“Why what?”
“Why are you helping me? What’s in it for you?”
Vox sipped his brandy. “I told you before, I haven’t been able to trust Santoro for years, and I need someone I can trust.”
“An ‘employee’?” Toys said with a wry smile.
Vox’s face was serious. “No. I can always buy more people. But you … I think you may have outgrown the point where you can be bought.”
Toys nodded and they sipped their brandy.
“I never thought I’d say this,” said Toys eventually, “but I hope Joe Ledger lives through all of this. He still has work to do.”
“For the Seven Kings,” said the American.
“For us,” said Toys.
“Sure,” said the King of Fear with a laugh. “Why not? For us.”
Interlude Forty-seven
Aboard the Delta of Venus
December 21, 6:59 P.M. EST
Eris and Gault had a dozen laptops open so they could watch all of the major network feeds. They were naked, both of them covered in welts and scratches.
“This is what I’ve been working toward since I took control of the Kings from my son.”
“You do know with Hugo on the run from the DMS you’ll eventually come under scrutiny.”
“Eris will,” she said. “But that poor woman is going to die tonight.”
Gault nuzzled her neck. “So, who is it that I just shagged cross-eyed?”
“I’m not sure. We’ll have to think up a new name. Maybe Isis. Or Hera.”
“Will you shed a tear if Hugo is caught?”
Eris laughed. “Don’t be absurd.”
“Would he shed a tear if you were caught?”
“Silly questions, lovely boy. Pay attention.”
They snuggled together and watched the screen.
The show was beginning.
Chapter Seventy-five
The Sea of Hope
December 21, 7:19 P.M. EST
The bandstand was a gorgeous confection of glittering lights, thousands of honey-sweet flowers, mirrored surfaces, and tall vertical posters that showed the faces of smiling children of all races. Healthy children, not the starving and wasted faces used in some charity advertisements. This event was all about rising above sickness and poverty. This was about the coordinated work of tens of thousands of people on six continents who shared a common belief that no child should suffer from a disease that existed only because that child’s family lived in abject poverty.
No one associated with the event, except the low-wage staff aboard the ship, was getting paid to be here. The performers even bought their own plane tickets. Many of the celebrities paid to bring friends and guests; others donated money to the charity, recorded songs or public-service announcements, and arranged to have portions of CD and DVD sales allotted to Generation Hope.
The goodwill mega-event was being broadcast all over the world. Thousands of concert venues and tens of thousands of movie theaters were simulcasting the concert. Phone banks in seventy countries were staffed to take what forecasters predicted would be a record number of donation calls. The President of the United States would speak from the tour’s end point, Rio de Janiero, as would Prince Charles and the heads of twenty other countries. Even China, a late holdout, had agreed to broadcast the concert, albeit with a ten-second delay to allow “bad messaging” to be censored.
Anderson Cooper probably put it best when he said, “This is what humanity does when we all realize we are one family.”
Rafael Santoro found it all … so vulgar.
He stood amid the thousands aboard the Sea of Hope, a PRESS badge hung around his neck, and watched as the emcee—the actor Hugh Laurie—walked onto the stage amid applause that shook the heavens.
Santoro stood with his hands in his pockets. His left hand caressed a small hypodermic with a plastic cap. The other stroked the beautifully curved handle of his knife.
Chapter Seventy-six
The Sea of Hope
December 21, 7:55 P.M. EST
Ghost and I had to fight our way through the crowd. You’d think people would be more considerate of the blind.
I wore heavy sunglasses and Ghost wore a guide dog harness.
We were buffeted and pushed and jostled to the point where Ghost was about to blow his cover as a docile guide by biting someone’s throat out and I was almost to the point where I was going to let him.
Like my other pair of DMS specs, this pair had a display on one lens. I had it set to send random crowd images from the minicams. I was looking for someone with a trigger device or a bomb vest. Or a convenient gun butt sticking out of his pocket. Nothing.
And then that changed.
I pulled Ghost to one side and shoved my hand into my pocket to play with the camera control.
Holy shit, I thought.
I tapped my commlink. “Cowboy to team. Check the feed from camera thirty-three. Guess who came to the party?”
Chapter Seventy-seven
The Sea of Hope
December 21, 7:39 P.M. EST
Rafael Santoro moved through the shadows, avoiding the party lights, trying to stay invisible. He knew that after tonight his face would have to change. More plastic surgery. Everyone aboard the ship seemed to have a digital camera or a camera option on their cell phone. And all the media. Over three hundred members of the world press were here. His face, even as a noncelebrity in the back of a crowd, would be all over cable TV and the Net. Such a pity. He’d come to like this face.
Ah well, the Goddess would buy him whatever face she wanted him to have.
On the bandstand, Taylor Swift had just finished her set and the audience was cheering and applauding as if the girl had walked on water. Santoro sniffed. He was not a fan of rock or country music, preferring operas or silence. He did, however, enjoy the enthusiasm of the crowd. They were loud and excited and thoroughly caught up in the moment. The daughters of the President were dancing right in front of the stage now as the Jonas Brothers launched into their brand of pop confection. Santoro eyed the children, fingering the handle of the knife in his pocket. Would they become angels, too?
Probably not. There would not be time for that.
Pity.
“Crab puff?” asked a waitress, a beaky-nosed blonde with ice blue eyes who held a tray of hors d’ourves. Santoro smiled at her but shook his head. Now was not the time to nibble on fried muck.
Waiters kept trying to offer him snacks and drinks, and he waved them away, first with grace and then with mounting irritation as the evening wore on. Performer after performer took the stage. Fireworks painted the sky with carnival colors, and the laughter and conversation were almost loud enough to drown out the music.
“Spinach quiche?”
Santoro waved the waiter away without even bothering to look at him. He wished he could hang a sign around his neck: leave me alone!
He looked at his watch. Nearly time.
The concert had dragged on. Beyoncé, Pink, Jennifer Hudson, Lady Gaga. None of whom Santoro even knew.
Santoro walked the decks, occasionally slipping downstairs to check on the teams of Kingsmen who were waiting for this moment. As he returned to the deck another waiter accosted him, and another. Santoro had to dig his hands into his pockets and grip his knife in order to calm himself.
Jay-Z finished his set to raucous applause. Santoro consulted his watch again as U2 took the stage. Time was moving along. Nearly eight now. Santoro saw Prince William and Prince Harry go out onstage to shake the hand of each band member. One of the Bush girls was there, too. And so many others.
It was a nice blend of victims and witnesses. Pity that so few would be elevated to angels, but it was not that kind of event.
Santoro wondered what the Seven Kings would be like after tonight. First thing tomorrow morning a team of workers would arrive at McCullough to remove all of the valuables, including the thrones, tapestries, computer systems, and contents of the wine cellars. They would also set the cha
rges. The first subbasement was packed with enough C4 to hurl the stones of the castle for a mile in every direction. There would be nothing left but a crater, and the St. Lawrence River would fill that in within seconds.
Starting over in a new place would be a chore. The kind of fussy busywork that Santoro did not enjoy. He wanted to get out into the field. They would lose a lot of Kingsmen tonight. Many more of the Chosen. The escape craft Santoro held in readiness was designed for one. The rest would die along with the naïve fools who were running this event.
After tonight, after waiting some months for the immediate outcry to die down, Santoro would begin scouting for new recruits, both Chosen and Kingsmen. The thought of that pleased him.
He drifted to the farthest corner of the deck, where it was a little quieter and where he could see everything as the drama unfolded. His active role was done. All he had to do now was enjoy the performance that had taken so many months and so much effort and money to craft. And, of course, to make sure that nothing went wrong. No interference of any kind would be allowed to spoil the Goddess’s triumph.
Ahh … it would be so delicious. He put his hands in his pockets and caressed the handle of the knife.
Then someone bumped into him and Santoro turned with a snarl, but that changed immediately to an apology.
“I beg your pardon,” he said.
The blind man looked in the wrong direction, apparently confused by all the noise. The dog, a gorgeous white shepherd, looked straight at Santoro.
“Ah, jeez, mister,” said the blind man. “Did I bump into you?”
“It is of no matter. My own clumsiness. Here, let me guide you to the rail. It’s less crowded there.”
“Wow, thanks … that’s very kind.”
Santoro took the blind man’s arm and steered him through the crowd. The guide dog snarled.
“Quiet,” snapped the blind man.
“Your dog is probably unnerved by all the noise.”
“Nah,” said the blind man. “He just doesn’t like scum-sucking assholes.”
Santoro blinked. “Sorry?”
The blind man turned and tugged down his glasses and gave Santoro a comical wink.
Santoro sighed. “Hello, Mr. Ledger. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”
Chapter Seventy-eight
The Sea of Hope
December 21, 8:01 P.M. EST
“Hello, asshole,” I said.
“Are you always this crude? It’s unbecoming for a person of rank.”
“Actually,” I said, “I’d really enjoy showing you how crude I can be.”
“Do you expect to do something right here and now? With all of these important people around?”
“Only if I have to.”
“I could kill you where you stand,” murmured Santoro, smiling faintly. His hands were in his pockets; the handle of the knife was hard against his right palm.
“Really? Would be fun to test that theory.”
“Are you always this foolish?”
“Do you always wear a dancing red light on your tie?”
Santoro looked down and saw the pinpoint of a laser sight hovering over his heart. He looked up to find the shooter but could not see him.
“Don’t bother looking,” I said. “He’ll find you if you twitch the wrong way. Now—let’s go.”
Santoro spread his hands. He looked amused. “Very well.”
Over the PA system the emcee announced Prince William. The applause was absolutely thunderous. It was probably going to be a great speech; it would probably make me want to grab for my checkbook. But I had other things I wanted to hear more.
A waitress stepped up beside Santoro. Beaky nose, blue eyes, short-barreled Ruger held under her tray. “Sure you don’t want a crab puff?”
Santoro smiled with genuine appreciation.
I let Santoro lead the way belowdecks. We passed another waiter and at least fifty passengers hurrying up to hear the Prince. Santoro did not try to escape, didn’t grab anyone to use as a hostage, not even when he saw that the laser sight was gone. That worried me a little, because it showed a level of confidence consistent with a belief that he was going to slip this punch.
At the bottom of the stairs I told Santoro to turn right. He did and we entered another corridor, and this one was also packed with people.
I tapped my earbud. “Find me a clear route.”
All I got was a crackle of white noise.
“Cowboy to command.”
“It won’t work,” said Santoro calmly.
DeeDee stepped up and put the barrel of her pistol against Santoro’s spine and we steered him into an alcove. She patted him down. Not a thorough job with everyone watching, but she found his pistol and took it, and took the knife from his pocket. She also removed a small syringe and handed it to me, then shifted the pistol from his back to his temple.
“You have one second to tell us how you’re jamming this before I blow your shit up right here right now.”
“No need for threats,” the Spaniard said. “All communications are being jammed by a system even I cannot disable.”
“What’s the syringe for?”
“It’s epinephrine. I have allergies.”
“Right,” I said, pocketing the syringe.
Above deck I heard the reverb of the Prince’s speech.
“Sound’s back on, Boss,” said DeeDee.
“No. The public-address systems are fine,” said Santoro. “We want that noise. But nothing that is happening here is getting out.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” I growled. “I thought this whole thing was to broadcast the Kings’ big bonanza event.”
He smiled like a crocodile. “What makes you think this is the event?”
“C’mon, Boss,” growled DeeDee. “Let’s drag this shitbag back to the suite. I guarantee you I’ll find—”
And Santoro moved. I don’t think I have ever seen anyone move that fast. He pivoted and struck DeeDee in the throat with his left hand and then flicked his right so that a sliver of bright metal dropped into his palm. His hand was a blur and then DeeDee was falling against me, blood exploding from her face, a scream tearing itself from her throat.
Ghost and I lunged for Santoro at the same time, no more than a half second after his cut, but his hand was already moving. I felt heat in my chest and then I was falling. I landed hard on Ghost’s back and heard him yelp in pain as we both crashed down together.
I heard people in the hallway scream—first in shock and then in pain as Santoro leaped into the crowd, cutting left and right, and then burst through on the other side, running at full speed down the hall.
Chapter Seventy-nine
The Sea of Hope
December 21, 8:03 P.M. EST
The video feeds went dead all at once.
“What the hell?” Circe yelled.
Church was right there. “What is it?”
“We lost video and audio—”
Outside the cabin they heard shouts. And then gunfire.
Chapter Eighty
The Sea of Hope
December 21, 8:04 P.M. EST
I had two choices: see to DeeDee or chase Santoro. I cut a quick look down and saw that she was still alive. Her face was a bloody ruin and she had one hand clamped over her left eye. Blood welled from between her fingers.
“Go! Go!” she screamed.
I hauled myself to my feet. Ghost squirmed out from under, whining and trembling. I couldn’t check him out, either.
I ran.
“Clear the way!” I bellowed, and pulled my gun. People slammed themselves against the walls. Some fools turned and ran away from me, obscuring my view of Santoro. I pelted down the hallway. I collided with people. I punched one poor bastard just to get him out of my way. Santoro vanished around the far turn and I ran harder. Behind me I could hear Ghost barking, but the sound was fading. He wasn’t following me. How badly was he hurt?
No time to worry about that, either.
<
br /> I skidded around the corner, going wide in case Santoro was lying in wait. He wasn’t, but there was a cabin steward on his knees with his hands clutching a throat that sprayed blood. I had a glimpse of a single wild despairing eye as I ran past.
I had to take two short side corridors. One was empty, and in the other a woman huddled on the ground, hands over her head. I saw no blood as I ran past.
There was a scream ahead. I put on another burst of speed, but as I neared the corner a teenage girl came flying around the bend, propelled by a savage kick from Santoro. I slammed into the girl; her forehead hit me on the mouth, bursting my lips against my teeth.
I twisted as I rolled, pushing the girl away from me, but Santoro darted in and kicked my gun out of my hand, then pivoted and dove for it. He came out of his roll with the gun in his hand just as I hopped to a crouch. I had no choice, so I grabbed the teenager by the collar and the belt and flung her at Santoro’s legs. It was a wicked and vile thing for me to do, but the alternative would have been much worse, even for the girl.
Santoro went flying forward and the gun passed me and bounced down a set of stairs. The girl curled into a fetal ball of pain and screamed.
I lunged for Santoro, but he rolled onto his back and kicked up with both feet. Suddenly I was flying backward into the wall. My head struck hard enough to shake loose the moorings of reality, and my sight flickered on and off. Last thing I saw was Santoro coming at me with the short knife in his hand.
Chapter Eighty-one
The Sea of Hope
December 21, 8:06 P.M. EST
On the stage a pair of burly SAS men tackled the Prince just as heavy-caliber bullets ripped through the flowers. But the shots were aimed low and they missed the trio as the agents dragged the Prince to safety.
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