The Machiavelli Covenant

  "You still want to go ahead with this?" Marten was incredulous.

  "Yes." The president didn't look up.

  "Cousin," Marten suddenly leaned in, speaking urgently and in a sotto voice, "I don't think you fully appreciate what's going on here. Foxx thought you were coming but he couldn't be sure until I showed up. Now they know, and I'm sure your 'rescuers' have been alerted. For all we know they could be somewhere here now waiting for you to reveal yourself. When you do they'll take you out of here and into their version of 'protective custody' fast. Cousin, we have to leave and leave now. Go out the back way, call Miguel on his cell phone, then wait somewhere out of sight until he comes. And after that, to quote you, 'God help us.' "

  The president closed the guidebook and looked at Marten deliberately, his eyes filled with resolve, "This is Saturday afternoon in Spain; the NATO conference is Monday morning in Warsaw. Our clock is fast ticking down and with it the information we must have from Foxx. My 'rescuers' could arrive in minutes or in hours. If it's minutes we're out of business anyway; if it's the latter, we still have time to do something."

  "You're taking a hell of a gamble, Cousin, you know that."

  "It's only a gamble when you have a choice." Abruptly Harris stood. "Let's not keep the good doctor waiting any longer than we already have."

  91

  • 1:40 P.M.

  Merriman Foxx was alone and making notes in a pocket organizer when Marten and President Harris entered the private dining room. Demi, Beck, and Luciana were gone, and the table itself had been cleared.

  "Ah, gentlemen," Foxx smiled and stood up, as he had when Marten first arrived. "I am Dr. Foxx, Mr. President. It is a great pleasure to meet you, sir." He waved a hand at the empty table, "I'm afraid the others decided to go off and explore on their own. And while we might sit here and chat among ourselves, I think our time could be more interestingly spent if I showed you my laboratory."

  "You have a laboratory here?" Marten was surprised.

  "Also an office and small apartment," again came Foxx's congenial smile. "All most kindly provided by the Order. It gives me a pleasant respite from all the attention and the undue and unfair questions that have long been put to me about the Tenth Medical, as well as a quiet place to work."

  "I'm always curious about another man's workplace, doctor," the president said with no emotion whatsoever.

  "So am I, Mr. President. This way, please," Foxx smiled once again and ushered them toward the door. Marten shot Harris a warning glance but got no response.

  • 1:45 P.M.

  Merriman Foxx led them past the crowded plaza in front of the basilica and then down a narrow stone walkway lined on one side with rows of red and white votive candles.

  Marten looked back over his shoulder as they went but saw no one. It was curious that Foxx was alone—no companions, no bodyguard, not even Beck for that matter. But then, except for Demi and Beck and the young woman Cristina, he had been alone when Marten met him at the Café Tripoli in Malta. And according to Beck, Foxx had left there by himself, leaving the reverend to escort the women back to their hotel. So in essence Foxx had been alone in Malta and was alone now. Maybe it was simply his choice or style. Or confidence. Or arrogance. Or all of them put together. After all he was the Dr. Merriman Foxx, the man who had controlled the Tenth Medical Brigade and all its covert operations and "innovations" for more than two decades. The same Merriman Foxx who had very recently sat alone through a U.S. congressional inquiry into the workings and disbanding of that brigade. The same Merriman Foxx who had personally supervised the heinous murder of Caroline Parsons and was now a key player in far more grandiose plans for genocide.

  Marten was certain Foxx had become who he was out of conceit and sheer will and that by now the idea of bodyguards or henchmen would be an affront to his own force of character. That was unless they were somewhere there unseen and watching, and had been all along.

  "This way, please," Foxx turned them down a side walkway and ten seconds later down another. They all looked the same, stone passageways lined by high narrow stone walls that in turn led into others and then into others, one virtually indistinguishable from the next.

  The farther they went into this maze the more concerned Marten became. Just finding their way back out and to the area where Miguel would be waiting with the car could become hugely difficult, especially if they were in a hurry. Moreover, Foxx's easy smile and genial manner made it easy to forget that beneath it all was a shrewd, cruel, and ingenious murderer who not only had killed Caroline Parsons but was deeply involved with the president's "friends" and whatever monstrous "plot" they were masterminding. So who knew where he was leading them, or who or even what might be waiting when they got there?

  In addition, Montserrat itself was an impossible setting. Religious site and tourist destination or not, it was in reality, what he had feared, a small, isolated city set into a high, desolate cliff face miles from anywhere. A place a man could vanish from in a heartbeat and never be found.

  Marten was certain that President Harris was as aware of their situation as he was. At the same time he knew the president had far more on his mind than his own safety and that his primary objective was finding a suitable place to get Foxx alone and question him. Which was clearly why he had chosen to let the doctor show the way, especially in the absence of Beck or a bodyguard or anyone else who might interfere. It was why too, despite his fears, Marten knew he had no other choice but to go along and follow the president's lead.

  "We're here, gentlemen," Foxx stopped at a heavy wooden door inset in a stone archway.

  "A little privacy away from the throngs," he said with a smile, then slid open a wood panel in the stonework next to the door. Inside it was an electronic keypad. Quickly he punched in a code and pressed the pound key, then slid the panel closed and turned an iron knob on the door. The door opened and Foxx ushered them into a large dimly lit room. The ceiling was high and arched. Several tall wooden chairs lined one wall, while a massive bookcase covered the other. The only other furniture was a large wooden desk with a lone chair behind it at the room's far end. Behind it to the right, an ornate carved wooden door was set into an arched nave.

  "This was a church council room for many years," Foxx said quietly as he led them down the room toward the nave, "I merely inherited it."

  They reached the nave and Foxx opened the door, then guided them into another room, carefully closing the door behind them.

  This room was much larger than the first and far different. Twenty feet wide and probably thirty long, it was illuminated by a series of eerily luminous grow-lamps suspended over two dozen bubble-topped rectangular tables.

  "This is my work now, gentlemen, and I wanted you to see it firsthand." Foxx indicated the tables. "No bacteria, no spores, no deadly molecules, nothing to be grown into the implements of war.

  "What I did before as head of the Tenth Medical Brigade was done to serve my country in a time of mounting national crisis. From the 1960s onward we were confronted by developing guerrilla movements. There were insurgencies in the former colonies of Mozambique and Angola, military training camps in Tanzania and Zambia, most of it funded and supported by Cuba and the Soviet Union. The counterinsurgency programs we used were developed by the French in Algeria and by the British in Malaysia and Kenya, but they weren't working well enough for the major war we knew was to come. We needed to develop new and innovative weapons, and those included chemical and biological because that same kind of weaponry was being developed for use against us."

  "What are these?" President Harris asked abruptly, indicating the rows of bubble-topped tables, as if Foxx's ongoing monologue was just so much idle chatter.

  "What I wished to show you, sir. Plant life. Food and energy for tomorrow. Genetically developed seedlings that can be grown to maturity in weeks almost anywhere on earth at a fraction of the cost of such things now. Fruits and vegetables far richer in nutritional value than anything currently available
. Variations on corn, soybean, alfalfa, sunflower, strawberry, blueberry, and cranberry. Then there are the grass and forage species for erosion control, pasture, and wildlife. All of which can be grown quickly and easily on a massive scale in almost any kind of soil and require minimal irrigation. Certain varieties of corn, soybean, and peanuts can be grown in the same manner and as quickly and cheaply processed into low-cost, production-level, clean-burning fuel that does not warm the atmosphere. We are also working with a concept known as 'cellulosic ethanol,' a process that makes fuel from farm waste—corn stalks, straw, and even wood." So far Foxx's attention had been focused primarily on the president, now he turned to Marten.

  "In Malta you accused me of experimentation on human beings. And you were correct, I did. But only on the terminally ill and with their permission in an attempt to save their lives and in turn save our own people.

  "But those programs are all long past. Wholly disbanded, their documentation destroyed. Many of the people who participated in them are now dead. In the twenty-odd years since, in the face of one unwarranted charge and indictment after another brought by people who either don't understand or had political agendas all their own, I have worked alone, either in Malta or here at Montserrat, my vocation dedicated not to war but to the future well-being of the planet and the creatures on it."

  "Alone?" Marten asked as if he were referring to Foxx's scientific studies, but really to see how he would react. If indeed there were others they weren't aware of, out of sight and waiting for a signal from Foxx.

  Instantly Foxx picked up on the reference. "You mean do I have security people here protecting me?"

  President Harris quickly covered for Marten, "I believe he was referring to other scientists."

  "Of course," Foxx said politely. "Now and again they come and consult with me. Most work part-time when they can. All voluntarily. We communicate almost exclusively over the Internet." Foxx glanced warily at Marten then looked back at the president. "As for the work itself. If you still doubt me, you are welcome to see the many other experiments that are here and in various stages of development. There are notes, journals, scientific records on everything. All of which you are free to examine. But I must ask you to say nothing of what you observe. None of this can be made known until processes are completed and legally documented and the patents are secured. When they are, the rights to them will be turned over to the United Nations. The profits, as you might imagine, will be staggering."

  "You seem to have become quite benevolent, Doctor," President Harris said. "Yes, I would like to see more. The experiments. Your notes, your journals, everything."

  "Of course."

  92

  • 2:00 P.M.

  Foxx led them toward another door, this one made of some kind of burnished steel. Reaching it, he stopped, then slipped a security card from his jacket pocket and swiped it through an electronic pad on the wall next to it. Immediately the door slid back to reveal a long, low, jagged sandstone tunnel seemingly cut into the core of the mountain itself and lighted by bare lightbulbs mounted every twenty feet or so on an exposed wire crudely attached to the tunnel's ceiling.

  "This is one of a network of mining tunnels cut through these mountains nearly a century ago. Most are long abandoned. Few people even know they exist. We were fortunate enough to make use of this one," Foxx said as he bent low to lead them down a rough wooden walkway raised over a damp floor and next to jagged stone walls oozing here and there with trickles of groundwater. "Once most of this area was part of what is now the Mediterranean Sea. At the time a large river ran from the higher elevations out to the gulf, creating large subterranean caves. Now, millennia later, the caves are far above sea level. They are dry, the air fresh and the temperatures particularly consistent over time. Those things combined with the size of the chambers and their relative isolation create a situation very nearly perfect for my research."

  If Marten had been concerned earlier, he was doubly so now. Never mind being lost in the maze of the monastery's walkways outside, this was a place hidden away from everyone and everything, and they were entering it with a horrific criminal. Whether Foxx was alone or not, Marten was convinced they were walking into some kind of trap and that it was more than foolhardy to take even another step with him. Again, he shot the president a warning glance.

  As before Harris ignored him, instead turning his attention to the tunnel itself; its uneven jackhammered walls, its earthen floor, its low, jackhammered ceiling.

  Whether the president liked it or not Marten knew he had to intervene and quickly. "Mr. President," he said sharply, "I think we've gone far—"

  "We're here, gentlemen," Foxx suddenly turned a corner in the shaft and they were face to face with another of the burnished steel doors. Again Foxx swiped his security card through an electronic reader on the wall next to it. As before, the door slid back, to reveal a cavernous chamber twice the size of the one they had been in moments earlier.

  Foxx went in first. As he did, Marten took the president by the arm to pull him back.

  "We're fine, Cousin," Harris said quietly, and followed Foxx inside. Marten swore under his breath and followed. A half second later the door slid closed behind them.

  Marten and the president looked out on a sea of bubble-top tables in a compartment that must have been a hundred feet long, at least sixty wide, and twenty high. At the far end were a number of steel cages,. Both large and small.

  "Yes," Foxx acknowledged, "I was doing some experimental work with animals. But there are none here now."

  "Do the people who run the monastery know about these chambers?" Marten asked.

  Foxx smiled, "As I said previously, the Order has kindly provided for my needs."

  Marten saw the president look around, the same as he had in the tunnel. The rough-hewn limestone walls, the ceiling, the floor. Abruptly he turned his attention to a large stainless-steel bench with heavy wooden uprights at one end and a large mechanical drum at the other. In between a second piece of stainless steel was mounted above a dual track that ran the full length of the surface. "What is this, doctor?" he asked.

  "A production table."

  "It looks like some sort of medieval torture machine."

  "Torture machine? Well, perhaps for plants," Foxx smiled his easy, accommodating smile. "Seeds are spread out across the stainless-steel surface, then covered with a special plastic sheeting. The drum heats up and is run back and forth over the sheeting, cooking the seeds to the degree that they are ready for instant planting in a special soil similar to that found in the grow-benches in the other room. It's an incubator of sorts. Like everything else here, efficient, innovative, and harmless."

  Harris glanced at Marten, then looked back to Foxx. "Actually, I preferred the idea of it being a torture table. Something a man might be fastened to in order to have him confess his sins or treacheries."

  "I'm not sure I understand," Foxx said.

  In an instant Marten understood why the president had ignored his earlier warnings and why he had been looking around both in the tunnel and in here. He was searching for security cameras, microphones, other surveillance apparatus. He, of all people, should know what to look for. The Secret Service would have shown him almost everything in its arsenal, an asset that, combined with his own grit and knowledge of building construction, had been the primary reason he had been able to escape from the hotel in Madrid. Marten had been concerned that they were far too alone and isolated, that Foxx had them trapped. President Harris saw just the opposite. It was the doctor, not they, who was alone. While they couldn't be certain they were not under some kind of surveillance, the president was taking the same hard gamble he had by coming to meet Foxx in the first place.

  "We would like you to talk to us, doctor," he said quietly. "To tell us about your plan for the Muslim states."

  "I'm sorry," Foxx acted as if he didn't understand.

  "Your plan. The program you and my good Washington friends have drawn up to devastat
e the Middle East."

  "You disappoint me, Mr. President," Foxx smiled again. "As I have just shown you, the last twenty years of my work have been for nothing but prosperity, health, and goodwill toward the inhabitants of this planet."

  The president suddenly responded in anger, "That's not going to cut it, doctor."

  "What did you give to Caroline Parsons?" Marten said suddenly.

  "You asked me something like that before, I have no idea who or what you are—"

  "The Silver Spring Rehabilitation Center in Silver Spring, Maryland. Dr. Lorraine Stephenson helped you."

  "I've never heard of the place. Or, as I also told you in Malta, of a Dr. Stephenson."

  "Hold up your left hand," Marten snapped.

  "What?"

  "Hold up your left hand. Thumb pointed out. I want the president to see the tattoo on it. The sign of Aldebaran."

  Foxx suddenly bristled, and Marten could see the rage come up in him, as it had at the Café Tripoli in Malta. "That's quite enough, gentlemen. We're finished here. I'll show you out."

  Abruptly he turned and started for the door. As he did, he slid a small electronic device from his jacket pocket and started to speak into it.

  93

  • 2:13 P.M.

  In a heartbeat Marten was behind him, his forearm pulled hard across his windpipe cutting of his air supply. Foxx cried out in surprise, then struggled wildly, trying to rip free and dropping whatever the device was he'd pulled from his jacket. But Marten only strengthened his grip. Foxx's chest heaved as he fought for air. Abruptly Marten shifted his pressure to the carotid arteries on either side of Foxx's neck, this time shutting off the blood flow to the South African's brain. Foxx thrashed and kicked. But it was no good. One second. Two. Three. Then he went limp in Marten's arms.