Circe and I cut across the brown lawn and mounted the three steps to the stone porch. All of the houses on the street were decorated for Christmas. I noticed that Taylor’s was, too, but the work was sloppy. Lights strung crookedly, window decorations put up in haste. Circe noticed it, too.
“Nerves,” she said quietly. “Probably trying to fake it for the kids.”
I knocked on the door and waited. Nothing happened, so I tapped again.
“Joe,” Circe said without moving her lips, “the curtain moved, someone’s—”
“I know. Smile and look helpful.”
“Who are you?” a voice demanded from behind the door.
“Federal agents, Mrs. Taylor. Department of Homeland Security.”
“Prove it!”
I held up my ID so anyone looking through the peephole could see it. Then I removed my wallet and showed my driver’s license to prove the name matched. There was a picture in the adjoining glassine compartment. Grace.
“How do I know you’re who you say you are?”
“Do you still have the number you called?”
A pause. “Yes.”
“Call them. Ask for a description of the agent they sent. My name is Joseph Edwin Ledger. My partner here is Dr. Circe O’Tree. Have whoever you talk to describe us.”
“Okay. But if you try to force the door I’ll—”
She cut herself off before finishing the sentence. She didn’t know what she would do. I don’t think she had a gun or she would have threatened us with it. Scared people often do.
We waited. I could hear her speaking to someone, but her voice was muffled. All I could make out was “yes,” repeated several times.
“Okay, they gave me two questions to ask you.”
“Hit me.”
“What is your cat’s name?”
“Cobbler. And my dog, who is watching the house right now, is Ghost.”
“That wasn’t the other question. The man said to ask you what he called you when you first met.”
“He said I was a world-class smart-ass. He’s right, too. I hold several international records.”
I actually heard a short laugh from behind the door.
“Okay … I’m going to open the door.”
We waited and I could imagine the woman taking a steadying breath, trying to muster the optimism to trust the moment. She had her kids in there. If Santoro had done to her what he had done to Dr. Grey, the images of her children as victims of the Spaniard’s knife—as his angels—would be overwhelming.
The lock clicked. I traded a look with Circe. She looked as wired as I felt.
The door opened an inch and we saw a single terrified eye. Bright blue and filled with a kind of profound dread that should never be in any human’s eyes, let alone a parent’s.
“We’re here to help,” said Circe softly.
A tear welled in the corner of that bright blue eye.
“Don’t let them hurt my babies,” she begged.
I smiled—and I don’t know if it was the Cop or the Warrior who shaped that smile—and said, “Not a chance.”
Interlude Thirty-two
Crown Island
One Month Ago
“It’s done.”
The Goddess smiled into the phone. “Ah, lovely boy, I never had a doubt. Was it difficult?”
“Toys whined about it,” Gault said, “but it was more than worth it. We’ll be in Cairo in two hours and back there before this hits the news services.”
“Hurry home to me, Sebastian,” Eris purred. “I want you here. In my arms. Inside of me.”
“If I could sprout wings, my love,” he murmured, “I’d already be in the air. Oops, the cab is here. Got to go. I’ll call you when I land in Toronto. Have fun on the Internet.”
“Oh, I will. By this time next month the Inner Circle will be rending their garments and beating their chests.”
“Don’t forget gnashing their teeth and wailing. The gnashing and wailing is such a kick.”
They were both laughing as they disconnected.
Interlude Thirty-three
Regent Beverly Wilshire
Beverly Hills, California
One Month Ago
Charles Osgood Harrington III disliked speaking on the phone. Most of his calls were taken by various assistants and secretaries. His cell phone had a private number given to a very select handful of people. Even his son didn’t have it. Which Harrington considered a good business move since his son, Charles Osgood Harrington IV—known as C-Four to everyone from the police to the national media—was a good-for-nothing waste of time.
So when his cell phone rang Harrington assumed that it was one of that small circle from whom he was always happy to take a call.
“Charlie,” said a breathless voice.
“Carl?”
H. Carlton Milhaus was a very old and very dear friend, and an associate in a number of business deals in the Middle East.
“Jesus, Charlie … have you read your e-mail? The club e-mail.”
“No.”
“Log on, for Christ’s sake. We all got it. Call me later. I think we need to meet.”
Milhaus would not explain, so Harrington switched on his computer and when it was ready he used an ultrasecure log-on to access the e-mail account shared by the twenty-one members of his private club.
Harrington spotted the e-mail at once. The sender was listed as Private. The subject read: To the House of Bones.
Harrington licked his lips and opened the e-mail. It read:
The tomb of the Pharaoh’s son has been open.
The firstborn son of Pharaoh fell to the wrath of Heaven.
To defy Heaven’s will is to feel divine wrath.
Woe to the firstborn sons of the House of Bones.
The Angel of Death rises again.
The Angel of Death left its seed in the flesh of the Pharaoh’s son.
Science, the new magic, will raise the Tenth Death from the Dust.
“My god!” Harrington gasped. He reached for his cell and called Carlton Milhaus. Forty minutes later Harrington was aboard his private helicopter, hurtling through the skies toward a meeting with the other twenty members of the Inner Circle of the Skull and Bones Society.
Chapter Forty-seven
Jenkintown, Pennsylvania
December 19, 1:49 P.M. EST
Amber Taylor was thirty-five but looked older. Living under the terrible stress of the Spaniard’s threats had aged her, chopped sharp edges into her face and made her look like a refugee from a war-torn country. In a very real sense, I suppose she was.
“Where are your children?” Circe asked as soon as we were inside.
“In the basement playroom,” Taylor said quickly, but as she said it she took a reflexive step to stand between us and the door to the cellar. “They’re watching a video. They … don’t know.”
I glanced around. We stood in a short entry hall. There was a tall faux Ming vase from which a hockey stick, a pool cue, and a baseball bat sprouted. She caught my look. “In case,” she said.
The woman had grit.
Circe guided Taylor into the living room. “Mrs. Taylor,” she said quickly, “we are going to help you. Captain Ledger has his team coming. They’ll be here any minute. They are military Special Forces and they can protect you and your children from anyone.”
Taylor did not look immediately relieved.
“He said that they would know if I left work, or … picked up the kids. Or anything. He said that they were always watching. He showed me pictures. From here. From inside the house—”
“Don’t worry about that anymore. I set up a jammer. They’re not seeing a thing.”
“He’ll know that I did something.” The fear in her voice was like a poison fog that clung to the air around her. I hoped like hell the Spaniard would show up. There were a few things I’d like to discuss with him. And then I wanted to rip his fucking lungs out.
“‘He’?” Circe asked. “Do yo
u mean the man who threatened you?”
“Yes.”
“What can you tell us about him?”
She described what we already knew. A compactly built man wearing dark clothes and a mask, and who spoke with a Spanish accent. The rest of her story echoed the same horrors we got from Grey. Threats, the knife. The photos of the angels.
“How many pictures did he show you?”
“I … I don’t …” She stopped, dabbing at her eyes while she thought about it. “Maybe twelve of each. Women, and children. Six boys, six girls. I … think they were boys and girls. It was hard to … to …” She shook her head.
Circe looked at me with eyes that were fierce and bright and wet. I could imagine the sickness and rage that she felt. Inside my own head I could feel the Warrior start to howl. Even the civilized Modern Man part of me wanted blood.
“Tell me about what they wanted you to do.”
“It was the fleas … .”
Her company was part of a group of companies working on a government-funded project to develop a lasting treatment for Yersinia pestis. Although the plague was rare these days, there were still cases of it, and there was always the risk of terrorists weaponizing a strain. It was the same argument that justified the testing of Ebola at FIRE.
It was hard to accept it and hard to knock it down, because weaponized bubonic plague would truly be a terrible weapon and one that would be easy enough to distribute. Releasing infected fleas into widespread and uncontrolled animal populations, particularly rats, would do it. Antibiotics could be used to fight the disease, but an outbreak would create panic and would be hard to stop once started. Especially if the rats that were infested with the plague fleas were introduced in areas with large homeless and poverty-level populations. Her company was testing the latest strains of the bacteria on rat subspecies found in the subway systems of Philadelphia and New York. There were enough infected fleas at Strauss & Strauss to begin a medium-scale epidemic.
“That’s what they wanted me to do. Go into the lab and take canisters of fleas and then drop one in each of ten stations on the Broad Street Line and ten on the Market-Frankford Line.”
“There would be a fairly long lag time between that and an outbreak,” said Circe. “How would they know if you had done what they asked?”
“They said to release fleas in the staff room. Into coats and gloves, scarves, boots.”
“But you did not do that,” prompted Circe.
Taylor shook her head. “I … almost did.”
“What stopped you?”
“There was a video. From a doctor working with Homeland.”
“Dr. Bishop?” I suggested, and she nodded. Score one for Church.
“They said that once I did that they would know right away.”
“Did what? Release the fleas at work?”
“Yes.”
“Which means that there was someone else at your office?”
“Yes. I got messages sometimes. Little reminders.” She described finding notes with words like “watching” and “everywhere” and some with the kids’ names on them. It was a lot like what Dr. Grey had experienced.
Fresh tears broke from Taylor’s eyes. “He said that no matter how long it would take, they would come after my babies. Can you really keep them safe?”
She was so convinced that her own life was over that she only asked about her kids. It was admirable, but it was also interesting in that from a detached point of view it was clear that her own life meant nothing compared to her kids’ lives. I know that parents will die for their kids, but I believed I was seeing a hint of the precise kind of mental-emotional configuration that had to exist in people targeted by the Spaniard.
I heard Ghost bark once. Short and sharp.
Not a danger warning. I smiled. I knew what that meant.
There was a knock on the door.
I said, “The cavalry has arrived.”
Chapter Forty-eight
The Hangar, DMS HQ
Floyd Bennett Field
Brooklyn, NY
December 19, 1:51 P.M. EST
“Deacon?”
“Hugo,” said Church. “Do you have something for me?”
“Maybe. I just got off the phone with Marty Hanler. I’ve been trying to get him to join the think tank, maybe kick the group in the ass a bit, ’cause without him the only things they’ve come up with are ‘jack’ and ‘shit.’”
“He won’t leave Margie for that long. Between the surgery and the chemo—”
“I know. But with all that’s going on I thought it was worth a shot. Anyway, he told me something disturbing and I recommended that he call you.”
“What is it?”
Vox told him.
“That’s disturbing,” agreed Church. “Very disturbing.”
“What are you going to do about it?”
“Captain Ledger is in the area. I’ll have him meet and debrief Marty.”
“Ledger’s back in the game?”
“Yes.”
“Glad to hear it. That boy’s a demon.”
Church did not comment on that. Instead he said, “Circe is with him.”
Vox whistled. “That’s an interesting pair.”
Church made no comment and ended the call.
Chapter Forty-nine
Jenkintown, Pennsylvania
December 19, 2:15 P.M. EST
The two people at the door did not look like soldiers or terrorists. They wore long coats and felt hats. Each one of them carried a valise and wore a bright smile.
“Have you heard the word of God today?” asked the shorter of the two, a blonde woman with ice blue eyes.
“Have you been saved?” asked the other, a black man with scars on his face. He handed me a copy of The Watchtower.
“Well, hallelujah,” I said, and stepped back to let DeeDee and Top enter the Taylor household. I checked the street and saw that it was empty. No sign of Echo Team’s vehicle.
As I closed the door, Top said, “We’re parked two blocks over; engine’s running for when you give the word. We have the TacV.”
“Deployment?”
“John Smith’s on the roof of a house down the street. Khalid’s spotting for him. Bunny’s at the wheel waiting on your word.”
Circe and Amber Taylor had come into the entrance foyer.
“Mrs. Taylor, this is DeeDee Whitman and Bradley Sims. They are part of my team and they will be escorting you and your children to a secure location.”
“Just the two of them? He said that they—”
“We have the whole team with us, ma’am,” said Top. He had a deep voice and a fatherly tone. “And at need we can bring a world of trouble down on anyone who tries to hurt you or yours. Count on it.”
She looked into his eyes, searching him, reading him. She must have found something to believe in, because she suddenly threw her arms around his barrel chest and hugged him fiercely. He stroked her hair as she sobbed.
Top inspires that kind of confidence in people. I don’t.
DeeDee stepped aside and touched her ear jack. “Scream Queen to Dancing Duck, how’s the weather?” She listened. “Okay … copy that.”
“What have you got?” I asked quietly.
“Zips in the wires, Boss,” she said. “A white van just drove past Bunny and turned onto this street.” She knelt and fished something out of her valise. It wasn’t a religious tract. She handed me a tiny earbud and a booster unit. I clipped the booster to my belt and screwed the bug in my ear. “Team on one, Command on two.”
She also handed me three extra magazines and I stuffed them into my pockets. DeeDee had an M4 slung under her coat.
I tapped the bud once. “Echo, Echo, Cowboy on deck. Call signs here on out.”
I heard Bunny say, “Welcome to the jungle, Boss.”
“Sit rep.”
“One white van, two in the front, unknown in the back.”
“Got it,” said Khalid. Smith wouldn’t comment. He hard
ly ever speaks. “We have two hostiles on foot in the back alley. Hold on. Make that four hostiles. Two heading northeast. Two coming from the west. Van has stopped. Counting hostiles. Looks like the driver and one other only.”
“Six?” complained Bunny. “That ain’t even a fight.”
“Keep it tight, Green Giant,” scolded Top.
“We need someone with a pulse,” I said. “I’m in the mood for a conversation.”
“Hooah,” they said.
I turned to Circe and Taylor. “Go get the kids. DeeDee, go with them. Quick and quiet. Do it now. Just coats and gloves. Don’t stop for anything else.”
I tapped the earbud and called Khalid. “Dancing Duck, did they leave anyone at the van?”
“Negative, Cowboy. Driver and the other are walking along the street. They’re passing your Explorer. Wait; hold on. Shit. The driver put his palm on the hood to feel for engine heat. They’re drawing guns.”
“Chatterbox,” I said.
“Got ’em.”
I hurried to the window and looked out just in time to see both of the men stagger backward and fall into the hedges that lined the street near where I’d parked. Less than a second, two perfect head shots. No sound at all. I couldn’t tell where the shots had come from, but Smith was the hammer of God up to 350 yards.
I turned at the sound of commotion and saw DeeDee herding Taylor and her kids out the cellar door.
“What’s happening? What’s going on?” the kids demanded. Then they saw Top and me standing in the foyer. Top had shed his disguise. Under the topcoat he wore black fatigues, body armor, and belts from which were slung the kinds of weapons most people only see on TV or in movies.