The King of Plagues jl-3

by Jonathan Maberry

  We landed behind a stand of oak trees, scattering goats and gulls. Once the door was open I peered through the window just in time to see another chopper set down, a muscular Merlin HC3 transport chopper. The doors slid open and a dozen Barrier agents in SARATOGA HAMMER chemical warfare suits deployed and ran to formation past the outside edge of the rotor wash.

  Prebble, Hu, and Dietrich climbed out of our chopper, but Church shifted to stand between me and the door.

  “Hold on,” he said. His dark eyes, hidden behind the tinted lenses of his glasses, were like black marbles. “I’m sorry to have cut your vacation short.”

  “No, you’re not,” I said.

  “No, I’m not,” he admitted. “You’ve been through a lot and I’m throwing you into the fire. Dr. Sanchez tells me that it’s too soon, that you need more time to heal. Tell me if I’m making a mistake.”

  I wanted to laugh. We both knew I’d rather be back in my hotel room in London. Or in the middle of the Sahara. Anywhere but here. Sometimes the absurd nature of what I do hits me. Here I was, a former Baltimore detective still young enough to kick some ass in a pickup b-ball game; a guy with a father who just won a nail-biter of an election to become the new mayor; a brother who was also a cop as well as a husband and a father to my only nephew; a guy who should have been working cases back home and maybe scouting for a wife of my own. With all that, here I was pulling on a combat-modified hazmat suit and gun belt because I was about to enter a building filled with some of the deadliest and more virulent diseases known to modern man, a building held by a lunatic who was threatening to release those diseases. A man I’d almost certainly have to kill and who might be part of a huge secret society trying to tear down the world.

  How the hell did that become normal for me? Or for anyone?

  Was it too soon? How could I—or anyone in my position—answer that question?

  “You didn’t make a mistake,” I said.

  He nodded but didn’t move.

  “Is there something else?” I asked.

  For a moment Church’s mouth was a tight and lipless line of tension, almost a snarl. “I didn’t want to tell you this in front of the others. I debated waiting until after you finished with the lab, but I didn’t think you’d thank me for that.”

  “That’s ominous as shit, Boss. Spill it.”

  “There’s been another incident.”

  He told me about the explosions at Area 51. I could feel my stomach turning to icy slush, and there was a roaring in my ears that wasn’t the wind.

  “Lucky Team, the investigators, the staff at the base,” Church said. “Gone. All of them.”

  “And Echo Team? Top and Bunny—?”

  He shook his head. “We lost two. Sergeants Gomez and Henderson. The rest were outside. Scrapes and bruises, but no other casualties. They are, however, the only survivors. Everyone else at the base is dead.”

  “I-I can’t believe it,” I stammered.

  I didn’t know Henderson, but Ricky Gomez had been in active training around the time I took off for Europe. Nice kid from Brooklyn. His brother played single-A ball for the Cyclones. Now Ricky and Henderson and all the others were dust. Just like the four thousand at the London. Ash and bones. I could hear something ripping behind my eyes and a bloody haze clouded my vision. I had to force my voice to sound normal. I used the Cop voice, not the Killer’s.

  “What do we know?” I demanded.

  “Next to nothing. Nellis is sending a team and I’ve scrambled our people from the casino. We have Jerry Spencer’s number two, Bess Tanaka, out there working the scene.” Church paused. “So far no one has come forward to claim responsibility.”

  “Has to be the Kings.”

  “Probably,” he said, “but the unfortunate truth is that they’re not our only enemies.”

  “What’s our play?”

  “That’s being determined now. I’ve advised the President to keep this out of the media for as long as possible; otherwise the whole base will become a circus. The Internet and cable talk shows are already buzzing with conspiracy theories about the Hospital. This would be gasoline on that fire. We may have to spin a cover story to make it work.”

  I nodded. “How the fuck does someone take out an entire military base? I mean, seriously—a secret and ultrahigh-security military base?”

  “I can only think of one way,” Church said, his face turning once more to a mask of cold iron.

  I looked at him and then nodded. He was right; there was no other way.

  “God damn it.” They had to have someone inside.

  “I’m sorry I had to dump this on you right before a mission, but I knew you’d want to know.”

  I nodded.

  “Do you want me to pull you from this?”

  “Is that a serious question?” I said.

  A ghost of a smile crossed his face. “I suppose not.”

  He offered me his hand.

  “Then good hunting, Captain.”

  We shook, and he stepped aside to allow me to exit the bird.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  The State Correctional Institution at Graterford

  Graterford, Pennsylvania

  December 18, 2:39 P.M. EST

  “I’m sorry there isn’t more,” said Dr. Stankeviius. “Apparently the ‘maximum’ aspect of the security here at Graterford doesn’t extend to my office.” As he said it he shot a withering look at the warden.

  Rudy Sanchez saw the barb go home. Certainly no love lost between these two, he thought.

  “The records for this prisoner are sparse at best,” Rudy said aloud. “Is there any explanation for the omissions, Warden?”

  The warden, a block-faced former state trooper named Wilson, spread his hands. “It’s a mystery.”

  “A mystery,” Rudy said quietly, establishing and maintaining direct eye contact.

  Wilson shifted in his chair. “Naturally I’ve initiated a full-scale investigation.”

  “Naturally. But, tell me, Warden, what does that investigation comprise?”

  “Sorry?”

  “A full-scale investigation—what exactly will you do to try and locate the missing files?”

  “I … I mean we will interview the staff, and review the duty logs … .” His voice trailed off.

  Rudy removed a small notebook and jotted something. Wilson’s eyes were fixed on Rudy as he did so, but he didn’t let Wilson see what he wrote. The note read: Get car inspected.

  Wilson immediately launched into a more detailed explanation of what would be done. Computer searches, extra staff brought in to scour the filing cabinets to check for misfiling, a complete search of Nicodemus’s cell, follow-ups with all current staff, and interviews with trustees and guards who worked in the medical unit during or after the murder of Jesus Santiago, the young Latino who had been mutilated with the numbers 12/17.

  Rudy listened quietly. Then he wrote: Feed Joe’s cat. And closed his notebook.

  Wilson was sweating.

  “Thank you, Warden,” said Rudy. “I’m sure you are doing everything within your powers.” He leaned ever so slightly on the word “your.” He had no desire to roast anyone over a bureaucratic fire, but at the same time he despised incompetence, particularly in jobs related to health or security. He wasn’t fond of it before joining the DMS, and now he knew firsthand how sloppy work could lead to spilled blood.

  Rudy turned to Dr. Stankeviius. “Doctor, you indicated to me that you believe Nicodemus to have unusual knowledge of the events taking place in London. Is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Has Nicodemus admitted such knowledge?”

  “No, as I mentioned in my report—”

  “He mentioned the Seven Kings, is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Just the once?”

  “Yes.”

  Rudy did not mention the graffiti on the wall of the hospital or on the door of the murdered family. Instead he asked, “Has Nicodemus admitted to
any of the crimes for which he’s been convicted or suspected?”

  “No.”

  “Has he denied involvement?”

  “For Jesus Santiago? His response was obscure and evasive. I could not encourage him to say yes or no in simple terms. On the other hand, he flat out denied that he had been talking with Santiago; and the witness to that encounter—a guard—later died of a self-inflicted gunshot wound.”

  “You don’t have any medical records for Nicodemus,” Rudy said. “Why is that?”

  “There was a fire in the prison medical center,” said the warden. “Fire marshal says that it was rats chewing on the wires. They found a charred rat carcass. We lost a couple of years’ worth of records.”

  Bullshit, thought Rudy.

  Stankeviius nodded. “Much of our testing equipment and supplies were smoke and water damaged. The fire also damaged the CT scanner.”

  “And the copies of the medical reports that should be in the file?”

  Neither man answered. Rudy sat back and looked at them for several quiet seconds. Both men looked ashamed and nervous.

  They’re both scared out of their minds. Dios mio! What in hell is going on here?

  “I’m sorry, gentlemen, but I’m having a hard time understanding this. This is a maximum-security prison. A model for such prisons, as I understand it. You have a large staff, modern equipment, plenty of resources, and you’re telling me that you are unable to compile even a basic medical and psychological profile on a convict who has been incarcerated here for over fifteen years? One-room jails in third-world countries can do at least that much. I hesitate to use the word ‘obfuscation’ here, but—”

  “Now wait a minute, Dr. Sanchez,” Stankeviius began. “We’re not doing this deliberately—”

  “No? So, it’s just sloppy procedure?”

  Stankeviius clamped his mouth shut.

  “That’s unfair,” Wilson said tightly. “We’ve had a string of bad luck.”

  Rudy eyed him coolly. “Bad luck is what happens when you buy scratch-off lottery tickets, Warden. As I understand it, it is not a factor in the American penal system, particularly at this level.”

  Both men stared at him for a second; then their eyes faltered and they looked away. Rudy sighed.

  They’re too scared to even properly defend their actions. Interesting.

  “Very well,” said Rudy. “I’d like to see the prisoner now.”

  The doctor and the warden exchanged a brief, defeated look. Finally the warden got heavily to his feet.

  “Of course, Dr. Sanchez.”

  Interlude Eighteen

  The Seven Kings

  Four Months Ago

  Champagne was served and they all toasted; even the Saudi took a glass, winking to Gault as he did so.

  Toys closed on Gault to whisper in his ear, “What the hell are you doing? We don’t even know what we’re getting into here. We just got out of a mess … . Do you want to walk into another one?”

  Gault looked at him, his eyes hard and steady. “I know precisely what I’m doing, Toys. If you’re scared, you can leave any time you want.”

  Toys took a step back as if he’d been slapped. “What are you—?”

  The American cleared his throat and waved everyone to their seats. Gault and Toys remained standing, though now they stood a few feet apart. Toys looked both surprised and concerned, but Gault smiled and patted him on the cheek.

  “It’s all going to be fine,” he said quietly. “You’ll see.”

  When everyone was seated, the American pressed a section of the tabletop and it slid open to reveal a computer keyboard. He tapped some keys and the monitors on the wall flickered on to show a series of buildings in different cities.

  “First,” he said, “let us show you our world. No secrets.”

  “No secrets,” murmured Gault.

  “This is the world of the Seven Kings.”

  On the screens, one after another, buildings erupted into flame. School buses exploded, throwing small fire-wreathed shapes into the street. Jetliners slammed into tall towers, and those towers collapsed, pancaking down and filling the streets with deadly gray clouds. Suicide bombers walked into theaters and train stations. Kings and presidents were caught in indiscretions. Princesses were killed in car wrecks. Drug companies released medications that proved to be more dangerous than the diseases they were designed to combat. Flu epidemics sprang out of nowhere. It rolled on and on. A symphony of destruction that was at once shocking in its scope and elegant in its subtlety.

  As each new image played, one of the Kings would tell the story behind it. Misinformation, disinformation, and the placement of carefully selected truths. Fuel thrown onto the fire of religious hatred. Ethnic wars funded by private dollars. Useful assassinations, and even more useful attempted assassinations.

  Gault turned to the Kings. “You did all of that? The Towers? All of it?”

  “Some of this is our doing,” said the King of Gold. “Some of these things are the actions of our enemies. Some were conceived by us but handed over to other groups to carry out. We’re often involved well behind the scenes.”

  The King of Famine said, “We provide ideas, financing, encouragement, and occasionally direct action.”

  The American nodded to the small man who sat in the seat of his Conscience. “My good friend and Conscience, Rafael Santoro, has overseen many of our most complicated ‘events.’”

  Santoro bowed slightly. “It is always my pleasure to serve the Seven Kings.”

  Toys gestured to the screens. “If some of this isn’t your actual work,” he said, “why show it to us?”

  “Well,” said the American with a mildly pained expression, “that’s part of the reason we brought you here. When we said that we will have no secrets from you, we meant it. As much as we would like to truly be the most powerful force on the planet, we aren’t.”

  Toys nodded. “Let me guess—you’re in some kind of dustup with the other lot.”

  “Yes,” agreed the American.

  “And they’re bigger?”

  “At the moment.”

  “And stronger?”

  “For now.”

  “Do they know about you?”

  There was an uncomfortable murmur. “Yes,” said the King of War. “They know. They know and they would like to see us all dead.”

  Toys said, “Do they fight for truth, justice, and the American way?”

  “Hardly.” The King of Lies laughed. “They are a true shadow government with no higher intentions. They have had a hand in starting virtually every major conflict since the Civil War.”

  “As opposed to you chaps who are giving out daffodils and free blow jobs,” said Toys with disgust.

  “Damn it, Toys,” snarled Gault, but the Kings surprised them both by laughing.

  “I like this boy, Sebastian,” said the American. “I always have. Says what he fucking means and doesn’t give a rat’s ass what anybody thinks.”

  “Too bloody right,” Gault said with asperity.

  Toys affected to brush lint from his lapel with a look that said, I’m rubber; you’re glue.

  “Our agenda is not a happy one for the great unwashed masses,” admitted the King of Gold. “We are predators and we pretend to be nothing else.”

  “Then who are your enemies?” demanded Gault. He looked as if the very thought of enemies offended him on a personal level.

  “The Skull and Bones.” Several of the Kings said it at the same time, each of them with disgust.

  “The actual Skull and Bones?” Toys laughed. “Those wankers at Yale? George Bush and that lot?”

  “That lot, yes,” said the Saudi. “Though, admittedly, not all of the most celebrated members of that society belong to the Inner Circle and it’s the Inner Circle who are the real power. Many of the members do not even believe that an Inner Circle exists. They think it’s an urban legend created by detractors of the Skull and Bones. However, it is real, and it is only the I
nner Circle which concerns us. That is where the true power is.”

  Gault said, “Surely the world is big enough for you each to cut a large slice of the global pie. Why the conflict?”

  “It isn’t of our making,” said the King of Famine. “When we first made contact with the Inner Circle we reached out in the hopes of establishing some manner of working partnership. Or at very least an agreement of noninterference.”

  “How’d that work out for you chaps?” asked Toys.

  “Not well. Each attempt to arrange a sit-down with the Inner Circle has resulted in the murder of our agents. Over the last decade the Inner Circle has invested a great deal of time and effort in discovering who we are. A number of our agents have been targeted and killed, many of them tortured for information. We keep a great deal of distance between us and our operatives in the field, so the Inner Circle do not know our names—but they’ve done considerable damage to our operations. They’ve also sicced various American and international organizations on us, including INTERPOL, NATO, the CIA, and the DMS. That has made things … uncomfortable.”

  “Why the animosity? Are you both going after the same things?” asked Gault. “Is it simply a competition to grab the most?”

  “No. Our interests overlap, but our methods are very much in conflict. And the Inner Circle have become obsessed with controlling all of the power in the Middle East, which is where we make much of our money. They keep starting wars over there.”

  Toys looked at the King of War. “And you don’t?”

  “No. We make more money from the threat of war and the arms race than from outright declared war,” said the Israelite. “Small wars are okay, but major conflicts stop trade. In cases of decisive victory it can even eradicate whole markets. We profit from the constant escalation, from nations and groups preparing for war, because that means when one upgrades its weapons system its rivals need to do the same.”

  “Keeping up with the Joneses,” said Toys. “With guns.”

  “Guns, missile systems, jets, tanks, body armor, defense satellites, the works,” said the American. “The Inner Circle are directly aggressive. We’re chaotic. Aggression causes trade disconnects—and to see that, look at the U.S. and its trade relations in the years following 9/11. They waved such a big stick that they chased everyone else off the playground, and as a result they wound up selling their souls to China. Dumb asses.”