Death and Conspiracy

by Seeley James

  Mercury spoke from behind me. You could always give yourself up, homie. If they don’t kill you, you’ll learn a lot more from the inside than the outside.

  After nearly jumping out of my skin, I said, Do NOT sneak up on me like that in a cemetery. Holy crap. So. What do you think they’re going to do, serve me a tea and stroopwafel?

  Mercury said, Oh, they’ll kill you, bro, but not until they move you to a more private place. There’s a lot of non-Free Origins staff manning Pieterskerk, caterers, cleaning people, managers. Think about it. While you’re inside, you can sow seeds of doubt and confusion. Maybe distract them long enough for Tania or Miguel to stop them. That way, you could at least die a hero. I mean, let’s face it, you’re just not ruthless enough to be a Caesar.

  I said, I thought you bet on me to win.

  Mercury said, Not exactly. I bet on your team to prevail. If you die in the process and Tania carries it over the line for a win, I come out ahead.

  I said, Isn’t that nice.

  My very-important-deity wasn’t helping. Typical. I’d have to figure it out myself. We could never stop forty-nine of them, but if we could find the command center, we could issue a stand-down order or discover where and when each attack was taking place and have local authorities intercede.

  I checked my maps and the layout of the local streets. The church was in a U-shaped area, surrounded by renovated commercial buildings that retained the town’s sixteenth century feel. There were few video cameras on the street. I kept my head down and circled the block.

  Once I was satisfied there were no Hungarians on the east side of the church, I scaled a wall using the tiny toe and finger holds in the mortar for purchase. Once on the slick metal roof, I made my way to a narrow place where the church’s windows rose above the modern neighbors. It took a little more scaling to get a secure spot next to the glass.

  The light frosting, meant to keep out direct sunlight, obscured the nave like greasy sunglasses. I could make out shapes and movement but couldn’t quite get a fix on more detail. There were a good number of people milling about inside. A party had been set up. I moved to another window, looking for less frosting. Farther over, I found a vent pane the size of a pizza box open a crack at the bottom. I couldn’t get it open any wider.

  Pressing my nose to one side, then the other, I made out a couple familiar people from the training sessions at the Ooze. After adjusting a fourth time, I saw what I never expected, Lieutenant Colonel Hugo and Arrianne. She gestured at various people and things around the room while he nodded. Either he was part of this evil plan, or he was a sad old man falling for the attentions of a beautiful young woman.

  I slid down the nearest metal roof to a climbable corner and lowered myself to the ground. Walking quickly away, I pulled out my phone to text Miguel and Tania the news. Before my thumbs could press send, I felt the distinctive pinch of two Taser probes hit my back and, an instant later, felt the horrific shock.

  CHAPTER 39

  The lump on my head hurt. The drugs coursing through my veins made me sick. Whatever they gave me clouded the events from when I was tased in the alley to the darkness surrounding me.

  I wasn’t shackled. I wasn’t cuffed. I wasn’t dead. No doubt due to the number of witnesses milling around the area.

  Party noise came from somewhere nearby. A DJ mixing club music. It made my head thump worse.

  I sat up and inventoried my surroundings in the faint light. I had been lying on a stone slab. It had words carved into it. Dutch words, so they didn’t mean much to me. But the numbers made its purpose clear: 1510-1568. Someone’s sarcophagus. I scanned the chamber. A crypt.

  I appeared to be in the basement of Pieterskerk. Every old church has a crypt, so it came as no surprise this ancient place would. Architects of the Dark Ages would fill a foundation’s useable space with the denizens least likely to complain about the damp. What surprised me was the locked iron bars on the entrance. After thinking about it, the lock made sense. They’d turned a church into a venue for events serving booze. At some point, they had been forced to protect certain portions of the building from drunks with hilarious ideas.

  Mercury stood outside the bars in his formal toga. You done with your nap, homeboy?

  I said, If you want me to win this thing, why not give me some warning about being followed?

  Mercury said, I did. I distinctly remember telling you there was more to learn inside than out.

  I said, But in that scenario, I die. I want to win and stay alive at the same time. Is that too much to ask from an all-powerful being?

  Mercury said, All-powerful? Sheeyit, dawg. You should talk to my wife. Only thing she thinks my powers are good for is doing the dishes.

  I said, Could you help me out here? How do I get out of this crypt—alive?

  Mercury said, What is with you mortals? Always whining about wanting to win without dying. Saving humanity isn’t good enough for you, you wanna live through it too. Well then, do it your way. You never listen to me, you never tell anyone the good news about the Dii Consentes, and you never make offerings to the gods who save your ass every day. All you do is complain.

  I said, Does that mean there’s a way out of here? And if I promise to do all those things, you’ll tell me what it is?

  Mercury gripped the bars and looked up at the ceiling. Trying my patience, yo. You know what people do when they’re in trouble? They pray and pray and promise and promise. Then we bestow blessings upon them, and they are redeemed. What happens to all those promises they made us? Nothing. They forget all about us. Liars, the whole stinking bunch of you.

  I said, I did that purification ceremony once. I think.

  Mercury said, Rite of Parilia, and you did it backward.

  I said, I’ll do it again—just as soon as I can find some sheep.

  Mercury said, That was such a terrible display of cultural misappropriation that we would rather you not.

  I said, Just tell me what to do, I’ll do it. I swear. Will you help me?

  Mercury said, Igne natura renovatur integra, brutha.

  I said, Huh?

  Mercury closed his eyes and inhaled slowly. Then he said, Through fire, nature is reborn whole. You don’t need my help. You need to understand yourself.

  Something like a hammer struck my soul. Ideas started bubbling up inside my head. I said, What do you mean? That I always use you so that I can end up being the hero? That I’m always on a quest for glory, expecting you to save me every time? That everything I do, I do so that others will think I’m the greatest and adore me?

  Mercury smiled. Now you’re getting it, homie.

  More concepts popped into my head. I don’t need your help to become a hero. I don’t need Sabel Security or Miguel or Tania. I only need to do what no one else wants to do—die trying. It’s not about the glory or the parade at the end. It’s about saving the world even if that means doing the ugly stuff no one else wants to do. Death is a risk one must ignore.

  All that thinking led me to the dark side. That means I miss out on all the joys in life. I’ll be giving up Jenny for good. I’ll never have Thanksgiving with my parents again. I’ll never taste chocolate again. I’ll never have children and enjoy the thrill of parenting.

  Mercury said, Now that you mention it, you could make a lot of people happy by sacrificing yourself.

  I ignored his comment. I’d be giving up my future for the greater good because it’s the honorable thing to do.

  Mercury pressed his hands to his chest. When you finally figure stuff out, it almost makes me wanna cry. Almost. Now, all you have to do to get out of there is click your heels three times and say, “There’s no place like home.”

  I said, No fucking way.

  Mercury nodded, grinned, then evaporated into the dark.

  I rattled the iron bars. Locked solid. Barely enough wiggle to make a noise. There were a lot of things I was willing to do in the name of freedom. There were many indignations I’d suffered to get out
of tight spots in the past. But there was no way in Avernus I was going to click my heels three times. I mean, come on.

  Mercury’s voice echoed in the stone chamber. Then crawl in the tomb with the dead guy. When the party ends, they gonna drag you out and shoot you in the marsh. And if that happens, ROSGEO is going to happen. Hundreds of people will die—because you’re too important to do a scene from Wizard of Oz.

  The only guilt trip worse than my mother’s is Mercury’s. What really torqued me was knowing he could help me if he wanted. He had a sick sense of humor and insisted on making me do stupid stuff for the amusement of the gods. They’re bored. But. Who am I to argue with god?

  I closed my eyes, held my nose, clicked my boot heels together three times and said, “There’s no place like home.”

  “Is that you, Jacob?” A voice in the darkness.

  “Who’s there?”

  “Zack Ames.” The short, wiry bald guy slid around a corner. “Who were you talking to?”

  CHAPTER 40

  “You’re not Zack Ames,” I said.

  “Close enough for government work. Shut up and stand back.” He placed a small charge on the lock.

  I jumped back just as it blew. The iron gate swung open.

  I stared at Fake-Zack for a moment. He held up a phone, a packet of handheld Sabel Darts and a pistol. Mine. I took them, shoved the phone in my pocket, and clipped the holster and Glock to my belt at the back. I flopped my shirttail over it.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “I’m springing you.” He turned and flattened himself against the wall. “There’s a loud party upstairs. It’s just winding down. We need to get out of here before the music stops.”

  “Who are you really?” I asked.

  “Later.” He led the way up a stone stair to a kitchen area.

  Five people packed plates and pots into containers and rolled them out a back door. The dinner was long over, and they were wrapping up. If the party was over, that meant ROSGEO would soon be underway.

  Through an open arch inside the old church, I caught a glimpse of the party. Paladin stood at the front with a microphone in one hand and a stein of beer in the other. He made a joke I couldn’t hear. It got laughs and hoots.

  Fake-Zack grabbed my arm and yanked. We hoofed it to the caterer’s van and peeked around the corner. One of the Hungarians stood outside, watching the cobblestones in the moonlight. I took out one of my darts and looked for a place I could poke the guy. The injection is automatic, the system simple. The only drawback is that the short needle doesn’t penetrate more than a single layer of cloth. Oh. And a rare allergic reaction kills one out of 743 people on average. If the Hungarian turned out to be allergic, I wasn’t going to lose sleep over it. I took three quick steps and swung my dart at his neck.

  As it turns out, Hungarians are tough street fighters. They don’t go down easy. He must have heard my rushed steps because he turned with an arm moving fast in a sweeping arc. He caught my forearm extended, batted it out of the way then landed a right in my abdomen. My dart went flying. I recovered and threw an uppercut. He responded with a combination into my breadbasket. I tried two more blows to his face. He raised his defenses and brushed back my punches.

  We eyed each other, squaring off for a real boxing match. He was no slouch. He had moves. I train several times a week with Ms. Sabel. She uses speed and feints to make up for the smaller muscle mass in women. Sparring with her has taken my game to the next level.

  I tried one of Ms. Sabel’s favorite moves. I pulled back my right for a well-telegraphed jab and waited for his gaze to follow my fist. The instant his eyes moved, my left cross landed the heel of my hand on his temple. Another trick Ms. Sabel taught me: Don’t use a clenched fist without a boxing glove. If you hit bone, you’ll break your knuckles. Use the heel of your hand, the elbow, or the crown of your head instead. Unfortunately he sensed my ruse and slipped to his left. My punch only glanced off his skull. The move left me in a terrible position with my left shoulder twisting away from him. I was completely exposed. His eyes bulged at the opportunity. With a heavy push off his back foot, he threw a right cross straight at my head.

  It landed softly. The Hungarian had a funny look in his eyes before he fell on his face.

  Fake-Zack stood behind him, examining the Sabel Dart in his hand. “Say, that worked well. What is it?”

  “You’re supposed to leave it in him for ten seconds. Now he’s going to come around in minutes. Where’s your car?”

  “You can’t get a car down these streets.”

  “You came to rescue me on a bike?”

  With a grumpy frown, he asked, “Where’s your car?”

  “Yeah.” I pointed down Kloksteeg. “My bike’s that way.”

  As I pointed, two Free Origins guys came up the lane. They hadn’t seen us yet. They were more likely to drown me in the canal since the number of witnesses in the area had waned. We snuck back around the caterer’s van and trotted down a side street.

  Two blocks later, we found the canal that could lead us around the bend to our bikes. We calculated the time it would take Nema’s people to discover my escape and search the area. We decided to keep going away from the enemy instead of doubling back to get our bikes.

  I texted Miguel and Tania. Neither made an immediate reply. Not unusual in a tight operation where they could be observing from a dark alley, and the screen light would give them away.

  To blend in with the people on the street, we strolled through a small park to a lane filled with shops.

  “Thanks for the rescue,” I said. “Who are you?”

  “Why confuse things? Just call me Zack.”

  “The tattoo on your butt. That’s Free Origins?”

  “No.” He sighed. “It doesn’t represent any particular group. The racist hate-site Stormfront popularized it. It’s their version of the Celtic Cross and represents my past.”

  “Which is?”

  “Was. I was a CIA officer. I was a racist. I was an attendee at the Kraków conference. I was in a meeting where Paladin described starting Armageddon. I was sickened to my core. I was the guy who went to the Slovaks.”

  He’d lied to me before, but for some strange reason I believed him this time. It felt honest. “You weren’t there to support Brady?”

  “I was stationed in Paris until sixteen months ago. I’d always been a racist. It ran in the family, from my uncle who blamed his business failure on the Jewish conspiracy to replace us to my mother who thought Mexicans were invading the country. Even after attending culture and gender sensitivity training at the Company, I clung to the myths. When they rotated me back to Langley, I fell in with some Free Origins people. I made some statements on Facebook. Those statements cost me my job. Free Origins scooped me up like a family. They had deep pockets. They sponsored my trip to Kraków.

  “That’s where I ran into Brady. I spotted him as a Feeb right off and confronted him. He asked me not to blow his cover before I checked out Paladin. Brady led me to Paladin’s meeting. Brady turned me around. He exposed the true path I was on. It was a descent into the hell of hatred and loathing. I chose to pull up and follow the Golden Rule. I owe the guy.”

  “What about the FBI? Don’t they owe Brady?” I asked. We strolled through a neighborhood of small shops and neatly kept homes. Both Fake-Zack and I kept our gazes roving over potential ambush spots while doing our best to look casual.

  “You may have noticed that over the last few years, our cherished institutions fell into disarray. Most cabinet-level positions are filled by partisans with ‘acting’ in front of their titles. Trickle that down to ground level and the turnover is killing us. Did you know they don’t have a legat in Paris?”

  “New guy just arrived,” I said. “Why should I believe you after you lied to me?”

  “I was desperate then. This is my redemption mission. Now that you’ve seen what they can do, I know you’re looking to stop them with the same vigor I am. That’s why I
saved you.”

  We stared into each other’s eyes for a moment. He didn’t flinch. I decided to trust him for another thirty seconds.

  I asked, “Was Nema at the Kraków meeting?”

  “You figured her out?” he asked. “She was in the corner, pulling Paladin’s strings. You know, six months ago, she killed her brother. He caught me following them in Paris. I told him about Paladin’s meeting and how they were planning something cataclysmic. He didn’t believe me. He told me he would go to the police if it were true. But I tweaked his curiosity. I had a bug in her apartment. I heard him confront her. Things escalated. He brought up things she did as a teenager. He wasn’t nice about it. He called her names a brother should never call his sister. She slashed his throat with a kitchen knife and never reported him missing. As luck would have it, my recorder stopped working before the killing. I had no proof.”

  “Nice girl.” We walked along the canal banks. “Did Paladin know about the brother?”

  “Who do you think dumped the body?” Fake-Zack shook his head. “Anyway, after Kraków, I went to the Slovaks. They took my statement but didn’t know what to believe. It’s not a big country; they don’t have a sophisticated intel operation. I hung around a while, then went to Paris. I tried to get people to listen, but I had nothing. No recordings, no evidence, nothing actionable they could use for a warrant. All the players dropped off the grid after the Kraków conclave. I got depressed. Hundreds of people were going to die, and no one would listen to me.

  “Not long ago, I hit the idea of reactivating myself in the CIA. I visited old friends at the Paris embassy. While I was there, I snagged a couple business cards off the new guy’s desk. Went to see Hugo as a CIA man instead of an unemployed loser. We’d met when I was stationed there. He knew I was an official, but he didn’t know me well enough to know my name. It worked. I got a meeting with him. I reeled him in as best I could.”