“Fair enough. Just seems like the sort of job that would involve a lot of sitting around doing nothing. Not what I imagined someone like you would be happy with.”
“Someone like me?” Reaper said with a glint of amusement.
“A professional warrior. Someone who’s spent her life fighting and leading others. That’s all I meant.”
Reaper sighed and pointedly examined her watch again. “Ma’am, you asked me here and I came. Would you mind doing me the professional courtesy of putting down your stick of butter and beginning the barbecue?”
“No buttering. More like…easing into it. You might be shocked.”
“So shock me.”
“You know what a Psycho is, right?”
“Supposedly an Eden without the virtue effect.”
“Not just supposedly. They do exist, and we’ve discovered a clandestine CIA program to infiltrate the Free Communities, especially our power structures – military, governmental, police. The usual biological tests are useless. They read as Edens.”
Reaper sat pondering for several minutes.
Cassandra let her think.
“This isn’t good.”
Cassandra made a face. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
“You believe that as the head of Markis’ security team, I need to know, so I can screen my people. I appreciate that.”
“That’s part of it, but not all. I need help finding these hidden Psychos too. They could be anywhere. Anyone. We’ve gotten stupid, relying on a virus to do our job for us. Now, we have to weed them out the old-fashioned way. With good counterintelligence work.”
“…and I already have a mental list of people I suspect,” Reaper said. “People getting into trouble when they shouldn’t. People with bad habits.”
“That’s simplistic. We know there is variance in the virtue effect. We should have known there might be people who lack it entirely, but we can’t simply assume anyone not living a model life is a Psycho. The Eden Plague doesn’t wipe out all temptations to crime; it only eliminates biological reasons, such as drug dependencies.”
“We institute behavioral tests, then. And how about bringing back polygraphs?”
“Already in the works. But that’s only part of the problem. Just because we’re pretty sure all the CIA moles are Psychos, doesn’t mean all Psychos are CIA moles. Nobody created this version of being an Eden. It’s evidently a naturally occurring condition for maybe one in ten thousand of those infected. Maybe fewer.”
“So what does Spooky think about all of this?”
“Spooky?” Cassandra looked away and reached for a piece of paper, stared at it, and then set it down. “Are you implying something about him?”
“He’s always seemed to be able to suppress his conscience when needed. Maybe he’s a full-blown Psycho.”
“Perhaps.”
Reaper chuckled. “Oh, so he doesn’t know you suspect. Good for you. Finally keeping something from that shifty bastard. But he’s going to find out about this sooner or later. He always does. Maybe he already has and hasn’t told you.” She cocked her head. “You think he’s working for the other side?”
“If by the other side you mean the CIA, or worse, then no. I don’t think he’s working for anyone but Spooky, and currently his interests align with ours. My concern is that they stay aligned. As long as they do, I can work with him. We need him. He’s frighteningly effective at what he does. And fortunately, he’s a little busy right now with a special mission of his own.”
Reaper leaned forward. “What type of mission?”
“He hasn’t told you?” Hesitating for a moment, Cassandra asked, “I presume you know the FC has been working to get Edens out of areas where they’re being persecuted?”
“I’ve seen it firsthand. Persecuted is a criminal understatement. It’s genocide. A new Holocaust. Organized mass murder.”
“You’d think humanity would have learned.” Cassandra drummed her fingers. “We’ve been trying to set up a worldwide system to get them out of unsympathetic countries and into the FC. A giant underground railroad supported by Eden sympathizers across the globe. Something much more organized than a few raids liberating prison camps, no offense.”
“None taken. I know our efforts are drops in the bucket. Your way makes sense for the long term.”
“We were working to evacuate the last remaining survivors of Spooky’s extended family, get out of the U.S. They’d been hiding in a safe house for over a year, but we decided the time was right to extract them.”
“But something went wrong,” Reaper said.
“Yes. Security Service forces intercepted and searched the convoy carrying them. We’re not sure if it was chance or if we were betrayed, but Spooky’s family was taken to an experimentation camp.”
“How many?”
“Twenty-five or so. Aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews, cousins. Several are children.”
“And Spooky is setting up a rescue?”
Cassandra shrugged. “Markis couldn’t really forbid him, not after forcing his hand so many times to save Edens. Besides, family is particularly important to his people.”
“Family is important to everyone.”
“Nevertheless, Spooky has drafted your old team to go with him.”
“Not my team anymore. His monkeys, his circus.”
“They still respect you,” Cassandra said. “They know you, not him.”
Reaper looked at her watch. “I really need to go soon. What exactly is it you want from me?”
“I want you to accompany Spooky on this mission.”
“Not a chance in hell,” Reaper said with a tight smile.
“I’m serious.”
“I’m sure you are, but the answer is still no.”
“I know you’ve had some issues with him in the –”
“Issues? He’s a lying snake. And I have an important job. He’ll be fine. They’ll be fine.”
Cassandra shook her head. “I don’t think they will be. What chance do you think your people stand without you there? And I agree that he’s a lying snake. That’s why I want you along.”
“Nice try. They’re all big boys and girls. No one is forcing their hands. They can take care of themselves.”
“Be that as it may, we’d like to rescue these Edens if we can.”
“We, who? The only person who can order me around is Markis, and I don’t see him here. And by the way, trapped and imprisoned Edens are everywhere. We can’t go after all of them. That’s what your new system is for, right?”
Cassandra waited, letting the guest stew until she became uncomfortable with the silence.
Reaper shifted in her seat. “Other than them being Spooky’s family, what makes these people so important?”
Cassandra still didn’t answer. Better to let her work it out for herself.
Realization began to dawn. “This isn’t only about the Edens, is it? This is about Spooky.”
“If he is a Psycho, he could bring us all down. The power he holds is immense. We have to know how far he’ll go in pursuing selfish goals, or whether he’ll stand with Markis and the FC. With us.”
“And if he turns against us?”
Cassandra stared at her without blinking. “Then we’d like you to take care of the situation.”
“Take care of the situation? You mean kill Spooky?”
“If necessary.”
“And you’re still saying ‘we.’ What we, Kemo Sabe?”
“Others at my level in the FC hierarchy. People like me who know Markis is too reluctant to make the hard calls, so sometimes we have to make them for him. You’re in charge of Markis’ security? This is part of keeping him secure.”
Reaper folded her hands in her lap and sat back, thinking. “Why not just arrest Spooky here and now and figure it out?”
“Because arresting him might tear the FC apart. Word would get out about the presence of Psychos among us, sowing waves of distrust. The innocent would be accused,
some framed by real Psychos. And arresting him will tip him off. We’ll never figure out where his true loyalties lie. If he’s found guilty of something serious, the scandal could rip apart this very fragile thing we call the Free Communities. If it is to be done, we need it done quietly. If he dies, he dies a hero of the FC, not a traitor.”
“What gives you the idea I’ll do this? I already turned down wet work assignments. There are other people. Hell, get Skull to do it. I hear he’s sweet on you.”
Cassandra whitened and compressed he lips, but ignored the jab. “You’re someone who can be counted on to do what needs to be done. You have a strong moral compass and I know you can be trusted. And let’s be honest: haven’t you wanted to kill him more than once?”
Reaper pointed a finger at Cassandra. “Don’t be flip about this. We’re talking about betrayal and assassination. He’s our colleague. He trusts us. We have to be damn sure.”
“We’re talking execution of a suspected traitor, but only if he betrays us first. It’s the best option we have. We can’t leave him in such a powerful position not knowing. This mission should give you a good opportunity to gauge if he’s loyal to the FC, or only out for himself.”
“And get him far away from here if I do have to kill him.”
“Of course.”
“You’re no different from him.”
Cassandra’s lips thinned further. “There’s an enormous difference between wanting to do something abhorrent and believing I must do it. In fact, I suggest to you that it’s more admirable to sacrifice my own qualms for the good of all than to give in to my distaste for it.”
“Sophistry. Aha, you’re surprised a grunt like me even knows that word, aren’t you? Well, here’s another one. Casuistry.”
“Hairsplitting? Sure. I cede the moral high ground, Jill. I know I’m sinking into the muck here. But I don’t see any other way.”
***
Reaper thought for several long minutes. Despite her words, she did miss her old team, and she worried about them under Spooky’s direct command. She also couldn’t really fault Cassandra’s logic, despite her objections. She wished the task would fall to someone else, but she needed to face the fact she was probably the right choice. Only someone Spooky trusted, someone he wouldn’t suspect could turn against him, might get a chance to take him down.
Also, Marines didn’t whine when given an unsavory task, or ask why another couldn’t do it instead. She might not wear the uniform anymore, but in her heart she remained Semper Fi. Always would.
And, she’d been bored out of her mind recently anyway. Following Markis around on trips. Securing hotel rooms and vehicles. Checking dumpsters to ensure some crazy with a grenade or a machine gun didn’t pop out. Over the last few months Reaper realized that she’d begun hoping something would happen just to provide excitement, and that attitude courted disaster.
“I have a responsibility,” Reaper finally said. “There’s no one to do my job.”
“How about Karl Rogett?”
“He was part of INS, Inc., working for Durgan before he became an Eden. Too much baggage. I already turned him down for the security detail.”
“We all have skeletons in our closets,” Cassandra answered. “He’s been a good soldier since becoming an Eden and joining us here. And he knows his stuff. He’s been in charge of overall compound security for almost a year.”
“How do you know he isn’t one of these Psychos? Now that we’re talking about it, what do you really know about him at all?”
“I have my sources. My people have checked out Mister Rogett thoroughly and have been watching him. All indications are that he is a changed man and is loyal to us.”
“Are you willing to risk Markis’ life on that? Better yet, is Markis willing to trust his life and maybe that of his family on this belief?”
“He is,” answered Cassandra solemnly.
“You’re a better man than I, Gunga Din.” Reaper sighed. “Damn you, and damn Spooky. I can’t believe I’m going to do this.”
Her voice grave, Cassandra said, “Thank you.”
“I’ll do my duty, wherever it may lie.” She gave Cassandra a chilling look before standing. “Wherever it may lie. Better make sure you’re never in Spooky’s position, chiquita.”
“I’m not a Psycho.”
“How can we be sure?” Reaper pointed a finger-gun at Cassandra and pulled the trigger. “Pow,” she said before turning and walking from the office.
Chapter 7
Skull strolled among the remnants of a temple already ancient when Julius Caesar lay on the marble floor of the Roman Senate in a pool of his own blood, wondering what the hell had gone wrong.
Byrsa Hill sat in the heart of the ancient ruin of Carthage, just north of Tunis, the modern capital of Tunisia. Carthage had been the center of a vast empire controlling most of the western Mediterranean world for nearly a millennium. The city was home to a million residents five centuries before Rome would attain such glory.
Yet it had all come crashing down, and so fast, so suddenly, that it reminded Skull of the fragility of things.
A military history buff, Skull had always been fascinated by Carthage. For a time it was the most powerful and advanced civilization west of the Levant, until it had been annihilated in three bitter, disastrous wars with the brilliant upstart Romans.
Today, most people had never even heard of the Carthaginians other than the story of Hannibal crossing the Alps with elephants, and much of their culture had been erased from the planet.
Bunch of object lessons there, thought Skull. The other guy always surprises you. Nothing lasts forever. Shit happens. Don’t get caught when the walls fall.
Skull strolled easily down the steep, rocky hillside toward the remnants of the once-famed manmade twin harbors of Carthage. In their heyday, they could berth over three hundred trireme warships.
Now nothing more than a giant hourglass depression showed in the ground, the formerly wide channels that connected it to the sea little more than watery ditches.
What will be left of our civilization after two and a half millennia? And who – or what – will replace us?
Making his way along the seashore toward the fishing harbor, he enjoyed the sun, warm breeze, and sounds of lightly crashing waves. The fresh salt smell typically meant relaxation to Skull. A place he went after a difficult job to unwind and recharge.
Not here, not yet. The work is just beginning.
Getting to the Netherlands would be relatively easy if he were anyone else. As long as he could pass the airport health checks – a euphemism for Plague testing and quarantine – he could have caught a commercial flight. But that meant biometrics, and biometrics were hard to fool. Alan Denham was well known in some circles, and not always viewed fondly, to understate the case. He needed to be someone else, and that meant avoiding those damned scanners that were all the rage now in airports.
It would mean getting in some other way.
A short, potbellied man, balding and swarthy, stood on the dock smoking. Skull didn’t need to compare him to the provided description to identify his contact. Doing this sort of work long enough, he’d gotten a feel for those individuals who occupied an obscure substrate of civilized society: part criminal, part artist, part idealist.
“You him?” the man asked with a thick French accent.
“You him? What kind of bona fides is that? Any cop or security person could just say, ‘yep, that’s me’ and your ass would be in prison before that cheap cigarette hit the ground.”
The man pulled the cigarette from his mouth and looked at it. “Is not cheap. Good tobacco.”
Skull sighed. “My rhetoric is wasted again. Got something for me?”
The man smiled revealing several prominent dental vacancies. “So long you got something for me.”
Skull waved a folded sheaf of Euro. The man smiled and reached for it, but Skull pulled it back. “Not yet. Let’s go.”
They walked down a ricket
y dock maze among marginally seaworthy vessels until they arrived at one of the larger ones. Paint peeled off every visible surface and an impressive number of pumps worked overtime to keep the vessel afloat. Skull could barely make out the boat’s name - Last Chance – stenciled on the stern.
“You have got to be shitting me,” said Skull, rounding on the man. “I’m supposed to cross to Italy in that? It’s sinking right now.”
“No shit you,” the man answered. “Good boat, no sink.” He held out his hand, and Skull put the Euro in it with evident disgust.
“Chancy will make it across the Med, don’t you worry,” said a deep, firm voice.
Skull turned to look at what could only be the captain. A tall, thin, elderly man with leather skin and deep age lines regarded Skull from pale blue eyes.
“That’s not a name to inspire confidence,” said Skull.
The captain stared at him for a few seconds before waving him aboard. “And yours is, Mr. Skull? We put your things below. I’ll show you where.”
Skull followed both men belowdecks and into a small room. There sat a large, locked rolling bag and a leather attaché case. The captain opened the latter and pulled out a set of photo identification documents with Skull’s picture on them.
“They good,” said the first man. “My son make. He genius.”
Skull examined the documents closely and grunted in appreciation. “You might actually be right.” He put the documents in one cargo pocket, and then pulled a chain from around his neck. It held nothing but a curious indented cylinder, a key. Skull inserted it into the rolling bag’s lock and opened it wide. He found his clothes and tactical gear, including his weapons. Flying here with them would have been impossible, of course. They’d been smuggled inside bulk cargo.
The captain poked Skull softly on the shoulder with one index finger to get his attention. He then moved the digit to point at the bag’s contents. “You get caught with any of that, they’ll cut your eyes out.”
Skull loaded a pistol and put it in a holster at the small of his back, along with extra magazines and a thin blade. “I won’t get caught, and if I do, you know nothing about it. I know nothing about you. That’s how it works.” He closed and relocked the bag.
Nearest Night Page 5
