Cain

by James Byron Huggins

As Aveling anticipated, the Monsignor called within the hour. He picked up the phone and listened carefully, evaluating. It did not require long to process the information. He smiled; his old friend had lost none of his skills to penetrate the impenetrable.

  "Thank you, Agoni," Aveling said finally. "No, my humble skills must prove sufficient. No, do not come over. There is no time. Yes, be prepared. We do not know whether this shall end on your continent or mine … Of course, old friend, I shall inform you at once ... Return my encouragement to His Holiness. Good-bye."

  Aveling hung up and rose, walked slowly. His hands folded automatically into the pocket of his white habit as he strolled. He paced about the room for a moment, considering what he had heard, when Father Barth entered quietly.

  "Was it the Monsignor?" he asked.

  "Yes."

  "And?"

  Aveling's lean face tightened, his bald head reflecting a dull light. "Soloman, I believe, cannot be suspect. Nor can the child's mother. And Marcelle stands where he stands. Which leaves three men who could have betrayed them to Cain."

  Barth sat at Aveling's quiet words.

  "There is a general, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs," Aveling continued. "There is also a man in the National Security Agency, and a man in the Central Intelligence Agency. The Monsignor was kind enough to investigate further and discovered that Colonel Soloman once attempted to assassinate this CIA agent."

  "Then it is obvious, Aveling."

  Aveling smiled, wistful. "Certainty is a mistake committed by the young," he said quietly. "We learned such things in the war."

  "But it would be for revenge, of course."

  "Perhaps." Aveling paused. Then he turned to Barth, startlingly still as he whispered, "Agoni told me that this council is convening at the Central Intelligence Agency's headquarters within the hour."

  Barth waited. "Yes? And so?"

  "And so the CIA has apparently gained preeminence over this affair." Aveling's aspect was concentrated, cryptic. "Yes, of course ... Is it not better to rule in Hell than serve in Heaven? Is that not our enemy's wisdom? Yes, and so whoever has betrayed Soloman and Marcelle would seek to rule, even as Cain seeks to rule. Or as Hitler sought to rule – the servant is only a reflection of the master."

  Aveling's eyes lit up. "These men are professionals so each, if he is in authority, seeks the advantage of home ground. If the general had gained it, then the meeting would be at a military facility. If the NSA had gained it, then it would be held in Washington. But, obviously, this CIA agent has gained control, and so he uses the advantage."

  "I follow your logic," Barth replied, eyes narrowing. "But even if this CIA man has indeed betrayed Marcelle and this team, how can we use that knowledge to our advantage?"

  Aveling did not seem to hear. "Call back the Monsignor," he said, staring at nothing. "Tell him to discover all that he can about this Central Intelligence agent." Then he tilted his head, abruptly mesmerized.

  "What is it now, Aveling?"

  "Also, yes, tell Agoni to discover if there are families in the northeastern area of this continent that are secretly dedicated to the intergenerational worship of our Adversary."

  "Good God, Aveling!" Barth rose fully. "How can you advance to such a thought? Who can follow your mind?"

  Aveling shook his head. "It is eminently logical," he said, more simply. "It is logic born from faith, but it is logic. Cain is the Adversary, of this we are certain. Therefore Cain wishes to be worshipped. And to be worshipped he must have worshippers."

  "But ..." Barth searched for words. "But there could be dozens of such families! How can we know that any of them are involved at all? And, presuming the accuracy of such a presupposition, how can we know which one is associated with this CIA man?"

  Aveling's crested forehead hardened in anger. "Remember what you know!" he said more sternly. "Cain considers himself a prince! The servant is a reflection of the master! Those who serve him will also consider themselves princes!" He calmed down, added, "Follow me in this, old friend. This CIA man—Archette is his name—is dealing with Soloman and Marcelle. Archette, in a word, is a soldier, just as the SS were soldiers. Which means that Archette is the vassal of someone greater, just as the SS were vassals of Hitler. For the true master never dirties his hands neither with soil nor blood. During the war Hitler never killed a single man or woman or child with his own hands and yet he murdered millions. So there must obviously be someone above Archette. Agoni can easily obtain the information we need, and then we will eliminate the lesser from the greater."

  Barth lowered his head, injured.

  "Forgive me, my friend," Aveling said more patiently. "My emotions prompt me to intellectual sin. But I am, indeed, certain of this: Cain seeks to be equal with the Almighty. But he misunderstands majesty; he always has. And so he considers gold more worthy than clay." He turned away. "Go. Call the Monsignor and tell him we need the information immediately. And I do value your judgment, Father. As well as your criticism. You are wise to counsel ... a temperamental old man."

  With a patient nod, Barth said, "There is no sin, my friend. I will do what you request immediately."

  ***

  Grim, Ben stared at Archette.

  The CIA Deputy Director chaired the meeting and regarded Ben as if he were already extinct, a dinosaur overdue to return to a dead age. And Ben knew the routine. His cragged face was contemptuous, nothing given away. It would end here, he knew. There was no place left to go.

  "I believe the decision is inevitable," Archette began, glancing about the table. "Our security is compromised, we are in jeopardy of revealing our secret weapons program, and so we must terminate the Trinity Failsafe. We have already attracted too much attention and lost too much in this exercise." He took his time to continue. "I feel we should proceed to the next failsafe and hope that investigators can eventually detect Cain's location. The tragedy, but also a reprieve for the world, is that Cain has obtained the child and will now callously murder her to heal the virus in his system. Therefore, HyMar will not become supraepidemic – a regrettable episode in this disaster, but also a development which will allow us to hunt Cain with more covert and conventional means. We have already lost too much in this high risk adventure."

  "Maybe not," Ben said with a frown. It came from nothing he had planned beforehand; frustration said it for him.

  Archette wasn't shaken. "Yes, General?"

  "Maybe we've gained a little." Ben pushed it. "Maybe we've found out a few things that will make this easier for us." He waited. "You want to talk about it?"

  Archette paused. "General," he answered, "the media already has pieces of this experiment. We are in a severely compromised position. I don't believe the situation could become worse." He tested: "Unless, of course, you can explain such a scenario."

  "I'll explain it," Ben growled, leaning forward. "Maybe there's somebody in this room who's committed to seeing Cain survive. Maybe there's someone here who wants to see Trinity fail."

  "And who would that be, General?"

  "You."

  Silence.

  "I see," said Archette, emotionless. "And can you justify this theory? You have some level of proof? Any proof at all? Or is this simply an understandable anger born from your symbiotic relationship with Soloman?" He stared. "General, please understand me. I know how you must feel. Soloman is in the field fighting something that no one should be forced to fight. But you are allowing your sentiments to color your judgment. And, at this stage, more than any other, we must commit ourselves to reorganization and order. The Trinity Failsafe has failed. We must remain focused and decide alternate means of eliminating this threat."

  "I am," Ben said, meeting the gaze. "That's why I'm going head-to-head with you."

  Everyone else in the room leaned back, removing themselves from the confrontation; it was an automatic act of self-preservation because whatever was being said could take down carefully crafted careers. Ben saw it and sensed it and it didn't affect him at
all. He continued to stare at Archette, adding, "You know, Archette, you really gravel me. I don't think I like you at all."

  Unperturbed, Archette replied, "General, we are all under stress. And stress can sometimes alter judgment and personality. You are a professional soldier. Try to remember yourself as such."

  "I have."

  "You don't seem to," Archette said solidly. "We are in—"

  "I know what we're in." Ben shut him down. "You know what we're in. And nobody else in this room has a clue." And Ben smiled; the contemptuous smile of a man who was willing to throw thirty years of military service to the wind. He even surprised himself.

  "You thought nobody would ever figure it out, didn't you?" Ben continued. "But you made a mistake, son. You covered your tracks too good. And no track at all is the best place to start sometimes. Yeah, you were too careful. Too smart by half."

  Archette responded. "General, you are making vague but serious accusations. Are you saying that—"

  "I'm saying that you wanted Trinity to fail. You approved Trinity but you didn't know that Soloman would be a factor. There was no personnel, just a plan. But when Soloman got involved you got scared because you knew he might actually be able to hunt this thing down and put it in the dirt. No, I don't have any proof because you're too smart to leave any. But I'm going to find somebody, in the end, who will talk. Then I'm going to haul you before a tribunal and you can spin this yarn to them. But it ain't gonna go easy on you, 'cause I'll be there. And you'll curse the day you ever heard my name."

  "This release of absurd anger is not the purpose of our meeting, General." Archette s gaunt face was unshaken. "We are here to decide an effective means of terminating the Trinity Failsafe."

  "They're finished," Ben grunted. "You'll see to it." He let it settle. "All of this is being recorded by the Office of Security but I don't care ‘cause you're finished. You crossed the line with Soloman, old son. Crossed the line with me. Crossed the line by authorizing Genocide One when you knew what might happen. I may never be able to prove anything but I'm gonna haunt you the rest of your life. 'Cause you can't do this to people. You pushed Soloman’s wife and kid into the street because Soloman was somehow messing up your plans. I know it. I can feel it. Then you tried from the first to negate the Trinity Failsafe because Soloman was recalled to active duty. And you're scared of him. You've always been scared of him."

  "General, try and be civil." Archette was sympathetic, as if dealing with an overstressed patient. "I truly admire Colonel Soloman. Indeed, he is a soldier worthy of respect. And I have done nothing more than deliver my opinion to these inquiries. I have no secret agenda and I am willing to open myself once again to investigation should you accuse me of such. But a catastrophe is on the table and we must deal with it effectively. We must decide an alternate approach because Trinity is obviously inadequate."

  "Your opinion," Ben growled. "In my opinion, Trinity has gone above and beyond. They've lost almost every man on the team and they're still fighting. They've got less than they've ever had and they're closer to winning this thing than they ever were. So patronize these other idiots, Archette. But don't lie to me. I've got your number."

  "General." Archette was painfully patient. "I will be more than generous in any investigation you wish to initiate. But we must decide on Trinity. That is the issue at hand." He was eminently forgiving. "The rest of what you declare can be dealt with at a later time."

  Silence.

  It was a brief war of wills, but Ben knew he couldn't overcome the chair of this meeting. Archette would navigate the debate to his own course, and there was nothing he could do about it.

  But if Soloman or the kid were hurt, Ben knew, Hell itself would pay.

  ***

  Aveling finished the conversation with a remarkably excited Monsignor Balcanza—as if the old priest had found his World War II blood electrified by the game—and did not look at Barth as he returned to the room. As Aveling strolled, his face was a study in stony concentration.

  "And what did the Monsignor discover?" Barth finally asked. "Did his reply fulfill your suspicions?"

  "There are several families," Aveling said. "But there is one that is far, far above the rest. It is old, and virtually unknown. But we do know of it."

  He turned to the window, pensive. "It is on Long Island. They are ... rich beyond measure, and discreet rumors have intimated that they have strong intelligence contacts. We have never confronted them."

  "And now?" Barth was steady. "Will you commit us to this, Aveling?"

  "Yes," he said. "And that will be the risk because, as you say, I could be deceived by my own cunning. I could be chasing a serpent in the sea with no light to guide me through the green depths." He paused. "Use one of our more skilled people to contact this general, Benjamin Hawken. He and Soloman are apparently close friends, and we must decide to trust someone – a necessary risk. And I speak not as a priest; I speak as a man who loves someone as a son, and knows the value of sacrifice. So give this general our suspicions and then provide him with the address of these people on Long Island. If the CIA agent goes to this location, then our gambit is confirmed. From that point, it is in the hands of this man. And God."

  Exhausted, Barth rose to his feet. "How much longer, Aveling? How much longer must we endure?"

  "To the end," Aveling said, concentrating. "To the end."

  ***

  Frowning, Soloman slowly picked up the phone. Said nothing.

  "Sol?"

  "Yeah. I'm here."

  "We've been recalled," Ben said flatly. "I fought with all of them but Archette was chairing. He's got his own agenda and you need to be careful. They denied me every extension of funds and equipment. Recalled all of us. I'm sorry, buddy."

  Soloman's laugh was frightening. "You tell 'em that it's too late for that. If they want to recall me, they can kill me. That's the only way they're taking me out of the field."

  There was a disturbing silence and Ben lowered his voice. "Look, Sol, this line ain't secure and, I'm telling you, Archette says it's over. Officially over. We're out of funds and support."

  "I know the line's not secure, Ben." Soloman's voice held a bitter edge. "That's why I'm saying it. I'm going to get Amy back and if they want me out of the game, they can kill me."

  "Look, Sol, I'm serious about this." There was no exasperation in the tone, just anger. "And believe me, buddy, if they have to put you in irons until this is over, they will. Our papers are canceled. Passports are recalled. Customs has shut us down."

  Soloman's bitter smile didn't fade. "Tell 'em to go ahead." He was emotionless because all human emotion had been burned from him, replaced with a suicidal rage. "But if they try to put me in irons, somebody could get themselves killed. There's a little girl out there, Ben, and I'm going to find her."

  Nothing was said for a time but Soloman could almost hear Ben pondering.

  "Sol," he continued, "listen to me on this, and listen good. I think they're sending over a team for you. They want you out. And I can advise you that you should expect to be arrested. They're not going to let you run off ..." Ben was silent a moment. "... like you did before."

  A grimace twisted Soloman's face and he slowly sat up. Something had been hit hard, awakened by the words—something he'd strangely forgotten in the horror of the night. He stood with profound purpose and Marcelle caught the commitment. Sister Mary Francis focused on him as he released a heavy sigh directly into the phone.

  "You're right, Ben." His voice held an air of disappointment. "Tell them that I'll go peacefully. I won't make any trouble."

  "I'll tell 'em, Sol." Ben hesitated. "The good guys left a few minutes ago, so they should be there within ten minutes. And good luck."

  Soloman hung up and motioned silently to Marcelle. Then he pointed to Mary Francis and the bedroom where Maggie lay and the old nun moved fast, her black cloak flowing.

  Soloman peeked out the front window and saw nothing, but didn't trust it. He spun as
the priest came up, "Do your people have the resources to finish this, Marcelle?"

  Marcelle nodded hard and Soloman returned the gesture in a secret pact as the Mother Superior emerged, half-supporting Maggie. She was still groggy from the sedative and Soloman lifted her strongly in his arms. Marcelle opened the door and they descended the steps of the town house. They reached the car, a new LTD, in seconds.

  Dropping Maggie in the backseat Soloman snapped open the trunk and moved to the rear of the vehicle, jerking out the radio module to hurl it into the street, where it was snatched up by a group of high school kids. Then Marcelle settled beside him in the front seat as Soloman backed the car, Mother Superior Mary Francis supporting Maggie's head in the back.

  Marcelle whispered, "The radio?"

  "Has a GPS in it," Soloman said as he threw the car into drive and they broke into traffic. "Do you have a place we can hide until Maggie wakes up from the sedative?"

  "Yes," Marcelle replied immediately, indicating a turn. "The Church is not unqualified for the task." He gripped the seat as Soloman hung an extremely hard left. "We will finish this alone?"

  "Yes!" Soloman shouted, livid. "They're pulling the plug on us. They'll probably turn it over to the CIA. It doesn't matter. Amy will be dead by the time they find Cain. And I'm not going to let that happen."

  "The FBI is hunting us?"

  "Every intelligence agency in this world is hunting us."

  Soloman hung a hard turn, the LTD fishtailing. "But they can be beat. I've beat 'em before!"

  Marcelle started violently. "When?"

  "When I—"

  Soloman gritted his teeth as he chaotically crossed the curb to take the sidewalk, pedestrians scattering wildly. Then the LTD was on the street again, busting the light to get clear.

  "For my daughter!"

  Marcelle held the roof as Soloman hit another turn.

  "Did you save her?" the priest shouted.

  Soloman's reply was hard in hate.

  "No."

  ***

  Amy had stared for hours and yet the man had not moved. Sometimes his lips moved in a dark whisper but his eyes remained closed, his head bowed and motionless.