhammad read her the riot act in front of everyone and he was thorough about it. Then he made her stay an extra hour and practice the rules of handgun safety, shouting out each step no matter who was firing. The lesson sank in.
She pulled off her ear defenders. “Lot on my mind tonight, Chief.”
“You haven’t scored this low since your first month.”
She looked downrange as the target moved toward her on a pulley. She had fired all fifteen rounds from a Glock 22. She was not a brilliant shooter, but she was a competent and consistent one, usually putting eleven rounds out of each magazine into the kill zone of a suspended target fifteen yards away. At twenty-five yards she lost a bit of her accuracy if firing fast, but in a slow fire drill she was a very good shot.
Muhammad folded his arms and leaned against the wall of the shooting stall.
“Why do you practice with a handgun?”
She almost sighed. This was one of the Chief ’s ritual questions.
“To save my life and the lives of those in my charge.”
“How do you accomplish this?”
“By hitting what I aim at with focus, speed, and commitment.”
“Uh-huh. So tell me, Doc, what part of that sounds like ‘I got too much on my mind’?”
“Nothing, Chief.”
“Very well. Bring your gear.”
When he said that it only meant one thing: the combat range.
Circe regretted coming out to the range this late. She had wanted to work off some nervous energy and blow holes in the wild theories that were forming in her mind. Bringing her problems to the range had been foolish.
She gathered up her gear, making sure to do each step of gun safety exactly the right way even though Chief Muhammad did not appear to be watching. She ran to catch up with him and followed him down a long and windy cinder-block corridor. The block walls were filled in with tightly packed dirt to catch ricochets, and the corridors smelled like a graveyard.
They came out into the maze of T-Town’s eighteen combat ranges. Each one was designed to allow operatives to train for different kinds of circumstances: city street, subway, airplane, airport, business, government office, house, and others.
Muhammad chose the shortest of the ranges, a mom-and-pop corner store. Circe knew that there were nine Pepper Poppers—metal silhouette targets that could be positioned throughout the range and operated by remote control. They were hinged at the bottom so that they could swing up on fast spring releases or fall back after being shot. At least four of the targets would be hostiles, the rest designated as “possible” noncombatants. The “possible” part was crucial, because in the War on Terror the enemy didn’t wear uniforms or team shirts.
“How many mags, Chief?”
Muhammad grinned. He took a magazine from her pack, thumbed four rounds out, and handed it over. “Eleven rounds. Best intel says four hostiles. Could be five. That gives you two per and three for luck.”
“I never did this with less than two full magazines.”
He shrugged. “Life sucks sometimes. What if a situation turned out to be bigger and badder than you expected? You want to read a rule book at a hostile? Think that’ll win the day, Doc?”
“No, Chief.”
“Now, you run this range and I don’t want to hear from jams, tripping over your shoelaces, or a text message from your friends. You run it like you know how to run it and keep your head in the fucking game. You read me, Dr. O’Tree?”
She had never been in the military, but she snapped to attention. “I read you, Chief.”
“Then it’s time to go to work.”
Muhammad put a wooden matchstick between his teeth and walked off the range and into the steel observation bunker. There was a warning buzzer announcing a live fire exercise and the lights in the store came on.
Circe called, “Loading!” She slapped the magazine into the Glock and racked the slide, keeping the barrel pointed into the range, her finger along the trigger guard. Muhammad’s words from their very first training session echoed in her mind.
Shake hands with the grip. Snug but comfortable. Get to know the weight. Fit the handle into the vee formed by the thumb and index finger of the shooting hand as high as possible on the backstrap. Your strong hand holds and fires; your weak hand completes the grip and supports.
Muhammad’s amplified voice growled from a speaker, “Ready on the firing line!”
Circe could feel her heart hammering, but she took several deep breaths to relax her mind and muscles.
Muhammad spoke from her memories: Breath control minimizes body movement and that in turn reduces handgun movement.
“Go!”
Circe kicked in the door and entered fast, sliding to one side and bringing her gun up in a two-handed grip, the sights level with her eyes.
Aim with your dominant eye when shooting a handgun. Even if you’re right-handed it does not mean that you are right-eyed dominant. Learn your body and work with it in the most natural way.
A target pivoted toward her. A teenager in a Brooklyn T-Shirt and jeans, but he was pulling a pistol from his belt. Circe shot him in the chest and again in the face.
Tap-Tap!
Squeeze the trigger in a natural and continuous way. Never jerk the trigger.
Another target sprang up from behind a row of canned goods. An old man holding something. A bag of groceries. Both hands visible. No weapon. She spun as she caught sight of movement to her left. A man with an automatic weapon.
Tap-Tap!
Follow through. Apply the shooting fundamentals continuously. Sloppy is dead. Let the process keep you alive.
She saw the shadow of another and was aiming as she turned, checking her target in a split part of a second.
Tap-Tap!
The afterimage of a hand grenade floated in her mind as she stepped and turned and covered high and low, tracking with her eyes. She shuffled sideways to put two rows between her and a grenade blast. There was a bang, and wet confetti filled the air. None of it landed on her.
Then the lights went out and something brushed her. She whirled and faded left, looking for ambient light, seeing a glow splash across the face of a man with a smiling face, but the glow washed down across his chest. Shotgun.
Tap-Tap!
Two targets came up together. Another teenager and a housewife. The teenager wore a sweatshirt with the name of the store. The woman stood behind him, one hand out of sight. The kid’s eyes were scared and painted so that he looked nervously back at Circe. It was an almost impossible shot in the dark. She took it.
Tap-Tap!
Four hostiles down. Three rounds left. The lights came on—no, just the emergency lights. Weak and yellow. She turned at movement, saw a woman with a stroller. Lingered for a moment, looking for a trap. No gun, no bomb. Circe moved forward, turning left and right, checking her corners, checking behind her.
There! A figure rose from behind the counter. Big fat guy holding another shotgun. Circe turned, aimed.
Did not fire.
The man looked like an older version of the kid in the sweatshirt. Father? Uncle. The owner, defending his store against the attack. Circe kept the pistol on him.
“Drop your weapon! Do it now—now!”
The shopkeeper silhouette dropped back.
And the lights came on.
“Clear and lock!”
Circe stepped out of her shooter’s crouch, turning to keep the barrel clear of the entrance. She eased the hammer down, removed the magazine, and ejected the round from the chamber. She held up the locked and empty weapon.
r />
“Clear!”
Muhammad hit the button for the exit door to open and she stepped out, placing her weapon on the courtesy bench. Her ears were ringing and her hand tingled from the heavy recoil.
“Well, well, well,” said Muhammad, smiling around the wooden matchstick. “You’re not dead, Doc. Congratulations.”
“I almost shot that last target.”
He shook his head. “You didn’t. We don’t worry about ‘almost’ any more than we worry about any other distraction. Combat purifies thinking.”
It was one of his most common aphorisms, and she nodded, repeating it softly.
“Now,” he said, “it’s comforting to know that you can bring your game when you need to. Next time you’re on my range I want you to remember that. I don’t ever want to see bullshit scores like you took back there. You read me?”
“Loud and clear, Chief.”
Muhammad smiled and wiggled the matchstick up and down. “Okay, let’s agree that your ass has been kicked. Now, Doc … what the hell’s got you so bent out of shape?”
“It’s complicated, but …” She hesitated, unsure how to begin.
“With what you do? No kidding.” He wore a crooked smile as he shoved his hands into his back pockets. “I believe that it’s Miller time. Let’s go someplace and talk this out.”
“You don’t drink.”
“Bars serve coffee. I’ll watch you drink.”
She still hedged. “You’ll think I’m crazy.”
“And that’ll change our relationship how?” He clapped her on the shoulder. “C’mon, Doc. Crazy one buys the first round.”
They sat in the T-Town canteen, huddled together in a private corner. She drank white wine; he drank hot tea. She told him everything that she had found online, and she told him all of her speculations.
Chief Petty Officer Abdul Muhammad did not think she was crazy. “I can see it,” he said after careful thought. “On both sides of this thing there are enough hotheads ready to pull a trigger or throw a firebomb, and that’s as true now as it was during the Crusades and maybe back to Moses and the Pharaoh.”
“What do you think about the Protocols and all that?”
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.”
Chapter Twenty-four
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. Stankeviius 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.
Chapter Twenty-five
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 o
ff 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.”