A Pale Horse

by Wendy Alec

  “Lawrence literally saved my life, Jas. He couldn’t tell you. Neither could Mother. If Adrian became even faintly suspicious that I was alive, he’d come after me. This time he’d make sure. He has to believe I’m dead.”

  Jason nodded, choked with emotion and fury.

  “You can’t let on anything, Jas. You’re next in their sights. Adrian’s suspicious of what you know. You can’t play by the rules. He’s lawless—doesn’t have any.”

  Jason took the memory stick from his shirt pocket and handed it to Nick. “Adrian called it garbage.”

  Nick took the memory stick. “You mean Hamish Mackenzie’s claims that Adrian’s not our brother? That he’s a clone?”

  He looked up at Jason. Grim-faced.

  “The medical records that Julia films at Wimpole Street will be confirmation, one way or another. You read Dad’s letter to Lawrence?”

  Jason nodded. “Okay.”

  Nick’s eyes searched Jason’s face. “And now for the bombshell. It’s common knowledge that the ten largest territories in the world are on the verge of signing Adrian’s AXIS Ten agreement in Babylon. Every one of those ten regions is currently on the verge of economic collapse. GDP down by sixty percent. Banks collapsing every day.”

  “Sure,” Jason said. “Common knowledge.”

  “And Adrian’s offering them each a bailout as a member of the AXIS Ten.”

  “He is. That’s all public domain.”

  “What’s not in the public domain,” Nick continued, “is that Adrian and his shadowy band of elites are the selfsame clandestine instigators of the world economic collapse. They’ve very successfully created a world currency crash, instability, and a global downturn. Almost single-handedly collapsed the capitalist system. By design. A few weeks after they sign the AXIS Ten, Adrian and his elite intend to launch a new wave of capitalism. A one-world global currency economy and global bank. A tectonic shift in wealth, controlled exclusively by himself and his new one-world government.”

  “You have proof?”

  “We have proof.”

  The rain clouds started. Alex ran toward them, surfboard in hand. He stood above them on the edge of the bank.

  “Tea’s up!” he shouted.

  “There’s a roaring fire at the cottage. Lamb and champ, crumpets and blackberry jam, and Earl Grey tea.” He grinned, watching the two brothers from the ridge. “Oh, and Julia’s scans are coming through!” Alex disappeared.

  Nick got to his feet. “It’s good to have you back, Jas.”

  They clasped hands.

  “Brothers,” they said in unison.

  “It’s good to be back,” Jason said softly. He clasped Nick’s arm. “I’ve been away a long time.”

  Chapter Nine

  Wimpole Street, London W1

  Two Hours Later

  Julia placed her soft leather Mulberry bag open on her lap and tapped her slender French-manicured fingers on the table. The clerk reappeared with a file marked “Petunia.”

  “It’s classified, madam,” he said.

  “But you have my clearance.”

  The clerk shook his head. “You have clearance, but it’s read only—no copies, no scans. Please be aware that security cameras are positioned at every angle.”

  “But I am allowed to write a few notes?” Julia asked.

  The clerk reluctantly agreed. “But you’ll have to pass them by me. For censorship.”

  Julia nodded.

  He gestured to her bag. “You’ll have to put it through the scanner, I’m afraid.”

  Julia sighed, carefully placed the pen next to her papers, then followed the clerk to a scanner. She placed her bag in a container and walked through the body-scanning booth.

  The security guard nodded and handed the bag back to her.

  The clerk followed Julia back to the desk, then handed her a file folder. Julia studied the innocuous-looking file. On the outside, a single word, “PETUNIA,” was typed in an old typewriter font. And below it, the date: “December 22, 1981.”

  Julia opened the file.

  There were two sets of laboratory medical papers, both encoded.

  She frowned. There was an extra set of documents, marked “DNA,” filed by one Hamish Mackenzie and dated 2017. She took out the pen and smiled sweetly up at the clerk.

  He nodded and walked back toward the security guard.

  Julia looked up at the camera, which was scanning the back half of the room. “You owe me, Jason De Vere,” she muttered.

  Julia deftly scanned through the medical records. She clicked the pen down once, twice, and then a final time to capture Mackenzie’s record of the DNA results.

  As the clerk returned, she was writing intently. He looked over her shoulder, then pointed out two sentences and shook his head.

  Julia beamed up at him. She tore out the page and handed it to the clerk, who enthusiastically handed her a second pad of paper. Under the vigilant eye of the records clerk, Julia copied several innocuous pieces of information, then stood, walked over to the reception desk, handed back the file, and shook his hand vigorously.

  And left.

  Chapter Ten

  Hollyhock Cottage, West Coast, Ireland

  Dylan Weaver crammed the remains of his crumpet into his mouth and pointed to the glass X-pad screen in front of him. “Three records of money transfers,” he said, spewing crumbs over the glass screen.

  He looked up at Lawrence St. Cartier.

  “The bank records in the file—we had our moles in Langley check them.”

  Lawrence walked over to the fireplace and sank into a worn armchair. He lifted up a teapot from a tray on the table in front of the fire and steadily poured tea into three cups.

  “The first two were traceable to two separate accounts.” Dylan gulped down a cup of tea, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. He grinned up at Jason, enjoying his discomfort. “First account in Switzerland, second in the Highlands.”

  Lawrence shook his glasses at Jason. “To Hamish Mackenzie, I’ll bet.”

  “The final one—the largest by far—twenty million dollars, traced to a single account in Edinburgh. Aveline—the Aveline Institute.”

  Lawrence froze. “The photograph that I gave to Nick—Dylan, you have it on record?”

  Weaver nodded and started to devour a second crumpet. His fingers flew over the keyboard. The photograph of the Jesuit priest with Von Slagel filled the screen.

  Lawrence sighed. “The back view.”

  Dylan Weaver hit a key. They all stared at the name on the screen, transfixed.

  “Aveline,” Jason whispered. “It isn’t a girl’s name after all.”

  “The Aveline Institute,” Dylan muttered in between mouthfuls of crumpet. “It traces its origins to the establishment of the Institute of Animal Genetics, in 1919, by the University of Edinburgh.”

  Dylan’s fingers flew over the keys.

  “In 1995, Aveline became a company limited by guarantee.”

  Alex looked up from his X-pad.

  “Aveline—I knew it sounded familiar. In 1994, they cloned Harold the sheep—two years before Dolly. It was kept under wraps.”

  “And in 1997,” Dylan added, “Aveline Biocentre was set up in the highlands of Scotland—head of the Department of Gene Expression and Development.” He looked over at Lawrence, his features alight with realization. “Hamish Mackenzie—bingo! A leading pioneer in the science of cloning.”

  Lawrence turned to Jason. “Not such a senile old man, after all.”

  Jason glared at him.

  Alex shook his head. “Not anymore. Look at this morning’s London Daily Mail.”

  All eyes stared at the screen. A huge building in the Highlands had been razed to the ground. Firefighters were still trying to extinguish the smoldering rubble.

  “Unbelievable,” Alex murmured. “The Aveline Biocentre —arson, I’m afraid. The entire institute razed to the ground last night. Not a brick left standing.”

  Jason and Lawrence
exchanged glances.

  “Julia!” Jason gasped.

  “Hey, Weaver!” one of the Chinese youths called out. “Feed from London coming through.”

  Dylan Weaver swiveled in his chair and hit a key. Instantly, the five screens next to him lit up. “She’s out, boss. She’s clear.”

  * * *

  Welbeck Street, London

  1 p.m.

  Julia placed her handbag on the front seat and turned to take her jacket off. She got in the Beetle, backed out of the parking space, and revved down Welbeck Street just as a car exploded directly outside Redgrave Medical Library.

  * * *

  Hollyhock Cottage, Ireland

  “The photos from Julia are coming through,” Dylan Weaver said. He touched the holographic video screen as Lawrence St. Cartier, Jason, and Nick stood with bated breath.

  Jason frowned. “It’s medical lingo—I can’t make head or tail of it.”

  Nick pointed at the second screen. “That one looks like a DNA test.”

  Lawrence sat next to Dylan, still huddled over the computer screen.

  “They’re printing,” Dylan announced.

  “The first two documents.” He studied the numbers. “Lance Percival’s reports.”

  He handed the copies to Lawrence, who polished his spectacles, placed them over his nose, and studied the documents intently. There was complete silence in the room.

  “The first report,” the professor explained. “The first infant born to Lilian De Vere. The prenatal genetic diagnosis for your mother was oligohydramnios—too little amniotic fluid. Poor fetal growth. A lagging fundal measurement of over three centimeters. Weekly ultrasounds and measurements of the baby’s head, thigh bone, abdominal circumferences. In the last two-thirds of pregnancy, the amniotic fluid comes from fetal urine. Lung formation is dependent on breathing in amniotic fluid; the lungs of these babies with severe dysplasia are very underdeveloped.”

  He scanned the report.

  “Her caesarean date was set for December twentieth, 1981. Infant delivered at St. Gabriel’s Nursing Home in Knightsbridge. As expected, the baby had very severe dysplasia. No kidney function at all. The real Adrian De Vere was placed immediately in intensive care. Not expected to survive more than a few hours.”

  Lawrence looked up at Jason and Nick. “Now look at the infant’s kidney function twelve hours later.”

  He handed the brothers the report.

  “Perfect! Your real brother, Jason,” Lawrence said softly, “had severe dysplasia, minimal kidney function. Wasn’t expected to survive.”

  He studied the second document intently.

  “The second report, posted by Percival the day after the infant’s birth.” He shook his head. “Just as I expected: excellent function of both kidneys. No dysplasia recorded. He raised his head. “There is only one logical conclusion: the second set of results was taken from a completely different infant.”

  “Six pages of DNA reports transmitted.” Dylan handed the papers to Lawrence.

  Lawrence thumbed through the pages. “Percival’s DNA test on the second infant.” He stopped at the last four pages. “Filed by one Hamish Mackenzie, dated 2017, and Hamish Mackenzie’s DNA results.”

  Nick shook his head, incredulous. “The tests he did on the clone?”

  Lawrence nodded. “The precise DNA markings of the clone he created for the nameless, faceless priest in 1981.”

  He moved to a worn ruby red velvet armchair next to the crackling log fire.

  “There’s no mistaking it,” he murmured. “Percival’s second DNA sample matches precisely Mackenzie’s DNA samples belonging to the clone.” He rubbed his eyes and looked up at Jason, who was visibly shaken. “It’s worse than we imagined.”

  Jason groaned. “How on earth can it be worse?”

  Lawrence took a deep breath. “Years ago, in the late 1980s, I was involved in a top secret black ops project. I was part of the CIA, spying on the CIA—the Directorate of Operations. I obtained access into the lower ultrasecret levels of Dreamland at Dulce. There had been reports.” He closed his eyes. “Horrific reports . . . ”

  His voice grew very soft. “ . . . of mass abductions. Children.”

  He opened his eyes. “The cases that I investigated were abductions from Mexico.” He hesitated. “We eventually located the missing abductees.”

  He was silent, as if collecting his thoughts.

  “Nineteen levels down in Dulce, a second lab at Los Alamos. Secret underground bases, railcars that reach Mach two—all leading to a horrific underground labyrinth of laboratories called—”

  “Nightmare Hall,” Alex said, finishing his sentence.

  Lawrence nodded.

  “You’re telling me you were a witness?” Alex gasped. He grasped Lawrence’s arm. “You were actually there? Do you know what this means? There’s never been any concrete proof. In all these decades . . . ”

  Lawrence bowed his head. “Eight of the ten members in our team went missing overnight,” he said softly. “The reason there is no proof is because the shadowy puppet masters who pull the strings exterminate every witness systematically.”

  “The military-industrial complex,” Alex said.

  “But you survived,” Jason said, ever the pragmatist.

  A slight smile flickered on Lawrence’s lips. “You could say I had, um . . . superior protection.”

  Alex gripped Lawrence’s arm more fiercely. “Professor, what did you discover? Are the rumors substantiated?”

  Lawrence sighed, and Alex slowly loosened his grasp.

  “Alien-human hybrid experimentation. Cloning the human and the bestial races—mixing the DNA of animals, plants, and humans . . . ” He hesitated. “ . . . with alien DNA—chimera transgenics.”

  “Alien DNA? You mean ETs from Roswell?” Alex queried.

  Lawrence nodded. “Tip of the iceberg. Five bodies were discovered. One lived. Even Wernher von Braun saw them, as did many credible scientists, astronauts, high-ranking government officials. They were taken to Wright-Patterson Air Force Base, five miles northeast of Dayton, Ohio. During the next thirty years, there were several more UFO crashes —always kept at the highest level of government secrecy.”

  He took a deep breath.

  “They kept the aliens alive. And started to interbreed an unholy merging of alien and human DNA. The U.S. government—at least those in the know—were ashamed. Tried to put a stop to it, but they were dealing with far more powerful masters with a very different agenda. Shadow masters. Rogue factions of the CIA. The military-industrial complex. The moneyed elite and their sinister masters. Their goal: depopulation. And a one-world government.

  “Senators, congressmen—those with a conscience, anyway—tried to speak out. They were silenced, either by blackmail or by more permanent means.”

  Lawrence sighed.

  “The Americans were not alone. Make no mistake. The UK has its own equivalents. Porton Down—Ministry of Defense and of Science and Technology.”

  Alex frowned. “Porton Down . . . David Kelly was its chief microbiologist during the Iraq war, wasn’t he? When Blair was prime minister?”

  “For a time, yes, Alex. There was also talk of Porton Down’s collaboration with the gene warfare monster Wouter Basson.” His expression darkened. “But coming back to the DNA . . . ”

  He picked up the DNA results.

  “I had seen exactly the same genetic makeup before, as had Hamish Mackenzie” He looked meaningfully at the others. “It’s not the conventional genetic structure of human DNA.”

  Jason looked at him skeptically. “What do you mean, not conventional?”

  Lawrence closed his eyes. “I mean that this DNA is not from any terrestrial source. It’s not animal DNA. It’s not human DNA.”

  He stopped and looked straight at Jason, then at Nick.

  “It’s alien.”

  Jason looked at Lawrence in disbelief and then started to laugh. “Come on, Lawrence! Even for you this is a bridge to
o far. You’re not talking X-Files, Independence Day, Prometheus . . . ”

  Lawrence stared at him forbiddingly. “Jason Ambrose De Vere, I’m afraid that’s exactly what I’m talking about.”

  Jason put his head in his hands and groaned.

  Alex frowned. “So whose DNA is it?”

  Nick, Jason, and Lawrence all fell silent. It was Nick who finally spoke. “It’s our brother’s.”

  Alex started to laugh. “Yeah, sure, it’s Jason’s.”

  Lawrence shook his head. “It’s no joke, son.”

  Nick and Jason looked at Alex without a trace of humor.

  “It’s Adrian’s DNA, Alex,” said Nick.

  Alex looked at Lawrence.

  Lawrence said, “There is almost watertight evidence that Adrian De Vere is a biological clone.”

  “A clone . . . ” Alex laughed nervously. “The president of more than half the Western world—you’re kidding, right?”

  “Most assuredly, Alex Lane Fox, I am not.”

  Jason looked up from studying the two previous documents. “These confirm Percival’s story.” He thrust the first paper onto the table. “Adrian De Vere, born December twenty–first. Mother Lilian, father James—St. Gabriel’s Hospital.

  “One day later . . . ” Jason thrust the second document down beside the first. “Adrian De Vere vanished. Perfect. Dysplasia gone, kidney function perfect.”

  “They had to have swapped the babies,” whispered Nick.

  “Who? What baby?” Alex threw up his hands.

  Lawrence sighed. “The real Adrian De Vere, James and Lilian De Vere’s son, was murdered at birth. He was replaced with a clone.”

  Nick turned and looked Alex straight in the eye. “Adrian’s not our brother.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Gehenna Ice Palace, Mars

  Lucifer stood, his cloak wrapped tightly around his lean imperial form, his long raven braids lashing his scarred face, fur cape flying wildly in the freezing arctic tempests. He gazed out beyond the southern polar cap of Mars, toward the Ice Citadel of Gehenna. The Second Heaven.