by Steve Alten
Urban waters, frigid and gray. Eye candy to Realtors and sightseers. Ignored on a daily basis by commuters, nature’s barrier neutered by a dozen bridges and tunnels.
Not today.
A winter sun splashed Manhattan’s skyline in fleeting shimmers of gold. Endless construction slowed traffic to a crawl. Tempers flared. Ten thousand new text messages launched into cyberspace. Steam rose from grates. Islands of heat drew the homeless like moths to a flame. Their indignity ignored by waves of pedestrians. Like the rivers.
Cold bit at exposed earlobes, sniffling noses. Last night’s snow, already trampled into slush. Christmas trees. Festive lights. The scent of hot Danish and cinnamon.
Thursday before Christmas. The approaching holiday energized Manhattan’s returning workforce. Human sardines packed subways and trains. Half a million vehicles turned highways into rush-hour parking lots. Deal makers and hustlers. Shoppers and sellers. Lawyers and layman and parents escorting children to school. Fueled on caffeine and dreams and survival instincts honed after years in the urban jungle. Two million visitors entered Manhattan every day. Add to that figure another 1.7 million residents — all sharing twenty-eight square miles of island.
One hundred thousand human beings occupying every frozen city block. Good and bad, old and young; men, women, and children, representing every age group and nationality on the planet. A slice of humanity, poised on a precipice too large to comprehend, their indifference to the world’s plight soiling any innocence, their deniability culpable.
No snowflake in an avalanche ever feels responsible.
* * *
Commuters inched their way west across the congested Queensboro Bridge — rats preparing to enter the maze. Ignore the drivers whose vehicles bear tri-state tags. Focus instead on the white Honda Civic with the Virginia license plate. The car was a rental, the driver an academic who had always preferred the suburbs to the temptations of big-city life. Yet here she was, having driven all night just to be in Manhattan on this chilly Thursday morning at this precise moment in human history. A virgin to New York, one might expect a case of rush-hour jitters. But the smile on Mary Louise Klipot’s angular face was serene, the thirty-eight-year-old cranberry-apple redhead exuding a calm that only came through inner peace. Hazel eyes, void of makeup and rimmed red from lack of sleep, glanced at the gridlocked drivers to her left. Troubled faces all, she told herself, bearing the constant fear that came from uncertainty.
Mary Klipot was neither afraid nor uncertain. She was in a place beyond worry, beyond the human stain. Faith was a wellspring that drove her convictions, and it ran deep, for she was traveling along a road paved by the Almighty Himself—
— and she was traveling with His child.
Of course, Andrew had tried to convince her otherwise, her fiancé insisting that he was her unborn child’s father. His argument held no sway, coerced by his clear intent to sell Scythe to the military, or to the intelligence community, or to some other rogue black ops group vested in its own geopolitical perversions. Did he think the microbiologist a fool? Baby Jesus his? When had this supposed “act of copulation” taken place? Why couldn’t she remember it?
Having forced the Devil to show his hand, her “betrothed” had spewed a tale of desperation, claiming that they had slept together back in March while vacationing in Cancún. Frustrated sexually, Andrew admitted having slipped a little something into Mary’s rum and cola, unleashing her libido’s bursting dam. It had been a wild night of passion and lust — that Mary had no recollection of the event having more to do with her not wanting to remember than the benign chemical concoction he had used on her.
The poisonous lie had cost Andrew dearly. Having bound her fiancé to the old barn’s center post, she poured acid over his wrists and handcuffs, clear up to his elbows. He had screamed until he passed out, the dilapidated structure’s heavy interior walls dampened the sound, the nearest neighbor more than half a mile away.
Resecuring him to the structure’s center post, she had waited patiently for him to awaken. Finally, she had prodded him with the business end of the 12 gauge.
“Darling Andrew, open your eyes. Mama has something for you.”
The blast had splattered brains and blood and skull shrapnel across the entire back wall and rafters, the heavy jolt spraining her right shoulder, causing Baby Jesus to kick for ten straight minutes. She had rested in the manger until he calmed, then she cleansed the barn with fire, sending her fiancé on his one-way journey to oblivion. Mary had remained behind long enough to convince the local firefighters to allow the ancient structure to burn itself out, then she treated herself to a lobster dinner at the Benito Grill before heading off to her bio lab at Fort Detrick to pack.
The news came on the radio, beckoning her attention.
…world leaders clearly divided on how to deal with Iran, arriving in New York for an emergency session of the UN Security Council. Iran’s Supreme Leader is scheduled to address the Security Council in General Assembly Hall at 9:15 this morning. President Kogelo’s address is tentatively scheduled for 10:30, followed by China’s General Secretary later this afternoon. Meanwhile, the US aircraft carrier, Theodore Roosevelt is expected to join the USS Ronald Reagan battle group already in the Persian Gulf — a direct response to the sale of Russian-made ICBMs to Iran on August 9. Now back to more music on WABC New York.”
Mary powered off the radio, her heart beating faster as she exited the Queensboro Bridge to FDR Drive South — the United Nations complex situated somewhere up ahead. Today she would teach the elitists a lesson. Today they would fully comprehend the meaning of Matthew 5:5. “Blessed are the meek for they shall inherit the earth.”
She glanced at the pile of blankets laid neatly on the passenger-side floor, fighting the urge to pull aside the wool camouflage and gaze upon the hidden object — a metal briefcase containing her key to the Pearly Gates. In God’s time, Mary. The Lord will be with you when you need Him. Don’t anticipate the pain. Focus only on the present…
VA Medical Center
Manhattan, New York
Lost in the past, Patrick Shepherd dreamed…
They are moving down the streets of Baghdad, David Kantor on his right, Eric Lasagna on his left. Three Pied Pipers, followed by a dozen Iraqi children begging for handouts.
David pauses, allowing the young horde to circle his fellow soldiers. “Either of you two ever see Moby Dick?”
“I have,” answers Lasagna. “Gregory Peck as Ahab. Classic.”
“Remember when Ahab told his men to watch the birds, that the birds would tell them when Moby Dick was getting ready to breach? The locals are your birds. They usually sense when trouble is going to happen, so if you see them vacate the street, be ready. The kids are great, just be careful. Fanatics sometimes strap bombs to them, forcing them to approach our troops.”
A bright-eyed, dark-haired seven-year-old girl smiles at Shep, clearly flirting. Reaching into his knapsack, he removes an MRE, the presence of the recognizable portable meal generating excitement. “Okay, let’s see what Uncle Sam has given us today. Anyone interested in two-day-old beef ravioli? No? Can’t say I blame you. Wait, what’s this? M&Ms!”
The children jump and wave and call out in Farsi.
Shep distributes three boxes worth of the chocolate candies so that each child gets an equal share, saving the last double portion for the smiling seven-year-old girl.
She consumes the handful in one palm-sized mouthful, chocolate saliva oozing from her grinning lips. Shep watches her, lost in her big brown eyes — windows to a soul that has witnessed so much pain yet can still lose itself in innocence.
His new friend beams a muddy chocolate smile. She blows him a kiss and runs off—
— her exit ending his momentary reprieve in the eye of the storm, returning him to war.
Morningside Heights
Upper West Side, Manhattan
8:36 A.M.
The Cathedral of St. John the Divine, situated on
thirteen acres just south of Columbia University’s main campus, was the largest cathedral in the world. Built on a promontory overlooking the Hudson River, the Romanesque-Byzantine structure was designed in 1887, yet still remained unfinished.
Pankaj Patel paused on Amsterdam Avenue to gaze at the illustrious House of God. The cathedral was decorated in holiday lights, yet Patel felt anything but festive. It has been more than three months since the professor of psychiatry was accepted into the Society of the Nine Unknown Men, and the stress associated with the clandestine encounter with the Elder still weighed on his mind.
He stared at the cathedral’s Fountain of Peace, its surrounding lawn carpeted white with snow, encircled by bronze animal figures. The detailed carvings depicted the epic struggle of good versus evil — the archangel Michael decapitating Satan, whose horned head hung to one side. One more day until the winter solstice… the day of the dead. If the End of Days is really upon us…
“Dad, come on! I’m going to be late for our holiday party.”
His attention turned to his ten-year-old daughter, Dawn. The girl’s long onyx hair, separated into braids, hung over her winter coat, her dark angelic eyes exuding a combination of anxiety and impatience. “I’m sorry. Was I lost in space again?”
“Totally.” Tugging him by his wrist, she led him toward the entrance of the Cathedral School, a kindergarten-through-eighth-grade elementary school for children of all faiths. “Remember, I’m staying after school for band practice. See you at dinner.”
“Wait!” Catching up with her on the frost-covered lawn, he bent down on one knee. “You know I love you. You are God’s gift to your mother and me, our little angel.”
“Dad”—she touched his cheek with her wool-covered fingers—“now your knee’s all wet.”
With a heavy heart, he watched his only child hustle to join the other children converging upon the school entrance. Brushing at the wet stain on his right pant leg, he continued up Amsterdam Avenue to Columbia University’s East Campus.
Lower East Side, Manhattan
8:44 A.M.
Mary Klipot’s arms trembled as she gripped the steering wheel, her white-knuckled hands clenching the rosary beads. The bumper-to-bumper traffic on First Avenue had not budged in ten minutes, and the police presence along the adjacent United Nations Plaza was everywhere.
Her eyes darted from the digital clock on the dashboard to her rearview mirror. She stared at the four-foot-tall skeleton doll buckled into the back-seat, the figure dressed in a bridal gown and wearing a red wig that matched her own hair. “Santa Muerte, I’m running out of time. Guide me, Angel. Show me the way.”
Moments passed. Then the two lanes on her left miraculously surged forward. She swerved over from her right lane, skidded briefly on a patch of ice, then turned onto East 45th Street, in desperate search of a parking space.
The traffic crawled west, crossing Second Avenue. The parking garages were all full, the snow-piled curbs off-limits. The digital clock advanced to 8:54 A.M. She slapped her palms in frustration on the steering wheel, shattering the rosary beads in the process.
This is no good. You’re heading too far west.
The baby kicked in her belly as she turned right on Third Avenue, then right again on 46th Street. Having looped around the block, she was once more heading east in the direction of the United Nations Plaza. She crossed over Second Avenue, her pulse pounding in her temples. Don’t get stuck on First Avenue again or you’ll be late. She glanced up at the rearview mirror. “Please skinny girl, help me find a place to park.”
The alley on her left was so narrow she nearly passed it. Nestled between two high-rise buildings, it was an alcove reserved only for deliveries. She turned down the path, following it sixty feet until it dead-ended at a steel trash bin.
Cloaked in shadows, allowing for privacy while still within walking distance of the UN — perfect! “Thank you, Santa Muerte. Bless you, my Angel.”
The no parking — violators towed signs were posted everywhere, but she would only be ten minutes, fifteen at the most, and besides, God had led her here, He would never abandon her now. She parked in front of the immense brown trash bin, turning off the car’s engine.
It was time.
Mary pulled away the wool blankets stacked on the passenger-side floor, revealing the metallic attaché case. A biohazard warning label adorned its smooth surface, the USAMRIID logo embellished with a silver scythe.
She pulled the attaché case onto her lap. Turned her attention to its combination lock. Maneuvered the seven digits to 1266621 then flicked open the twin latches.
The steel locks popped open—
— tripped a microcircuit that sent a remote electronic signal to a secured receiver located 245 miles to the south.
US Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases (USAMRIID)
Fort Detrick — Frederick, Maryland
8:56 A.M.
The biodefense laboratories located at USAMRIID were the largest and best equipped of the three facilities in the United States designated to handle highly hazardous microbes. Expanded in 2008, Fort Detrick’s campus now included the National Biodefense Analysis & Countermeasures Center (NBACC), a billion-dollar, 160,000-square-foot complex operated under the auspices of the Department of Homeland Security. The new facility housed approximately sixty thousand square feet of Bio-Safety Level-4 labs, designed to allow researchers to work with the most dangerous germs known in existence.
Dr. Lydia Gagnon’s office was located in Building 1425 on the National Interagency Biodefense Campus (NIBC), one of the original facilities still in use. The pathologist from Ontario finished her second Pepsi of the morning, allowed herself one more minute before she had to leave for her nine o’clock staff meeting. She was in the middle of reading a personal e-mail from her sister when the Internet screen abruptly shut down.
attention: level-4 biohazard breach
The warning flashed over and over, the encrypted message prompting her to enter her security code. She typed in the seven-digit identification number and read, her blue eyes widening in fear behind her prescription glasses. After thirty seconds, she grabbed her office phone and dialed a three-digit extension.
“This is Gagnon in the NIBC. We have a Level-4 biohazard breach — repeat, we have a Level-4 biohazard breach. I want two A.I.T.s on the helodeck ready to deploy in six minutes. Tell Colonel Zwawa I’m on my way up!”
Lower East Side, Manhattan
8:56 A.M.
Mary Klipot opened the metal case, revealing molded foam compartments. There were three items secured inside: An inhaler designed to fit over the nose and mouth, an aerosol injector attachment, and a three-ounce glass vial containing a clear liquid, its capped top sealed with an orange biohazard sticker.
Methodical now, she removed the empty aerosol injector. Unscrewed its top. Placed it in one of the molded compartments so it stood upright. Carefully, she removed the glass vial. Peeled away the decal. Gently poured a single fluid ounce into the bottom of the empty aerosol dispenser.
A breath to calm her nerves. Then she reached into her jacket pocket and withdrew a Plexiglas test tube containing a chalky gray substance. A genetic modifier: The X factor of her labors. She unscrewed the cap, which doubled as the handle to a tiny internal measuring scoop the size of a head of a tack. She filled the scoop with the gray powder. Tapped off the excess. Added the scoop to the clear liquid in the aerosol dispenser, then capped the test tube and placed it in an open foam compartment. Replaced the aerosol dispenser’s lid and gave the sealed ingredients a dozen delicate shakes. Satisfied, she attached the dispenser to the inhaler, then laid the device on the foam padding.
She checked the clock: 8:59 A.M.
From her purse she removed the envelope containing the forged United Nations identification card. Mary glanced at her photo, now assigned the name: Dr. Bogdana Petrova, Russian embassy. Dr. Petrova had been a microbiologist. Mary had met her at an international convention seven
years ago in Brussels. Bogdana’s remains had turned up six weeks later in a trash bin in Moscow, her death blamed on an Internet date gone bad.
We’ll get them back for what they did to you, Dana. For what they did to all our colleagues.
She slipped the shoestring attached to the fake identification card over her head, then picked up the inhaler. Her heart pounded, her hand trembled. This is it, Mary, this is why you were chosen. Scythe can’t hurt the baby, you’ve already inoculated the placenta, but it must be properly inseminated to summon the Rapture.
Staring at the red-wigged Grim Reaper doll in the rearview mirror, she recited the ninth passage from the nine-day cycle of prayers to Santisima Muerte, taken from the novena booklet she received in Mexico two months earlier. “Blessed Protector Death: By the virtues that God gave you, I ask that you free me from all evil, danger, and sickness, and that instead, you give me luck, health, happiness, and money, that you give me friends and freedom from my enemies, also making Jesus, the father of my child, come before me, humble as a sheep, keeping His promises and always being loving and submissive. Amen.”
She pressed the inhaler over her nose and mouth. Squeezing the trigger, she inhaled the pungent elixir deep into her lungs.
The deed over, she laid her head back. Her heart beat wildly. Her eyelids fluttered. Her body quivered with adrenaline.
The internal voice, suppressed by the meds, now urged her haste.
She exited the car, slammed the door, and locked it before remembering the telltale metal attaché case. Clicking the keyless entry, she opened the door and grabbed the case, stomping her feet in the slush-covered street to keep her full bladder under control in the twenty-seven-degree chill.
