The King of Plagues jl-3

by Jonathan Maberry

  “Shit.”

  “You can’t prevent human error,” said Hu fussily. “You can only advise against it and encourage adherence to rules.”

  “It gets worse,” said Church. “Because the main lab is not part of any active virus research protocols, it has looser safety features. In fact, it can be manually integrated into the main air-conditioning system for the whole lab facility.”

  I could feel the blood drain from my face. “What kind of moron would approve that design?”

  “The bureaucratic kind,” said Church.

  “Christ. Can the vents be blocked from outside?”

  “Under normal circumstances, yes, but it appears that at some time prior to today Grey or someone working with him disabled the vent overrides. We’ll have to review weeks of security tapes and logs to see who worked on it, and that’s beside the point. It’s damage done. The vent controls have been entirely routed to the Hot Room. All Grey has to do to flood the building is throw a switch.”

  “What are the options? Can you disable the electrics? Cut the power?”

  “Essential services like venting, lights, and air-lock functions have battery backups. It’s a safety measure to make sure the automatic seals never lose power.”

  “What about an electromagnetic pulse? How fast can you drop an E-bomb on the place?”

  “This is a hardened facility,” said Prebble. “We’ve examined the option of carpet bombing the facility, but we would need an exact mix of bunker busters and fuel air bombs, and that’s tricky. Destroying the building is easy … making sure we fry every single microscopic germ is another matter altogether, and our best computer models give us only a probability of ninety-four percent success.”

  “And since we’re talking about airborne Ebola, that might as well be zero,” said Hu.

  “Yes,” agreed Prebble, “and prevailing winds are not in our favor today. On the other hand, there’s a carrier just over the horizon and I’ve had a quiet word with the captain. He’s an old mate of mine. If there’s so much as a wee hint that the facility’s outer containment is failing, then I make a call and we’ll all be having tea with Jesus before you can say ‘oh, shite.’”

  “You’d drop a nuke?” I asked, appalled. “And only part of my concern is based on the fact that we’re flying there. Dropping a nuke on an illegal American bioweapons lab would be …” I fished for a word bad enough to describe it and came up short.

  “I agree,” said Church grimly. “Aside from the physical damage and risk of fallout, neither country would recover from the damage to their credibility on a global scale. It would truly be catastrophic.”

  “Nevertheless, gentlemen,” said Prebble, “should things turn against us I’ve prepared a set of recommendations for the Prime Minister that includes a nuclear option.”

  “Let’s make sure that things don’t turn against us,” said Church quietly. “We have several overlapping quarantine protocols in operation, and a Chinook is flying in rolls of industrial-grade quarantine draping. We’ll disable all of the external cameras and then drape the building. That should give us an extra step toward first base in the event of a containment breach. Once that’s in place we’ll roll out our primary response.”

  “Let me guess,” I said. “Me, in a hazmat suit, with a gun.”

  “Can you recommend something else?”

  “Sure. A whole bunch of shooters in hazmats with guns. Seal the outer doors, take out the inner doors with an RPG, burn everything else with flamethrowers, let Dr. Grey be the one having tea and crumpets with the Messiah, and we call it a day.” I looked at Church. “But that’s not the play you’re going to call, is it?”

  He said nothing for a moment. This was the kind of moment in which he’d usually reach for a NILLA wafer while the rest of us sorted it out and got into the same mental gear as him. Prebble hadn’t supplied any cookies. Church looked almost wistful. He said, “You’re the senior DMS field commander on-station, Captain. Do you see that as the best tactical option?”

  I sighed. “No.”

  “And why not?” Church asked, like Socrates guiding a student through a logic puzzle. I hated when he did this.

  “Because with that plan we don’t get to ask any questions … and we need to know why he’s doing this.”

  Church and Prebble nodded.

  There was a faint bing-bing and then the pilot’s voice said, “Touchdown in five, gentlemen.”

  Interlude Sixteen

  T-Town

  Mount Baker, Washington State

  Three and a Half Months Before the London Event

  Hugo Vox stood in the doorway to Circe’s office. His face looked haggard, his eyes dark.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said.

  Circe couldn’t speak. It felt like a steel hand was clamped around her throat.

  Grace … ? Her mouth formed the name silently as the first tears fell.

  Vox nodded. “Down in the Bahamas. A big DMS action. I don’t have the details, but the word is that she died in combat. A lot of people died. The DMS took a lot of losses. It’s … it’s a terrible tragedy. For them … and for all of us.”

  “Grace,” Circe murmured, finding a splinter of her voice, but the name stuck in her throat. “God …”

  “I know you two were close,” said Vox.

  Circe put her face in her hands. “I just saw her the other day!”

  “The DMS was facing something really big. Something really, really bad. From what Gus Dietrich told me, Grace may have saved us all. That new guy, Ledger, was able to wrap it up, but Grace Courtland did her part. Yes, ma’am, she did her part indeed. Best of the best, she was.”

  Circe shook her head, not wanting to hear more. Not now.

  Vox turned away, and then paused. He turned back for just a moment and watched Circe’s shoulders tremble with the first wave of sobs. He opened his mouth to say something, but he left it unsaid. He sighed and lumbered out.

  Interlude Seventeen

  McCullough, Crown Island

  St. Lawrence River, Ontario, Canada

  Four Months Ago

  The two silent Korean guards came for Gault and Toys an hour later and led them down the hallway, the end of which was blocked by a gorgeously embroidered brocade tapestry that depicted a scene from the Book of Revelation. Gault bent and slowly translated the Latin stitched along the border.

  “‘Here is the mind which has wisdom: The seven heads are seven mountains on which the woman sits. There are also seven kings. Five have fallen, one is, and the other has not yet come. And when he comes, he must continue a short time. The beast that was, and is not, is himself also the eighth, and is of the seven, and is going to perdition.’”

  “I must have missed that in catechism,” murmured Toys.

  One of the guards slid the tapestry aside to reveal an elevator door. The guard pressed his palm to a geometry scanner and tapped in a complex entry code. The elevator door opened silently. Toys was impressed with the sophistication of the equipment. The security precautions matched the exacting standards he had always encouraged Gault to use.

  The elevator took them deep into the heart of the island. When the doors opened, one guard indicated that they exit, but neither of the two Asians moved to join them. Gault and Toys exchanged a brief wary glance before stepping out into a hallway that had been carved from raw bedrock. There was a set of large and ornately carved teak doors to their right, and as they stepped forward the doors opened toward them without a sound.

  They entered a massive chamber. One wall of the chamber was covered floor to ceiling with flat-screen TV monitors; the other walls were hung with tapestries as ancient and elegant as the apocalypse drapery upstairs. The center of the room was dominated by a massive oak table around which there were seven great thronelike chairs and seven expensive leather chairs of the kind Toys had once bought for Gault’s private office. On the far side of the table a chair that had a higher back than all the others sat on a dais. It stood empty.
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br />   The lights were low except for green-globed lamps positioned for each of the chairs. All but one of the lamps had been angled to spill light toward the center of the table, leaving the person in each chair cast in shadows.

  Six of the great chairs were occupied, but the one closest to where Gault and Toys stood was empty. Likewise, six of the leather chairs were occupied. Every face was in shadow, but Toys knew that those faces were turned toward Gault.

  “Yes,” he heard Gault murmur.

  “What?” Toys asked under his breath.

  Gault looked at Toys for a long moment, his eyes glassy and distant.

  “Sebastian—?” Toys prompted.

  Gault did not answer. Instead he took a step deeper into the room.

  “Welcome,” said a familiar voice, and they turned as a man in one of the thrones leaned into the spill of light. “Sebastian, Toys … it’s so good to see you both,” said the American in his booming bull voice. It was difficult for Toys to reconcile the gruffness of this man with the elegant majesty of his mother. They were not only unalike as people, but to Toys it seemed as if they had to be from different species also.

  “Welcome!” said the others seated at the table.

  Gault nodded silently and, Toys thought, with genuine reverence.

  Because of all the grandeur of the room, the moody lighting, the thrones, and the setting, Toys wouldn’t have been surprised if the men at the table had been wearing hoods or masks, or at the very least black tie. But the American wore an ordinary three-button Polo shirt and had a pair of sunglasses tucked into the vee. He looked ready for a quick nine of golf rather than a clandestine meeting in an underground chamber beneath a castle.

  Gault gestured vaguely to the room. “What is all this?”

  The American laughed. “It’s pretty much exactly what it looks like, boys. We’re a secret society.”

  “A ‘secret society’?” Toys laughed. “Are you taking the mickey?”

  “No, I’m serious as a heart attack.”

  Gault folded his arms and cocked a disbelieving head to one side. “Ri-i-ight. An actual secret society. Like, what? Like the Cabal?”

  “They’ve been smashed flat by the DMS.”

  “The Trilateral Commission?”

  “More effective.”

  “The Illuminati?”

  “Right ballpark.”

  Toys muttered, “Somewhere Dan Brown just had an erection.”

  Everyone at the table laughed.

  “Seriously … who are you and what is all this?” demanded Toys.

  The American smiled and shrugged. It was a very Gallic shrug even though he was pure New England.

  “How would you like me to answer that?”

  “I presume ‘straightforward’ is a nonstarter?”

  Another chuckle rippled through the seated figures.

  “If we ever decide on a membership pamphlet, it will go something like this,” said a man on the right side of the room, and then he spoke in a formal and ominous voice. “We have many names. History knows us as the Sargonai, the heirs and kinsmen of Sargon of Mesopotamia, first emperor in the history of mankind.”

  The man who spoke wore the robes of a Saudi. Moreover, Toys knew him. It was impossible that he was here. In America, in New York of all places, where even the mind-numbed street people would attack him without hesitation.

  “‘Sargonai’?” Gault echoed with a smile.

  Another leaned forward, a fat man with Slavic features. “It’s just a cover name, one of many we’ve used, but we don’t call ourselves that. Not anymore.”

  “Why not?” drawled Toys. “It’s catchy. It would look great on souvenir coffee mugs.”

  “Hush,” barked Gault.

  “No,” said the Saudi, “let him have his voice. If you are welcome here, then so is your Conscience. As you see, we each have one.”

  Around the room the people seated in the leather chairs leaned into the light. Four men, two women. Most of them nodded, one waved, and the one seated next to the American saluted with a steaming cup of coffee.

  “‘Conscience’?” Gault asked.

  The Slav answered that. “It is the policy of the Trust that each of us has a Conscience who is free to speak his or her mind. They may offer advice, provide intelligence, and participate in all of our discussions. All great kings have had such as they, and they’ve worn a thousand disguises—chamberlain and general, jester and body servant, spouse and lover. Trust is the determining factor; mutual interest and a shared vision are the chemicals that combine to cement their relationship together.”

  Gault took a step forward and Toys noticed how his friend’s eyes had flared with interest at the word “kings.” For years Gault had written that word in doodles or used variations on it for passwords. Gault had never explained why.

  “You speak of advisors to kings,” Gault said. “Is that what you are? Kings?”

  “Yes,” said the American. “We are the Seven Kings of the New World Trust. Sons of Sargon through a thousand generations of men, the fruit of the Tree of Empire. Foretold in the Book of Revelation.”

  Gault shared a look with Toys.

  “‘Seven’ Kings?” Gault tilted his chin toward the empty throne.

  “Seven we have been; seven we will be again,” said another voice. A man at the far side of the table leaned forward. Toys recognized him as an Israeli politician. “Seven is the sacred number of the Goddess.”

  “Though, admittedly,” the American said, “we are one member short at the moment.”

  “Kings of what?” asked Toys.

  The Israeli and the American smiled as if they were waiting for that question.

  “We are not kings of countries,” said the Israeli. “Each of us embraces a specific path, a specific view, and we claim kingship over everything that falls within the scope of this view.” He stood up and in a bold voice declared, “I am the King of War. No gun is fired, no border crossed, no weapons bought or sold but that I am involved. War and the threat of war cultivate commerce and cause innovation to advance by leaps and bounds. War evolves our society and defines our species.”

  It sounded crazy, the words childishly grandiose, and yet the way in which it was said made the smile die on Toys’ mouth. He looked at this man and in a flash of insight believed him. Toys knew that, all phrasing aside, what this man said was the truth.

  The Saudi stood. “I am the King of Lies. Truth is the clay in my hands, and information is the most potent force on earth. Nations rise and fall on what is said and what is believed. A whisper in the ear, a story leaked to the press, a piece of information seeded to an intelligence analyst can change the course of world events.”

  Toys heard Gault catch his breath.

  The Russian stood. “I am the King of Famine. The need for food is a universal constant, and no one takes a bite or lets water pass their lips unless I allow it. Fortunes are made from plenty as they are from want. I am both plenty and want.”

  Another man stood and spoke in a cultured Italian accent: “I am the King of Gold. Money is the blood of this world. The lack of it destroys people and tears kings from thrones; the excess of it corrupts saints. World economies are mine to bend and twist and crush.”

  A Frenchman stood. “I am the King of Thieves. My weapons are stocks and banks and loans and the flow of debt between peoples and corporations and governments.”

  Finally the American stood and spoke in a booming voice: “I am the King of Fear. When a bomb goes off, it has my kiss upon it. Terror stirs the pot of chaos, and in chaos the Seven Kings thrive. I arm the faithful and the fanatical. I allow the disenfranchised a voice. Not to serve their ends, but to serve mine. Ours.”

  Then all of them together raised their voices and roared out, “We are the Seven Kings. We are chaos!”

  They sat, but the echo of their words punched all the walls and pounded Gault and Toys like physical blows. No one spoke until the last echo faded to a whisper.

  The Amer
ican smiled a devil’s smile. “And we would like you to join us, Sebastian. We have an opening at our table.”

  “Opening?” murmured Gault faintly. His eyes were fever bright.

  “We would like you to be our new King of Plagues.”

  “Jesus,” hissed Toys, and grabbed Gault’s arm, but Gault laid his hand on Toys’ wrist and slowly pushed him off.

  “The King of Plagues,” echoed Gault. He looked at each man … each King. He looked at their thrones and then at the empty throne, and as he did so he touched the bandages that still covered his ruined and remade face.

  Toys leaned closed and whispered to him, “Be careful, Sebastian … . This is too weird … even for us.”

  But Gault was not listening.

  “What do you say, Sebastian?” asked the American. “We need a man of vision, a man who understands the power of self-interest. We need a man who grasps the many wonderful and life-changing potentials that wait in the RNA and proteins of a virus. Someone who is brave enough to use these pathogens like fists.” He paused and every eye in the room was on Gault. “Are you that man?”

  Gault took an absent step forward, and then another, and a third until he stood at the edge of the table. He rested his fingertips on the cool polished wood and stared for a long minute down at his own distorted reflection.

  Then, slowly, he raised his eyes and looked at the assembly of Kings.

  “Yes,” he said in a voice that was more deadly than smallpox. “Oh … yes!”

  Toys felt a pain in his heart as if some unseen hand had stabbed him. He looked at the rapt expression on Gault’s face, and then he closed his eyes.

  No. Oh, Sebastian … no.

  He did not—dared not—say it aloud.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Fair Isle Research Endeavor

  The Shetland Isles

  December 18, 2:38 P.M. GMT