Rubicon

by Gareth Worthington

  “And where are we meant to stay?” Nikolaj’s frustration was growing. “Any equipment we may have had was on the damn plane.”

  “C’mon man, give me some credit.” KJ raised an arm for Leo to hold and was yanked to his feet. “We’re not too far from a WCS trail. Just up ahead should be some bamboo sleeping nests suspended in the trees. You think I’d land us in the middle of nowhere?”

  Catherine stormed off ahead. “You think of everything,” she called over her shoulder.

  “I try!” KJ called, and began limping after her, K’awin in tow.

  The others followed behind.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Location: Tocayōtla, somewhere in China

  Victoria paced inside her sleeping quarters, buried underneath her vast temple. A simple room with a metal bed, a doorless wardrobe, and an uncomfortable-looking chair. She stormed into the sparse en-suite bathroom, her angry reflection in the cabinet mirror growing larger with her approach. She placed both hands on the cold, white sink and stared into her own icy eyes. She had aged slower than most, thanks to her spliced DNA. But her inner youth had been sapped—no stolen—by men like Kelly Graham, by the US government, by the Doyen.

  The mirror shattered as Victoria slammed her forehead into it. In the remains of the silvered glass, she watched tributaries of blood meander down her face. A thousand small gashes leaked her life away. Of course, within a few minutes they already began to heal.

  Victoria focused on the wounds as they sewed themselves closed. If it weren’t for her ability to heal, she might die from such injuries. No one cared about her. After years of loyal service, the Doyen still favored that defiant little bitch Svetlana over Victoria. Long ago, he listened. The explosive tattoos had been her idea. The army created from Russian orphans had been created on her advice—an army needed to both capture the Huahuqui and form the Phalanx. Yet he grew weak. His love for the Huahuqui and the children blinding him to their purpose as tools in the greater plan. Victoria had wanted absolute control. A decade ago, she’d achieved it, only to have the Doyen dismiss her work as out of alignment with the Nine Veils philosophy.

  The monitor flickered, the image temporarily freezing and sliding across the glass, before resuming the live feed from inside the makeshift laboratory. A young boy sat on a steel chair in the middle of the dusty room comprised of sand-colored stone and lit by a single unshaded bulb hanging from the ceiling. A simple, dirty and tattered garment was draped about his skinny frame, leaving his bony arms and legs bare. Lank black hair obscured his face. In a wire cage by his side lay the gaunt form of a Huahuqui. Even in the grainy image, it was clear the animal’s skin and gills were desiccated and brittle.

  Victoria glanced at the Doyen, who stood next to her, arms folded, and brow furrowed. “Watch. Just watch,” she said.

  The Doyen didn’t reply, fixated on the jittery monitor feed.

  “Unlike our army comprised of Russian orphans,” Victoria continued, “the Nenets’ bond to the Huahuqui and exposure to the Americans means they are not so easily manipulated. Even the use of the explosive tattoo does not seem to curb their defiance. Their own death means little to them.”

  The Doyen met her cold gaze; but expressed no emotion. No look of eager anticipation as she had hoped. “What kind of control are you talking about, Victoria?” he asked.

  “I began with the basics, retreading the steps of Project MKUltra; a covert operation carried out by the CIA in the 1950s that lasted nearly 20 years,” Victoria said. “LCD, barbiturates, amphetamines, hypnosis, sound therapy, electroconvulsive therapy.”

  The leader of the Nine Veils shuffled uncomfortably. “We should not need such methods. The Huahuqui are divine. They will understand the great plan, and thus so will the children.”

  Victoria snorted. “And yet they are yet to perform as our Russian army does.” She ran a handkerchief across her lips. “Just as the CIA, I had little success. Subjects died when exposed to the mind-altering drugs and other torturous techniques. Sent mad, the Huahuqui drove their heads into the walls until their skulls cracked, their bonded children suffering from phantom injuries to the brain which could only be attributed to their telepathic connection. It was an abject failure. Until now.”

  Victoria slipped a hand-held radio from her belt and keyed it up. “Send it in.”

  On the screen a door opened, and another figure entered—a young man wearing riot armor and brandishing a two-meter-long staff with syringes attached to both ends. He inched forward, slid the first syringe through the bars of the cage and jabbed the needle into the flesh of the Huahuqui. The liquid inside drained into the animal. He yanked it out, twirled the staff 180 degrees and quickly jabbed the young man in the thigh. Again, the syringe emptied.

  Victoria held her breath, though not so visibly as to show her keenness.

  The concoction in the syringes contained The Devil’s Breath, a drug popular among organ thieves in South America, derived from the seeds of the Borrachero tree. The active ingredient, scopolamine, had the ability to rob people of their free will, making them susceptible to suggestion. The problem had been dosing correctly—just enough for a lasting effect without killing them, little enough to allow them to still be useful. One gram of The Devil’s Breath could kill up to fifteen people. Throwing in a little hallucinogenic provided the visions everyone believed they’d see once penetrating the last veil. Today, she’d had an epiphany and added one more ingredient. She called her creation: The Eye of God.

  The Huahuqui in the cage began to convulse, its thrashes jolting the cage left and right. The youth’s bound limbs jerked against the restraints, his fight becoming more vigorous until he finally threw his head back and let out a terrible scream through a gnarled mouth. The room became silent and still.

  The armored soldier looked up to the camera, waiting for instruction.

  Victoria studied the monitor then simply said into the radio, “proceed.”

  The guard gingerly stepped up to the cage and unlocked it, then pulled a revolver from his belt and placed it into the limp hand of the boy. He curled the young man’s fingers around the weapon to ensure a weak grip, then backed off a few paces.

  Slowly, the Huahuqui crawled from its cage, dragging its belly across the dusty floor. With each step of its alligator-like gait, the animal seemed to grow a little stronger, a little more lucid. In the chair, the prisoner’s head lolled but steadily his neck gained strength and his back straightened until he was upright, chest rising and falling with quick breaths.

  The Doyen turned to Victoria, his eyes wide.

  Victoria pressed a key on the makeshift dash in front of her that read lock, then pulled on a microphone stalk so that the foam tip aligned with her lips. “Zoika, my little symbiotic friend,” she began.

  The Huahuqui cocked its head at hearing the voice over the intercom.

  “The guard, tear his armor off,” Victoria finished.

  Without hesitation, the creature pounced, landing on the guard’s chest with all four limbs. Together, they crashed into the stony ground, a cloud of dust puffing up around them. The Huahuqui began clawing at the man’s chest and arms, ripping the ballistic gear from him as he fruitlessly struggled underneath the animal’s weight and strength.

  “Enough,” Victoria commanded.

  Zoika climbed off and paced back and forth like a trapped tiger—its stare never leaving the guard, who had scrambled to the exit and was banging his fists on a door that would not open.

  Victoria pulled on the microphone again, licked her lips and said: “Nyalku. Shoot him.”

  The frail boy rose from his chair and leveled the revolver at the guard who had no time to beg for his life. Nyalku pulled the trigger and instantly the man’s chest peeled open. He slumped into a bloody heap against the doorframe.

  The Doyen stared at the screen, still agog.

  “Good,” Victoria said. “Now shoot Zoika.”

  Nyalku turned to the animal, pointed the barrel at her head and
blasted a whole through her eye. Zoika flopped to the floor and leaked blood from her open face into the dirt.

  “No!” the Doyen screamed.

  “And now you,” Victoria said. “Put the gun to you head and pull the trigger.”

  Nyalku lifted the gun to his temple.

  The Doyen had grabbed the microphone. “No, Nyalku stand down! Throw the weapon away!”

  “What are you doing?” Victoria spat.

  “This is an abomination. The Huahuqui are sacred. This must end now. Get him out of there. Find another way.” The Doyen stormed from her laboratory, believing his word was final.

  It wasn’t.

  Victoria wiped the blood from her face and watched the last of the wounds zip closed. She had found another way, but not abandoned her greatest work. Even all those years ago, she had known her creation would be needed. And now, at the penultimate stage she was right. There could be no resistance to her vision. From the Doyen, Svetlana, or anyone else.

  Location: Buenos Aires, Argentina

  Jonathan stared out of the Chevrolet Suburban window, lost in thought. Freya was so angry he hadn’t chased after KJ. But, how could he? The greatest terrorist threat ever known had suddenly emerged from nearly two decades of silence and somehow taken over every nuclear power station on the planet. More than four hundred reactors exploding simultaneously would throw a radioactive cloud into the atmosphere that would likely kill anything on the Earth’s surface—slowly and painfully. The CIA were looking for the Nine Veils, and his NSA colleagues were tasked with regaining control of the stations. His mission, though a long shot, was to find a way to beat the Nine Veils. As much as Freya—and he—hated it, KJ would have to wait.

  Early morning traffic outside the Federal Government Office on Avenue Rivadavia had slowed his progress to a crawl. Across the narrow street sat on an intersection was the main building of the AFI. It was an unassuming, brown stone building with rows and rows of square windows and arches on the ground floor—just like every other structure on the adjoining Avenue 25 de Mayo. Where US Federal agency buildings were heavily fortified, here one could be forgiven for passing by it never knowing who, or what, was inside.

  To Jonathan, the lack of security seemed a little arrogant given that the rebel group, Resistencia Ancestral Mapuche, had increased its attack frequency in the seventeen years following the revelation of the Huahuqui’s existence. RAM believed the Huahuqui to be Ngen-ko—water spirits in their religion—and thus a sign that their mission to make Chile and Argentina a Mapuche nation was divine. Frankly, he’d rather be anywhere but here, but duty called and as always Jonathan answered.

  He took a deep breath and held it for a moment, then opened the door of the SUV. Before his security contingent could argue, Jonathan jumped down to the road and worked his way through stationary yellow and black cabs and beat up Toyotas, dodging the menagerie of motorcycles that jostled through the gaps. Teller glanced back to see two of his newly assigned team, Higgs and Hicks, hop down and chase after him.

  After announcing himself at the reception desk, and confirming his meeting with the Director General of the AFI, Jonathan and his men were escorted through security—being made to hand over their weapons for inspection and pass through the mandatory metal detectors. As Jonathan stood there, arms wide for the pat down, he surveyed the inside: museum-like, with potted plants and paintings of confident-looking Argentinian leaders adorning the walls.

  Jonathan knew better.

  The AFI had a long history of shady deals and its fair share of corruption allegations. Initially it was formed to arrange the post-war transport of Nazi war criminals to Argentina—the whole reason Jonathan was here. Since the 1940s it had changed remit and even name several times. In the last few decades alone it had been known as SIDE, SI and now the AFI, been involved in domestic spying on a scale that rivalled the level seen in Eastern Europe before the fall of the Berlin wall and was implicated in collusion with Iranian-led terrorist attacks.

  “Mr. Teller,” came a heavily Argentinian-Spanish-accented voice, breaking Jonathan’s train of thought. “To what do I owe the pleasure of the NSA’s most highly regarded officer? A key member of Alpha Base as well!”

  Jonathan received and holstered his Glock, then turned to the balding man who approached with two security contingent—one with a thick beard, the other thinner with a moustache. The Director General of the AFI, Juan Peron, was short and with a square head and dark narrow eyes. Known to be a charismatic man who laughed a lot, he was still shrewd and made few public appearances. Leaving his office to meet Jonathan was already suspicious.

  “Director Peron,” Jonathan started, and offered a hand. “Nice of you to meet us at the front door.”

  Peron shook Jonathan’s hand vigorously. “It is not every day we have a celebrity in the building. At least you are a celebrity in the spy world, Mr. Teller.” The Director winked and gave a sly smile.

  “Indeed.”

  “Shall we walk?” Peron asked.

  “Sure,” Jonathan said.

  The two men started a slow walk to the staircase.

  “I like to take the stairs,” Peron said. “Keep these old legs working.”

  “Be my guest,” Jonathan replied, then said, “Security seems a little light.”

  The Director shrugged. “If you are referring to RAM, their attacks tend to be nothing more than roadblocks and demonstrations. They don’t have the cajones to man an actual offensive strike.”

  “That’s not the way I hear it,” Teller said. “Didn’t they hit the Palace of Justice not two weeks ago? Took a judge hostage, no?”

  “For six hours, Mr. Teller. It was always in our control.”

  “Uh huh,” Teller replied.

  “Would you like to tell me why you are here?”

  “I need to have a poke around your vault, or wherever you keep your Nazi hoard,” Jonathan said as the two men ascended the stairs, security in tow.

  Peron stopped mid stride, half way up the staircase, a quizzical expression etched into his leathery face. “Que?” he said. “Nazi hoard?”

  “Yeah. You know, the big ol’ archive of crap you guys keep in storage from after the war. You know you have it. We know you have it. So, let’s cut the bullshit and get to the bit where you give me access.”

  The Director continued to climb the stairwell, talking without looking at Teller. “If we had such an archive, which we don’t Mr. Teller, might I know what NSA would be looking for? What possible use could you have for trinkets more than 80 years old?”

  “I can’t tell you that,” Jonathan said. “But what I can tell you, is that it may help to fight the bastards who just took control of all the nuclear power stations. You have three, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “Four,” Peron replied, opening the door to his office. “One came online last month. Our people are working on the problem. We will have control again soon.”

  Both sets of security waited outside.

  The office felt regal. Dark-wood shelving filled with red and green leather-bound books, Chesterfield couches worn but cared for, gold gilding on anything that could be gilded, and of course an oversized oil painting of Peron himself hanging behind his desk.

  “And whatever it is you seek, you believe it can help in this situation?” the Director asked.

  “It might.”

  “A little trust would go a long way, Mr. Teller,” Peron said, sarcasm dripping from his words, as he sat behind his large timber desk.

  “The AFI aren’t known for being... trustworthy, Director,” Jonathan replied, leaning back into his chair.

  “And the NSA aren’t supposed to have field agents, Mr. Teller. But you seem to have enjoyed many a military flight.”

  “Touché.” Jonathan considered his approach. There was no way the Director was going to just give him access, and if he told Peron what he was looking for then he’d not get access and the Argentinians would have it. Right now, he just needed to know where it might be.
“How about this. You let me look, and if I find it, I’ll tell you.”

  “You say what you are looking for may be able to stop those who are now in control of the reactors, yes? But, it seems to me this may have more to do with our fishy friends, no?”

  Teller narrowed his eyes. He was now convinced the orb was here, or at least in Buenos Aires.

  “Come, Mr. Teller. We are all friendly spies here. We know what you know.”

  “Then you already know what I’m looking for,” Teller replied.

  Peron’s grin grew into a gap-toothed smile. “Touché.”

  “Look we can play this horseshit spy game all day. Or you can just give me what I came for. The US government would be willing to pay.”

  “Let’s say I know what you’re looking for. I couldn’t give it to you, anyway.”

  “Fuck sake–”

  The building shook, vibrations reaching from deep within the foundations and pulsing up the walls. Both Teller’s and Peron’s security contingent burst into the room.

  “Must be a breech,” one of the American’s said. “We need to leave.”

  The only door in or out was closed and locked, the four security men pointing their hand guns at it. Gun fire rattled from somewhere on a lower floor. Peron and Teller crouched down.

  “Do we know who it is?” Teller said, pulling the slide on his Glock.

  “Resistencia Ancestral Mapuche,” replied one of Peron’s men.

  Teller turned to the Director. “No cajones, eh?”

  “If they’ve bothered to do this, then they are here for you, Mr. Teller. An Alpha Base operative with direct access to the Huahuqui. To their Ngen-ko.”

  Teller paused. Peron was an asshole, but he wasn’t wrong. The likelihood was they were here for him. “Shit. We need to get the hell out of here.” Teller grabbed a handheld radio from his belt and keyed it up. “Delta Six we have a hostile gorilla in the play pen. Do you have eyes on? Copy.”

  “Delta Six. We Don’t have eyes on. Permission to enter playpen. Copy.”

  Jonathan turned to Peron’s men. “Any idea how many we’re dealing with?”