“No, I guess not. But damn you’re a spooky bastard. And, besides, I thought you said it was too dangerous for us to meet like this,” Vox said, turning to glance through the tinted windows.
“No,” said Nicodemus, “that isn’t what I told you. I said it was dangerous for us to meet.” He smiled. “Not at all the same thing.”
A wave of agony swept over Vox and he recoiled from it as from a blow, shutting his eyes, hissing through clenched teeth. Through the haze of agony he heard Nicodemus speaking.
“Do you feel it?”
“Yes, I feel it, goddamn it. It fucking hurts!”
“No. Don’t be a child, Hugo. Look through the pain. Look into its heart, see it for what it is.”
Vox was panting like a dog, each breath a labor.
“Deep inside the pain something wonderful is happening.”
“What?” gritted Vox.
The priest bent close and whispered to Vox, “You are becoming one of them.”
Them.
“Please…” he begged.
Part Two
By the Rivers Dark
All warfare is based on deception.
Hence, when able to attack, we must seem unable;
when using our forces, we must seem inactive;
when we are near, we must make the enemy believe we are far away;
when far away, we must make him believe we are near.
—SUN TZU
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The Warehouse—DMS Field Office
Baltimore, Maryland
June 15, 12:40 a.m. EST
The Department of Military Sciences maintained eleven active field offices within the continental United States. The Baltimore field office was the seventh office to be established, and it occupied a warehouse once used by a terrorist cell to prepare for the launch of a global pandemic. Mr. Church had repurposed it and outfitted it with the very latest in anti- and counterterrorism technologies. A staff of one hundred and sixty-three people worked at the Warehouse, including two full field teams, Alpha and Echo.
The TOC—Tactical Operations Center—was not as grand as the one at the main headquarters in the Hangar at Floyd Bennett Field in Brooklyn, but to Rudy Sanchez it was dazzling. The TOC was the heart of the Warehouse, a command center filled with computers and control consoles whose purpose Rudy could only guess at. He was a medical doctor and psychiatrist, but his knowledge of advanced tactical computer systems was nil. He was fine with that. Standing and watching as the technicians and officers worked gave him a chance to observe the staff under a variety of stressful conditions, and that was useful for him in his job as chief psychologist for the DMS.
At the moment, he stood with his finger hooked through the handle of a cup of coffee, watching as Circe O’Tree settled herself into the computer array that was restricted for her private use. The computers formed a three-quarter circle around a leather swivel chair, and there were plasma and holographic screens at various levels. Rudy appreciated the science fiction appearance because he knew two things about it. The first was that the presence of the most cutting-edge technology made Circe—and the other senior staff—feel powerful. They had virtually limitless research materials at their fingertips, all of it backed by the MindReader computer system. It shotgunned confidence into people like Circe. And that was the second thing Rudy knew about it: Mr. Church always provided the most sophisticated and exclusive equipment for that very reason. It was not the only reason he did that, but it was definitely there. A trait of a man who manipulated everyone around him in order to coax from them the highest possible levels of confidence, personal power, and mission excellence.
Rudy sipped his coffee. The coffee was first rate too. Everything here was, and that was part of Church’s method. Treat everyone with the highest respect, provide them with things of quality, and demonstrably respect their opinions. The result was that the DMS staff tended to operate at a level of efficiency that was statistically freakish. Rudy felt it in himself, and he knew that Joe did too. Joe’s track record of amazing field work owed as much to Church as it did to Joe’s own exceptional nature.
He leaned a hip against the curved row of computers that surrounded Circe and watched her work. She logged on to the server and went through several levels of security in order to log into the MindReader network.
“I’m in,” she announced and then patted the chair next to hers. “Have a seat. This might take some time … but don’t touch anything.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” said Rudy with a smile as he slid into the companion chair. He cupped his hands around his mug—which had the olive-drab Echo Team logo on it—and watched as Circe filled the screens with lists of data.
“What is all that?” asked Rudy.
“The materials from Joe’s flash drive.” She peered at it for a while, frowning and occasionally shaking her head. “Lot of junk here.”
“Joe said that the agent swallowed it. Stomach acids and all that…”
But Circe said nothing. She chewed her lower lip as her eyes flicked over the information, and all the time her fingers were busy on the keys.
Weapons of mass destruction and the people who chose to use them were the core of her field of study, and that field had roots buried in history, religion, folklore, literature, psychology, and other fields. It was her particular genius that she could see connections between those disparate disciplines and then collate them into a cohesive profile. She worked in silence with an expression of ferocious interest on her lovely face.
Rudy studied it too, though much of the information was highly technical data on nuclear devices. Aside from that, he was not a field agent and despite the months he’d been with the DMS, he had yet to become inured to such words as “nukes” being thrown around as if they were a normal part of everyday life. It hurt him that this was a part of his life, and more so that it was part of the lives of the people he cared about.
Then suddenly everything seemed to jolt to a stop. While Circe was opening a file filled with random surveillance photos, one image hit them both like punches to the heart.
A big man, dressed in expensive clothes, stood with his head bowed in conversation with a smaller and much younger man. The image was labeled “Hugo Vox and unknown companion.”
Vox.
“God,” murmured Circe in a small, hurt voice.
Rudy reached out to take Circe’s hand.
“No,” she said. “I’m okay.”
It was a lie, though, and they both knew it. Rudy knew it better than anyone. Whenever Vox’s name came up, Circe’s lovely face took on a haggard look, like a prisoner who had been too long away from sunlight and clean air. Aside from the damage Vox and the Seven Kings had done to the world, and the betrayal of Church, he had also been like an uncle to Circe. She had worked for him at his counterterrorism training facility, Terror Town, for years. It was Vox, rather than her own estranged father, to whom Circe went with personal and career problems. Rudy knew that the hurt and betrayal she felt would take years to heal, if it ever did.
Circe pounded the arms of her chair. “Goddamn it, Rudy! It’s not fair.”
“I know, querida. We all feel betrayed.” He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “You most of all.”
“Me and Dad.” She said this very quietly so that no one else in the TOC could hear. Even so, it made Rudy feel odd.
Dad.
Even now, after months of being a part of Circe’s life, Rudy still had a hard time connecting the austere and mysterious Mr. Church with anyone’s father. Let alone a “Dad.” Joe privately referred to Church as Daddy Darth, a phrase that would assuredly not play well with the man himself.
Circe sniffed and wiped a tear from the corner of one eye. Rudy picked up her hand and kissed it.
“I hate like all fuck to intrude on this chick-flick moment.”
They looked up to see a woman’s face smiling sourly at them from one of the holographic screens. Middle-aged, black, wearing chunky desig
ner jewelry and a Caribbean-print dashiki. Her dreadlocks were threaded with gray, and she wore granny glasses perched on her blunt nose. When she spoke, however, her accent was pure Brooklyn. Aunt Sallie, Mr. Church’s second in command.
“Don’t fret, Tía,” soothed Rudy, “you know my heart belongs only to you.”
“Nice try,” said Aunt Sallie, “but flattery won’t get you a threesome.”
“A-hem,” growled Circe softly.
Laughing, Aunt Sallie said, “Okay, kids, let’s have first impressions. Did you find anything?”
“This information is recovered from a damaged flash drive, right?” asked Circe. “This is everything?”
“Yes,” agreed Aunt Sallie.
“Do we have the actual drive in hand?”
“Ledger’s sending it.”
“And we’re absolutely sure this flash drive is genuine?”
“We’re not sure of anything.” Aunt Sallie’s eyes narrowed. “What are you thinking, girl?”
“I hesitate to use the word ‘bullshit,’ but—”
“But it fits?” finished Auntie.
Circe’s eyes were hard. “Yes.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Homa Hotel
51 Khodami Street, Vanak Square
Tehran, Iran
June 15, 9:14 a.m.
Violin nibbled a callus on her thumb while she waited for her mother to call. Oracle had forwarded her urgent request, but Lilith was always handling urgent requests. Especially now that the Red Order was so aggressively active here in Tehran. The mosque bombing, the assassinations … so many things impacted Arklight.
When her phone rang Violin jumped and dropped her cell but she darted out a hand and caught it before it struck the floor. Bad nerves, good reflexes, she thought as she punched the button. Story of my life.
“Hello, Mother.”
“I was in an important meeting, girl,” growled Lilith. “There had better be a good reason.”
No hello, no inquiry about her safety. Another part of the story of her life.
“I know you probably haven’t had time to read my field report,” began Violin, “but the mission was scrubbed.”
“By you?”
“By the client.” Violin waited for a reply, got none, so she took a breath and plunged in. “You were correct, Mother, Rasouli was looking to hire an independent hitter, but we were wrong about the target. Rasouli wasn’t gunning for Charles LaRoque.”
“Who was the target?”
“President Ahmadinejad.”
“What?”
“It wasn’t a kill. He wanted a near miss. Something to scare him and shake things up.”
Iran was involved in a very discreet internal war between Ahmadinejad and Rasouli. In public they were friends, happy and smiling for the press, always shaking hands, clearly men with a shared agenda. In truth Ahmadinejad was losing favor and losing ground and was trying to repair his position by removing key political opponents. A near assassination might wipe the smug smile off of Ahmadinejad’s face, and do so publicly. If the president showed fear—and there would be hundreds of press cameras to record every expression that crossed his face—the perceived weakness would greatly strengthen Rasouli’s position.
Lilith grunted. “What do you infer from that?”
Her mother was not asking for advice or an opinion; this was a test. It was always like that with her.
“There are two clear possibilities,” said Violin, who had been preparing her answer since Rasouli contacted her. “Both possibilities are tied to Rasouli’s political aspirations and to the offer made to him by LaRoque.”
“Tell me.”
“The first is that Rasouli is going to accept the position of Murshid and sign the Holy Agreement with LaRoque and the Red Order. Ordering a hit on Ahmadinejad would be a demonstration of his commitment. Also, he’s been very vocal in denouncing the mosque bombing and the spate of assassinations. By now he must know that the Red Order is behind all of that, and yet he hasn’t said anything. That in itself could be a message to LaRoque and the Order that he can keep their secrets.”
“And the other possibility?”
“If Rasouli is not going to sign the Agreement, then it’s likely he was going to use the bungled assassination attempt to begin the process of exposing the Red Order to the world. He would need to do this in a big way—so big, in fact, that LaRoque would not dare to have him killed. Exposing the Order could be orchestrated into a rallying cry to unite all of Islam against the West. Pretty easily, too. It would emasculate European power in the Middle East, and by association irreparably damage the United States. And it would give religion itself a shot in the arm if Rasouli exposed who and moreover what the Red Knights are. The Catholic Church, the Upierczi, the Inquisition … that could spark a true jihad that would put Catholicism and probably all Christians in the crosshairs. Islam has never been truly unified against the west, but this could do just that.”
Lilith made a small sound that might have held an ounce of approval. “Which scenario do you think is most likely?”
“I don’t know,” admitted Violin, though she hated to show uncertainty. “The first serves Rasouli directly, and his profile paints him as severely ambitious. The second would make him a hero of Islam, and although that would give him more power, it would tie him more securely to the ayatollahs. Rasouli would be a hero of the faith, and he’d have to live that role. His psych profile, however, suggests that his personal faith is more political than actual. He’s never a fundamentalist unless the cameras are rolling.” She took a breath. “We need more information before we can decide how he’s playing this.”
“Yes.”
“We do have some new information that might give us a fresh perspective,” continued Violin. “When Rasouli scrubbed the hit on Ahmadinejad, he offered me a bonus to provide security for a meeting with an American agent.”
She told her mother about the meeting in the coffee shop and about trailing Captain Ledger to his hotel.
Lilith was silent for a while and Violin could almost hear the wheels turning. It had taken Arklight seventeen months of careful work to get the right credentials in place for Violin’s team of shooters to be considered “first choice” for quiet political hits. It meant actually doing some hits, though luckily none of them had been saints. Far from it.
“I … ran a search with Oracle on Ledger,” ventured Violin. “In case he was a traitor or a suspected agent of the Red Order.”
“And—?”
“He works for St. Germaine.”
She heard a sound that sounded like a gasp; but that was impossible. Mother was far too controlled, too cold, to have such a human reaction.
“Mother—?” she prompted gently.
“Follow Ledger,” barked Lilith. “Find out what Rasouli gave him and what he knows. I don’t care how you do it, you find out.”
Before Violin could say another word the line went dead.
Violin stared at the device for several seconds, totally confused by her mother’s reaction. She set the phone down as gingerly as if it were a sleeping scorpion. Then she bent to her sniper scope and studied Joseph Ledger with intensified interest.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The Warehouse
Baltimore, Maryland
June 15, 1:05 a.m. EST
“Why is it bullshit?” demanded Aunt Sallie.
“Let’s conference in Bug,” said Circe, and a moment later the bespectacled young man was peering at them from a screen next to the one showing Aunt Sallie.
“Here’s the problem,” began Circe. “I’ve done extensive work on damaged and partial documents. If you look at the history of recovered writings, from cartouches on Egyptian stelae, the Dead Sea scrolls, to things like this flash drive, the information gaps are random. They’re determined by chance, by exposure to elements, and other factors.”
Bug nodded agreement, and Rudy could tell that he was already on the same page as Circe.
&nb
sp; Auntie peered over her glasses. “That’s not what you’re seeing here? So what am I missing?”
“It’s the inventory,” answered Circe. “We have two clear JPEGS of nuclear devices and several other ‘damaged’ image files. That gives us the type of device and establishes that they are already in place. We have field notes from an operative with a Geiger counter. Not a tape or digital recording of the counter, but personal observation notes that look like they were transferred from a phone text message. We have a list of targets, which is naturally compelling but also weirdly precise, considering that Rasouli has no verifiable ‘source’ for any of this. There’s more, but that’s my first impression.”
“Wow,” said Rudy. “You got all that by looking at this for twenty minutes? You always impress me, my dear.”
“No,” interrupted Circe, “that’s just it, this is too fast. Too easy. It’s like we’re being handed too much too soon.” Again, Bug was nodding along with everything she said.
Rudy frowned. “Isn’t that was Rasouli was trying to do?”
“Yes,” conceded Circe, “and I might have been less suspicious if the drive was intact. What troubles me is the fact that the drive was damaged and yet there are a lot of very key pieces here.”
“Exactamundo,” agreed Bug.
“It doesn’t make sense, though” Circe said, then quickly corrected herself. “No—it does make sense, but only if the person placing those files on the drive knew that the drive would be damaged.”
“Yup.”
“No, that’s wrong, too,” murmured Aunt Sallie. “Damage from moisture is random. Does this mean that the files were added after the flash drive was removed during the autopsy?”
“I don’t think so,” said Bug. “In fact I’m pretty sure that’s not the case.”
Rudy asked, “Admittedly I don’t know what I’m talking about, so forgive me if this is a foolish question, but … we can’t actually be certain that the drive was really swallowed by Rasouli’s agent, can we? So, could the moisture damage have been deliberate?”