Amber’s hands contracted to fists.
“And while this recent act of terrorism did not occur on United States soil, the investigative divisions within Homeland Security believe that there is a strong possibility that some Americans may be victims of the same kind of coercion. Coercion that could lead to further heinous acts.”
“I am speaking now to employees in hundreds of private companies and government facilities. If you are watching this video you are employed in a critical area of viral research, energy, health sciences, or defense.” If you have been approached by people who have asked you, or attempted to force you, to do something that could lead to harm to others and damage the safety of your community, I urge you to act. If you have been threatened, or if your loved ones have been threatened, you must make the correct and courageous choice. You must contact the authorities. I know you have been told that to speak out will bring harm to your family. I know that you are afraid. Probably terrified. However, you cannot believe or trust these people. They will not keep their word. They will attempt to harm those you love even if you do what they want. Do not destroy your own life, the lives of your friends and colleagues, and, most important, the lives of your family by believing the threats of cowards and criminals.
“There is a toll-free telephone number and an e-mail address at the bottom of this screen. Use them today. Use them right now to contact me and my team. We are ready to act immediately. We will protect you and your family. And with your help, we will stop these criminals before they can hurt other families.”
There was more. At least Amber thought so, but her mind refused to process it. She sat there in her chair, alone in her office, at the monitor that was flanked by framed pictures of Emily and Mark. All she saw, however, was the telephone number.
Tears burned in her eyes.
The keys were still in the drawer. The world still turned.
“God … ,” she whispered.
Chapter Forty-three
Philadelphia International Airport
December 19, 11:39 A.M. EST
We landed under a sky so bright and sunny that it seemed like it was intended as mockery with all that was going on. As Circe and I hustled out of the gate we were met by one of the junior DMS agents from the Baltimore office, a red-haired kid named Riordan, waiting for us at the departure gate. He nodded to me, but he was looking at Circe. I glanced covertly around. Everyone was looking at Circe. Her face was neutral and I wondered if the attention was an ego boost or a total pain in the ass.
“You supposed to be our driver?” I asked.
He shook his head. “No, sir. Delivery boy. Mr. Church said that you wouldn’t want a driver.”
“Nope.”
He held out a set of keys. My own keys. “Your Explorer is parked outside. My partner is getting your bags and arranging for your dog to be transported to the curb.”
He said all this to me but was still looking at Circe.
“Get her bags, too,” I said, leaning on the tone of voice enough to snap him out of his love daze. After Circe described her bag and the kid went away, she looked at me and laughed.
“What?” I asked.
“Alpha wolf bullies young pup.”
“Oh … stick a sock in it, Doc.”
She was still laughing as we stepped out into the December wind. Fifteen minutes later we were on I-95 and heading north.
Interlude Thirty-one
Valley of the Kings, Egypt
One Month Ago
REUTERS NEW STORY
CAIRO, Egypt—Yesterday, tomb raiders broke into the recently discovered burial crypt of a previously unknown mummy who many top archaeologists believe may have been the firstborn son of Pharaoh Amenhotep II. In what seems like a bizarre modern twist on Indiana Jones, Amenhotep II is believed to have been the Pharaoh during the time of Moses. If so, then biblical scholars feel confident that this son was killed by the Plague of the Firstborn, the tenth plague directed against Egypt by God, and the one that resulted in the Israelites being set free.
Archaeologist Zahi Hawass, head of Egypt’s governmental Department of Antiquities, was quoted as saying, “This was a pristine tomb. Unopened. To have broken the seals and looted it is a great loss to science.”
According to Cairo police officials, the mummy’s wrappings had been cut and long sections of skin had been removed with what appeared to be medical precision. Officials have declined to speculate on the nature and purpose of this desecration.
Chapter Forty-four
Jenkintown, Pennsylvania
December 19, 12:06 P.M. EST
Amber Taylor left work without notifying anyone. She stole someone else’s red winter coat from the staff room. She put on sunglasses and wound a scarf around her face, pulled the hood up, and slipped out through the delivery dock. She walked quickly to the parking lot, got into her car, and drove as fast as she could to her children’s school. She was careful to obey all traffic laws, however. She did not want to get stopped by the police. Not yet, and not now. During the short drive to the school she obsessively checked the mirrors for any sign of a car following her. She saw nothing, but she knew that did not prove a thing. Except for that day the Spaniard came to her to ruin everything and to show her the pictures of the things he called angels, she had never seen anyone. And yet she knew they were watching. They were probably watching right now.
Her stomach felt like it was filled with rusted nails. She popped the glove compartment and took out the large bottle of TUMS EX that she always carried. It was the fifth bottle she had gone through, the extra-large container. She ate six of them while she picked her way through traffic to the school.
When she pulled into the school parking lot the kids were playing in the big concrete yard. A game of tag in one corner, ball in another. Emily stood talking to three of her friends and Mark sat on the steps nearby reading a comic book. Spider-Man. Mark loved comic books. Emily was already reading chapter books, and with her mind she would graduate soon to Young Adult novels.
God, Amber thought, let that happen. Let my babies grow up. Help me keep the monsters away.
She pulled to a stop as close to the school-yard gate as possible and left the engine running as she did a slow surveillance of the area, turning in the seat, craning her neck, looking at every person, every face. None of them looked like it could belong to the face of the man with the Spanish accent. No one looked like they could be one of them. Everyone looked ordinary.
She sniffed back tears, then tapped the horn.
Emily looked up first and smiled. She waved. Amber got out of her car and hurried into the school yard.
“Come on, honey; we have to go.��
“You got a new coat!” said Emily.
“Yes. Say goodbye to your friends. Mark! Come on, honey. Grab your things.” She hustled them to the car, belted them in, got in, and locked the doors. Then she left the parking lot, turned left, and drove like hell toward home.
As she drove, she made a single phone call to a number that was burned into her mind.
Chapter Forty-five
Jenkintown, Pennsylvania
December 19, 1:19 P.M. EST
We got off of I-95 and started picking our way across northeast Philadelphia.
Ghost sat in the backseat and laid his head on the storage bin that separated the front bucket seats. He was still mad at me for putting him in the jet’s cargo hold and probably wouldn’t warm up until I bribed him with food. So, I went through a McDonald’s drive-through and got a couple of Filet-O-Fish sandwiches and an order of fries and gave them to Ghost.
“Is that good for him?”
“He likes fast food.”
“Two sandwiches and fries? What, no Coke?”
“Hey,” I said, “he’s only a dog.”
She stared at me as if I was a lunatic. Fair call. Then she turned and watched Ghost wolf down the fried squares of fish, mayonnaise, buns, and all, and then he settled down and ate the fries more slowly.
“He’ll share if you ask nice.”
Ghost looked up as if he understood that comment and regarded it as heresy. He placed one paw over his fries and gave Circe a steely stare.
“Bon appétit!” she said, and turned back. “I’m more of a cat person.”
I was both. I had a marmalade tabby named Cobbler back at the Warehouse, but it didn’t seem to be the right time to bring him up. So we drove in silence for a while.
My phone rang. Church.
“Change of plans,” he said curtly. “You won’t be picking up Dr. Sanchez. He’ll come to meet you in Jenkintown. Echo Team is also inbound to the same destination.”
“Christ, don’t tell me there was another attack,” I growled. Circe turned sharply at those words.
“Not yet,” he said. “Your video message idea seems to have borne fruit. A woman named Amber Taylor has barricaded herself and her children inside her house. She called the number we gave during the broadcast. She says that a man with a Spanish accent told her that he would kill her children if she did not do what he said.”
“Son of a bitch. What did he want her to do?”
“To release fleas into the Philadelphia subway system.”
“Fleas infected with—?”
“Take a guess.”
“Oh, shit.”
He gave me the address. I immediately shifted into the fast lane and put the hammer down. Ford Explorers aren’t exactly sports cars, but mine had been given the DMS version of the Police Interceptor package adapted for an SUV. I stamped down on the gas and the Explorer shot forward, the needle climbing to a hundred and then past it.
“Joe, what’s wrong?” demanded Circe, bracing her feet and gripping the support handle bolted to the frame.
“You know history,” I said through gritted teeth. “If you were looking at a worst-case scenario of a disease transmitted by fleas, what would it be?”
“Yersinia pestis,” she said without hesitation, and then the implications of my question and her response caught up to her. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the color drain from her face.
Yersinia pestis. A bacterium that can take three primary forms when spread from flea to humans. Pneumonic, septicemic, and bubonic.
Plague.
Chapter Forty-six
Jenkintown, Pennsylvania
December 19, 1:45 P.M. EST
I drove past the Taylor house without a pause, circled the block, and drove past again. I checked out each of the cars parked on the street and didn’t see anyone sitting in them. All of the plates were local. No pedestrians.
Amber Taylor lived on West Avenue, just off of Route 611. A blue BMW sat out front. Right color, make, and plates.
“Are we going to wait for your team?”
“No,” I said. “I want to talk to this woman ASAP. If the Spaniard leaned on her, then we may have our first solid lead. We can’t risk waiting … but it’s your call if you want to stay here or—”
“I’m going in,” Circe said in a tone that brooked no argument.
“Fine, Doc, but remember that this is a criminal investigation.”
“Yes, yes, and you’re the alpha. Get a grip, Joe; this isn’t my first time in the field.”
She said it with a lot of conviction, but I thought she was lying. I was pretty sure that this was her first time out of the world of “what if.” Even so, I kept my mouth shut on all the ways I wanted to reply to that. I took my Homeland ID case out of the glove box and looped the lanyard around my neck. We got out and I checked the street again. Nothing moved except the breeze through the December trees. I let Ghost out of the back. There was a case in the back marked with a rubber stamp of a blue old-style British police telephone box. In the TV show Doctor Who it was called a TARDIS, a kind of time and space ship. In the real world it was the box of special ultra-high-tech doodads provided by Dr. Hu and his team. I opened it and stuffed a few gizmos into my pocket.
I petted Ghost, who had caught my nervous tension and was fidgeting. I pointed to the Taylor house. “Watch. Call-call-call.” With that command he would watch the street and then bark like a crazy dog if anyone came within a dozen yards of the front door. The DMS trainer, Zan Rosin, had brought Ghost to a superb level of efficiency, and I worked with him every day to perfect the command and response between us. Ghost had a peculiar habit, though. When I gave him an order he opened and closed his mouth with a wet glup. His way of saying, “Hooah.”
Circe and I cut across the brown lawn and mounted the three steps to the stone porch. All of the houses on the street were decorated for Christmas. I noticed that Taylor’s was, too, but the work was sloppy. Lights strung crookedly, window decorations put up in haste. Circe noticed it, too.
“Nerves,” she said quietly. “Probably trying to fake it for the kids.”
I knocked on the door and waited. Nothing happened, so I tapped again.
“Joe,” Circe said without moving her lips, “the curtain moved, someone’s—”
“I know. Smile and look helpful.”
“Who are you?” a voice demanded from behind the door.
“Federal agents, Mrs. Taylor. Department of Homeland Security.”
“Prove it!”
I held up my ID so anyone looking through the peephole could see it. Then I removed my wallet and showed my driver’s license to prove the name matched. There was a picture in the adjoining glassine compartment. Grace.
“How do I know you’re who you say you are?”
“Do you still have the number you called?”
A pause. “Yes.”
“Call them. Ask for a description of the agent they sent. My name is Joseph Edwin Ledger. My partner here is Dr. Circe O’Tree. Have whoever you talk to describe us.”
“Okay. But if you try to force the door I’ll—”
She cut herself off before finishing the sentence. She didn’t know what she would do. I don’t think she had a gun or she would have threatened us with it. Scared people often do.
We waited. I could hear her speaking to someone, but her voice was muffled. All I could make out was “yes,” repeated several times.
“Okay, they gave me two questions to ask you.”
“Hit me.”
“What is your cat’s name?”
“Cobbler. And my dog, who is watching the house right now, is Ghost.”
“That wasn’t the other question. The man said to ask you what he called you when you first met.”
“He said I was a world-class smart-ass. He’s right, too. I hold several international records.”
I actually heard a short laugh from behind the door.
“Okay … I’m going to open the door.”
We waited and I could imagine the woman taking a steadying breath, trying to muster the optimism to trust the moment. She had her kids in there. If Santoro had done to her what he had done to Dr. Grey, the images of her children as victims of the Spaniard’s knife—as his angels—would be overwhelming.
The lock clicked. I traded a look with Circe. She looked as wired as I felt.
The door opened an inch and we saw a single terrified eye. Bright blue and filled with a kind of profound dread that should never be in any human’s eyes, let alone a parent’s.
“We’re here to help,” said Circe softly.
A tear welled in the corner of that bright blue eye.
“Don’t let them hurt my babies,” she begged.
I smiled—and I don’t know if it was the Cop or the Warrior who shaped that smile—and said, “Not a chance.”
Interlude Thirty-two
Crown Island
One Month Ago
“It’s done.”
The Goddess smiled into the phone. “Ah, lovely boy, I never had a doubt. Was it difficult?”
“Toys whined about it,” Gault said, “but it was more than worth it. We’ll be in Cairo in two hours and back there before this hits the news
services.”
“Hurry home to me, Sebastian,” Eris purred. “I want you here. In my arms. Inside of me.”
“If I could sprout wings, my love,” he murmured, “I’d already be in the air. Oops, the cab is here. Got to go. I’ll call you when I land in Toronto. Have fun on the Internet.”
“Oh, I will. By this time next month the Inner Circle will be rending their garments and beating their chests.”
“Don’t forget gnashing their teeth and wailing. The gnashing and wailing is such a kick.”
They were both laughing as they disconnected.
Interlude Thirty-three
Regent Beverly Wilshire
Beverly Hills, California
One Month Ago
Charles Osgood Harrington III disliked speaking on the phone. Most of his calls were taken by various assistants and secretaries. His cell phone had a private number given to a very select handful of people. Even his son didn’t have it. Which Harrington considered a good business move since his son, Charles Osgood Harrington IV—known as C-Four to everyone from the police to the national media—was a good-for-nothing waste of time.
So when his cell phone rang Harrington assumed that it was one of that small circle from whom he was always happy to take a call.
“Charlie,” said a breathless voice.
“Carl?”
H. Carlton Milhaus was a very old and very dear friend, and an associate in a number of business deals in the Middle East.
“Jesus, Charlie … have you read your e-mail? The club e-mail.”
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