by Adam Blake
Nahir winced, and shook his head. He seemed to think this whole spectacle was beneath his dignity.
‘There were treaties,’ Rush said, with deep reluctance.
Diema turned to him. ‘Go on.’
‘In the seventeenth century. Sometimes countries would give away or trade ownership of colonies, either to prevent a war or to share out the proceeds after one. I found a whole bunch of them.’
Diema was still looking at him expectantly. So was Kuutma. Rush shrugged. ‘I don’t think I can remember.’
‘Try,’ Diema said tightly.
Rush scowled and stared at the floor. ‘The Spice Islands,’ he said. ‘West Coast of … India, I think. They were given to England in the 1660s. It’s the right time for Toller, but there wasn’t a swap involved. I mean, they weren’t given for an island. They were part of a dowry. When Catherine of Braganza married Charles II.’
‘Then they’re probably out,’ said Diema. ‘What else?’
Rush thought some more. ‘The Azores kept changing hands between Spain and Portugal, all through the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. So did the Madeira archipelago. There were a whole bunch of treaties where they swapped control over one island or another, abandoned forts, leased land, that kind of thing. You could probably say that any one of those islands had been given for another island at one time or another.’
‘Not enough people,’ Kennedy said, remembering Gilles Bouchard’s sleeve notes. ‘Even now, Madeira doesn’t top a quarter of a million. And the Azores are even smaller.’
‘Okay,’ Rush said. ‘Well, there’s Paulu Run, in Indonesia. Britain gave it to the Dutch in 1667 and got Manhattan – which is when New Amsterdam became New York. Martinique is possible. That was French, then British, then French again, all around the time when Toller was writing. Grenada. The French took the indigenous population out of there in the 1640s, which again is about right for Toller, and pushed them onto the smaller islands in the Grenadines. So you could say they gave an island for an island. And there are others. I can’t remember the details, but Aruba fits. So does Tasmania. Abel Tasman was resupplying his ship in Budapest at a time when Toller might still have been here.’
Rush shook his head. ‘The truth is,’ he said, ‘you could make a case for any island you want, pretty much. The big European powers back then, they had big, colony-swapping parties where everyone put their car keys in a bowl. We’re not going to get there this way.’
They absorbed this in silence. Diema let her hands fall to her sides, then balled her fists. An image flashed into Kennedy’s mind, suddenly and powerfully: Alex Wales, in the boardroom at Ryegate House, in the moment before he exploded into violence.
‘It’s … Manhattan,’ Tillman said.
A change came over all the Elohim in the room. They tried to hide it, and it was gone as quickly as it came – their ferocious self-control reasserted itself that quickly. But for a moment they looked the same way they’d looked when Diema had made her comment about forcing God’s hand.
‘Why?’ Kuutma said quickly.
Tillman stared at him, his eyes swimming in and out of focus. ‘Because High Energy Haulage … shipped there.’
‘We have that information,’ Nahir said. ‘From the computer files Ber Lusim left behind. High Energy did send a shipment there – but it wasn’t weapons. It was food products.’
‘Manhattan,’ Tillman murmured again, more weakly.
‘What food products?’ Kuutma asked Nahir.
‘Beans.’
‘Beans?’
‘Castor beans.’
‘Those aren’t food,’ Diema said savagely.
‘Natural … natural source …’ Tillman mumbled.
‘Of the ricin toxin,’ Kuutma finished. ‘I salute you, little sister. And you, Mr Tillman. Nahir, you’ve closed the local airspace. Open it again. Do whatever it takes. Diema and I will leave for New York at once.’
He opened the door and stood aside for her to step through. Diema remained where she was.
And took a breath.
PART SIX
THE THRESHING
FLOOR
64
The Borough of Manhattan extends beyond the Island that gives it its name, carving out a foothold on the mainland in the shape of Marble Hill – ‘the Bronx’s Sudetenland’. But on the island itself, if you keep on going north about as far as you can, just before you hit the Harlem River you hit Inwood.
It’s a seriously schizophrenic neighbourhood, anyone will tell you that, but there’s some disagreement as to exactly where the divide comes. Some people claim it’s East-West, with Broadway separating a larger East Side full of mostly Dominican families, maybe two or three generations out of the Republic and as aspirational as hell, from a smaller and more Bohemian West Side full of artists, writers and second-stringers from the city’s many orchestras. Others say the distinction that matters is up-down. Inwood is either your first beachhead in Manhattan real estate, with a view to going south along with your rising fortunes, or else it’s your swan song before you hit the boroughs.
And then there’s a third distinction, of which most of Inwood’s general population are entirely unaware: between those who live above the ground and those who live under it. Because from Isham Park in the North to Fort George Hill in the South, from 10th Avenue to Payson, and from 30ft to 700ft below the street, Inwood is the current location of Ginat’Dania, the peripatetic homeland of the Judas People.
Within that volume of space, whose combined ground area across all of its levels is close to five hundred square miles, the entire population of the People, apart from the tiny diaspora already defined, live and work and dream and die. Six high-rise blocks wholly owned and staffed by the People’s guardians, the Elohim, form its periscopes and its guard towers, but most of the citizenry never visit these above-ground extrusions. They’re accustomed to the rhythms and logistics of life underground, to the point where ‘underground’ ceases to be part of their frame of reference.
Ginat’Dania, the Eden Garden from which the rest of humanity was long ago expelled, is where they live.
And to Ginat’Dania Kuutma now returned, in order to begin its defence in depth.
By the time he touched down at Newark and went through customs, it was nine minutes after 11 a.m. Since Eastern Standard Time is five hours before Greenwich Meantime, that meant that there were seven hours and fifty-one minutes left on the clock. Zero hour would be seven that evening. Kuutma was already giving orders to his Messengers as he was being driven through the streets of New Jersey, and the first Messengers were mobilising and moving out by the time he reached the island of Manhattan and descended into his home.
The first and most important consideration was to seal and guard the borders. To this end, Kuutma gave orders for the surface streets at Thayer, Nagle Avenue and along the eastern limits of Inwood Hill Park to be undermined with earthworks so that they would start to collapse. The New York City authorities promptly closed the affected streets for repairs, re-routing traffic via the bridge at University Heights. Cars could still come and go along the full length and breadth of the island, obviously, but if Ber Lusim was carrying his poison in trucks, they wouldn’t be able to pass directly into the territory under which Ginat’Dania lay.
That left air and water as potential approaches. Elohim were sent to search all known private airfields around the city, looking mainly for microlight aircraft small enough to be exempt from safety inspections and federal monitoring. Satellite footage was being examined in order to identify any potential runways whose location was disguised.
As far as the water went, dockside warehouses were being searched at the same time, as well as ships on the river that were in fixed moorage. The factory in which Ber Lusim had extracted and refined his poison had already been identified from archived satellite footage, which showed the red liveried trucks of the High Energy Haulage company making a delivery there more than a month before. But it had clearly been abando
ned for some time. There was nothing there now except some industrial waste, sacks of raw chemicals and several hundredweight of castor beans that had not been pulped and processed. The location of the factory was a calculated insult: it was in Marble Hill, looking directly across the Harlem River towards the northern tip of Manhattan Island. Ber Lusim, who they had sought around the world, had built his weapon of mass destruction within walking distance of Ginat’Dania itself.
It was true the Elohim’s search was hampered by their having no idea of what that armament might be, and what it might look like. But it was also true that they could rule out some possibilities and concentrate on others that were more likely. Ricin was extremely difficult to weaponise. It had a high toxicity, but it was most effective in solid form, either as a pellet or as a poisonous coating on some form of scatter munition. The amount required to kill a million people would be measured in tons, and each of the victims would have to be directly exposed to the toxin: there was no way its effects could be transmitted from one person to another.
All of these factors worked in their favour. But Ber Lusim had known these things, too, and had still chosen ricin over a wide range of other toxic agents such as sarin, botulinum, smallpox or anthrax, which might have been more convenient or more efficacious. It followed that he had a plan for delivering the poison across the city, or at least across enough of the city to kill a million of its inhabitants.
Would he really attack Ginat’Dania itself? The thought was terrible, but it had a monstrous logic of its own. Shekolni had believed completely and fervently in Johann Toller’s divine inspiration, and Toller, in his book, had described God choosing those who would be saved. Who else would he choose but the Judas People? And therefore, where else could the final atrocity be unleashed?
So Ginat’Dania was in a state of siege, all of its citizens in lockdown, all of its entry and exit points fortified and guarded, all of its Messengers answerable directly to Kuutma himself, who sent a constant stream of instructions and queries from his rooms in het retoyet.
Or almost all.
Coming from a tiny commercial airfield much further out from the city, a good hour behind Kuutma because of the complications involved in transporting one of its passengers, an armoured truck bearing the logo of a well-known security firm was also headed for Manhattan. In its innards, not quite imprisoned and yet not quite free, was the small group that had been deputed to Diema’s command. It consisted of Diema herself, Desh Nahir, Kuutma’s two bodyguards Alus and Taria, and the three Adamites. Tillman. Kennedy. Rush.
Kuutma frowned as he thought about them. The memory of that last hour in Budapest still troubled him. He had heard Diema out – he owed her that, and more. But he was far from sure that he had made the right decision.
‘I need the three of them to come with me,’ Diema had said. ‘You see that, Tannanu, don’t you? The reason why you sent me to them – it wasn’t just because they can kill where we can’t. It’s because they see things differently from the way we see them, and we need their expertise. It was with their help that I got this far. It would be blind stupidity to give up that help now, while we still might need it. Let them come with us, to New York.’
Nahir made a sound of disgust, deep in his throat.
‘You disagree, Nahir?’
‘It makes no sense, Tannanu. If you need their input, speak to them by phone or address your requirements to me and I’ll speak to them for you. There’s no need for them to accompany you. It would even be better that way, since Tillman is probably too weak to be moved. You’d risk killing him in transit – which Diema Beit Evrom surely wouldn’t want, if he’s such a valuable asset.’
‘We can’t predict what we’ll find and what we’ll need,’ Diema countered. ‘It may be that we’ll need Tillman to accompany us, as weak as he is, and give us his insights. It’s not about safeguarding his health. It’s about keeping him where he can do the most good.’
‘And Kennedy, likewise?’ Kuutma asked.
‘Yes. Exactly.’
‘And the boy?’
Diema didn’t answer. Which was an answer in itself.
‘Very well,’ Kuutma said. ‘We’ll take the rhaka. And Tillman, too, though I find it hard to believe we’ll use him in the way you suggest. But the boy stays. Once we’re gone, Nahir can dispose of him as he sees fit.’
Diema tensed visibly, as though she was steeling herself for some intense physical effort.
‘Benjamin Rush is the father of my child,’ she said, ‘who is not yet born.’
Kuutma’s shock at hearing this was as great as Nahir’s, but unlike Nahir, he was able to keep the shock from showing on his face or in his actions.
Nahir, by contrast, cried out, a wordless yell of disgust and protest. He took a step towards Diema, his hand raised as though he intended to strike her. She took a combat stance herself, ready to defend against the attack.
‘What is this?’ Kuutma asked her coldly. ‘What is this thing you say? You’re Elohim, not Kelim.’
‘Now I’m both,’ she said.
‘You’re a whore!’ Nahir bellowed. ‘A filthy whore!’
She gave him a look of cool derision. ‘You need to learn some new curse words, Desh Nahir. Vary your repertoire. It would be terrible if you became dull.’
‘Desh Nahir makes a reasonable assumption,’ Kuutma broke in, grinding out the words. ‘If he’s wrong, tell me why. How did this happen?’
Diema stared into his eyes. ‘It happened, Tannanu, in this wise,’ she said. ‘I gave myself to the boy in order to win his trust – and through him, the trust of Heather Kennedy. It was part of my mission, I took no pleasure in it, but neither did I hesitate. Other Elohim have done such things, many times. But I miscounted my days and fell pregnant. And in that, obviously, I was at fault.’
‘At fault?’ Nahir almost screamed. ‘This foulness—’
Kuutma silenced him with a curt gesture. ‘Go on,’ he said to Diema.
‘And so,’ she said, ‘I was faced with a choice. I could have terminated the pregnancy. It would have been no shame. But the wombs of the daughters of the People are the portals through which the Blessed enter the world. I decided to be delivered of the child, if I can carry it to term. And once that decision was made, I was thenceforth Kelim and Ben Rush was my partner, the man with whose seed I must be sown. Three times, the laws say.’
‘The laws do not cover this!’ Nahir shouted. ‘The laws are silent on this!’
‘It is without precedent,’ Kuutma said.
‘It’s filth and abomination!’
Diema had said her piece. She stood with her head slightly bowed, awaiting Kuutma’s verdict.
And for the first time since he took the mantle of command – his own personal holy of holies – Kuutma was at a loss.
‘Bring me the boy,’ he said at last.
Nahir turned to the nearest of his Elohim, but Alus and Taria, the women who served Kuutma as his bodyguards, had already detached themselves and were gone.
‘Say nothing to him,’ Kuutma warned Diema. ‘I’ll question him myself.’
The women returned, a few seconds later, leading Ben Rush between them. Rush looked anxiously at Diema, who looked pointedly away, then at Nahir, who glared at him like an ogre in a pantomime.
‘Keep your eyes on me,’ Kuutma snapped. Startled, Rush obeyed.
‘If anything has passed between you and our sister,’ Kuutma said, ‘tell us now. Only honesty will save you. A lie dooms you, and ruins her. So speak.’
The boy took a long while to get a word out. And since he was an Adamite, when he did it was a lie. ‘I didn’t touch her,’ he said. His gaze flicked sideways at Diema again.
‘At me,’ Kuutma growled. ‘Only at me. So there was no physical congress? She’s clean? Clean of your pollution?’
The boy was clearly terrified now. Perhaps he had some inkling of what was at stake here; of how close he was to death.
‘I … obviously I came on to he
r,’ he stammered. ‘I thought, you know, I might be in with a chance. So if … yeah. Anything that happened was down to me. But it wasn’t much. She … Diema wasn’t interested. She smacked me in the head, and that was that.’
Kuutma reached out and gripped the boy’s face in his broad hand.
‘You’re saying you didn’t lie with her?’
‘No,’ Rush mumbled. ‘I mean, yes. That’s what I’m saying.’
‘So if she were pregnant, the child could not be yours?’
The boy’s face gave him all the answer he needed. The wonder and terror and stark astonishment that warred there could not be counterfeited.
‘Tannanu, I beg you,’ Nahir said, his voice thick. ‘Kill the Adamites here and now, and be done. The three of them. Nothing is gained by this … this humiliating alliance.’
Kuutma released his hold on the boy and made a brusque gesture. Alus and Taria took Rush away, handling him a good deal more roughly than before.
Nahir’s face, now, was almost as transparent as the boy’s had been. The whole course of his affections for Diema, his hopes, and the crisis into which he was now thrown, could be read there.
‘I will not pronounce on it,’ Kuutma said, speaking mostly to Diema herself. ‘Not yet. The time is too pressing. Diema, I will allow you to bring your Adamite menagerie to New York, and I will guarantee their safety until this threat is dealt with. After that, we will speak further on these matters. For now, we set them aside.’
But Nahir wasn’t quite done. His whole body shaking, he spat out the hrach bishat, the formal execration that made him Diema’s accuser.
‘Are you sure you want this?’ Kuutma asked Nahir.
Nahir made no answer. There was nothing to be said: too much had been said already.
‘You will return with us,’ Kuutma told Nahir. ‘Make the arrangements.’
He pondered that decision now, alone in his room in het retoyet, while in the city around him, his Messengers moved in and out among the Adamites, weaving their invisible skein. Surely so great a concentration of Elohim in one place had never been seen before, in all the ages since Christ’s death. Perhaps Ber Lusim was right: perhaps these were, after all, the end times.
