“For what it’s worth, the secretary of state agrees with you.” The president sat down into the couch opposite McDaniels. “The French ambassador has requested a meeting; I believe he wants to serve as a mediator. It’s a little ironic that a representative of the country that manufactured and sold the weapons that started all of this is now interested in resolving it.”
“I don’t think ‘ironic’ is the term I would use, sir.” McDaniels barely knew the president and had no idea where this conversation was going.
“Do you think Moncrief could have been working for the French government?”
“Avanti did have a surprising amount of financial and intelligence support, but I doubt any government could have been involved. Governments are full of bureaucrats, and bureaucrats like to talk.”
“So you would rule out any connection between the government of Iran and these viruses?”
“I wouldn’t rule anything out, especially when it comes to the Iranians, but after spending time with Avanti, I don’t believe that he had outside support beyond the financial. It was important to him that people know what he himself had done.”
“So you think that this may have been just poor timing on their part?” the president asked.
“One possible scenario is that their attack on Ike was initiated without central approval. The Iranians are not a very homogenous group, and it is conceivable that a single base commander, believing that we were preoccupied with issues at home, tried to force his opinion on his reluctant superiors.” McDaniels didn’t believe that the Iranians were stupid, but attacking the Eisenhower battle group was as stupid an act as he had ever seen. The U.S. had more firepower in the region than three Irans, and if the order had indeed come from their president, or Grand Ayatollah, they must have been banking on a lack of U.S. resolve. However, since 1979, when Iranian “students” had held fifty-two Americans for 444 days, the U.S. had shown nothing but resolve towards Iran. The situation didn’t make sense, and McDaniels thought that the president’s approach was only making matters worse.
“I think that you’re probably correct. How much more time before we begin to finish what they started?”
“Six hours, sir.”
“Good. That’s time enough to meet with the French, work out a cease-fire, and announce it to the world. Before we completely lay down our arms, however, I want every nuclear processing facility in that country annihilated. If it has a centrifuge, I want it on fire by day’s end.” The president stood abruptly, and McDaniels jumped to his feet. They shook hands. “Someone will get back to you soon. Welcome aboard, General.”
Amanda spent one more night at the Flynns. Greg had flown with Oliver to New York, Lisa had made a wonderful pasta dish, and the two spent the night not talking about anything of consequence. The unspoken fear was that this was the last night they would share, and neither wanted to ruin those last hours. The presence of Reisch and the urgency of the moment began to grow in Amanda’s mind, and in the early morning hours, she left without saying good-bye. There really wasn’t any need, both ladies had said or left unsaid everything that was needed.
She still had her trusted Jeep, and she drove south along the interstate. Reisch was close, no more than ten miles, and despite the ban on travel, she breezed through the roadblocks without slowing. The soldiers seeing only an ambulance or military vehicle. Normally, she would be more discrete, but the connection with Reisch was so strong that he had to be just as aware of her as she was of him.
At Fort Carson, Amanda turned west onto Highway115. The town itself was small, but large enough to have its own contingent of National Guard troops at the west end of town. Amanda waved as she rolled through the roadblock, and the soldiers waved back. Reisch was very close now, but he made no attempt at escape. A shade of doubt appeared in her mind, and she could imagine the German well dug-in waiting for her frontal assault. She consoled herself by remembering their last meeting. He was unable to seriously harm her, but she had come within moments of killing him.
The trail ended at the Sunset Canyon Motor Lodge. Amanda drove into the gravel parking lot and immediately felt Reisch’s energy pouring out of room 112. There was an old Pontiac Bel Air parked immediately in front of it, and a screen door swung lazily in the early morning breeze. She parked next to the Pontiac and put the Jeep in park. Something was wrong; he had to know that she was here, yet he wasn’t moving. The heat of his malice stung her face, but the power of his mind was directed elsewhere.
Cautiously, she climbed out of her Jeep and approached the door. Her skin began to tingle, but Reisch apparently was so distracted that their proximity hadn’t charged the air like it did yesterday morning in the hospital. She touched the screen door and gently swung it open. The rusty hinges squeaked and Amanda almost jumped at the unexpected sound. The main door was slightly ajar, open enough that she wouldn’t have to worry about a lock, but closed enough that she couldn’t see inside.
Carefully, she pushed open the door. His presence was strong, but it still hadn’t changed in any appreciable way; he was still deeply preoccupied. The door had swung half way through its arc, and she knew something was very wrong. The very real coppery smell of blood rolled out of the cheap hotel room, and she could see a bare foot. It was a child’s foot, and it was covered in blood. Amanda stepped into the doorway and the extent of the carnage overwhelmed her. It had once been a family of five. Three children were arranged on the bed, arms—legs, and heads all severed, but neatly replaced. The mother had been tied to the headboard with electrical cord, stripped to the waist, and disemboweled. Both her eyes were missing, and streaks of dark blood flowed from each socket telling Amanda that they had been removed while she was still alive. The father had a single gunshot wound to the head. He sat at the desk, facing his slaughtered family. A small handgun lay on the floor inches from his dangling right hand. On the desk was a small empty satchel, the kind that would fit two small vials. A small note sat next to the satchel, and Amanda leaned over to read it.
“Come find me, Amanda. ”
Oliver had never been to New York and was amazed at the literal crush of humanity; there were people everywhere. Chicago, even on its worst day was never this bad. The New York sidewalks were shoulder to shoulder and every storefront or stoop was packed full of people trying to push their way into or out of doors. The pace was dizzying, and he regretted not having the opportunity to step out of the picture and just absorb its energy, or perhaps just step out of the picture and rest. His own energy stores were just about depleted as thousands of minds assailed him every moment, and instead of blocking them, he had to let them flow over him. The negative emotions seemed to cling to him while the positive ones seemed to roll away, and he didn’t know how much longer he could manage. The consequence of failure was the only thing driving him past the point of endurance. He had been given this ability, this power, for a reason. God had not chosen him randomly, and he would not let these people, or his God, down.
“You wanna take a break?” Greg asked after seeing Oliver again close his eyes in pain.
The two FBI agents in the front seat exchanged glances; they really didn’t have time for a break.
“No,” he said emphatically. So, they drove on.
Even with the help of the assistant director of the FBI, and then later by the Director himself, Phil was still in the same isolation unit he was yesterday. The intensive care unit upstairs had been repaired enough to re-accept patients, but nobody thought to move Phil, so he watched the activity of the emergency room through the walls of a glass prison, and paced the floor. Several nurses had asked him if he wanted something to help him sleep.
“No, thank you,” he said each time and continued to pace. He couldn’t help but think that this must be what life was like for those faces he had seen behind the tall steel doors all those years ago. He had been eight and was simply trying to get home, away from the testing and questions. He was different but not sick, and he didn’t need a hospital. Certai
nly not a hospital that hired employees so simple-minded that they had to use the same seven number pass code for every door.
Phil shook his head to bring him back to the moment. His memories had intensified, and he could see himself becoming lost in them. He had to remain focused. Maybe it was a lack of sleep, but he knew that wasn’t the problem. He was rapidly changing into something unknown, and his defenses against the unknown were poor.
Pieces of minds, dozens of them, resonated through his head. In some ways, his Monsters had prepared him for this, and he was quickly learning how to tune in or out the voices. But the fact remained that he was seeing and experiencing things that were fundamentally private, and that made his skin crawl. The thought that someday others would be able to invade his private world at will very nearly sent him into a panic attack. He doubted that what little sanity he had managed to create through nearly four decades would survive long in this new reality.
Control, he told himself. The watchword brought him back to pacing. They were coming for him; some part of his mind was processing the steady stream of voices and information, filtering out the unimportant. What was left formed an awareness of the world around him. He admitted that this was a potentially useful tool, and if this was the extent of the change, he could probably adapt to it.
He walked the length of his glass cage and felt the nurses watch him pace. It was a perfect metaphor for the other half of Amanda’s brave new world; another mind joined the watching chorus and Phil began to walk even faster.
It had been a long and busy day for Joseph Rider. The federal government was expanding the quarantine to involve the entire United States, and the County of Los Angeles now had less than twenty-eight hours before the curfew took effect. Like most large metropolitan counties, they had a detailed action plan already worked out, and Rider had worked hard all day implementing it.
Martial law had been declared, and in less than a day and a half, no one would be allowed on the streets except for emergency personnel and the military. The National Guard had been deployed; already, their Humvees and armored personnel carriers were taking up positions all across Los Angeles County. Police cars were driving up and down neighborhood streets broadcasting the same message, along with a countdown of how many more hours the citizens of Los Angeles had to prepare themselves for a week’s hibernation. Sirens wailed atop telephone poles as people rushed home to turn on their televisions and learn the latest developments; even the annoying emergency broadcast system had been activated. From sea to sea, the United States was shutting down for a week.
Well, not entirely. The military and police were excluded, as were all emergency service providers. Firemen, water and electric workers, hospital personnel, and other essential workers would be allowed limited access to the soon-to-be deserted streets. Some county workers, like the ones in charge of emergency management, would be given unfettered access as well.
Rider smiled. The Americans thought they were so clever. Clearly, they had stumbled across some information. Probably one of his fellow moles had been caught and been made to talk. Now the government was trying to protect its citizens by locking them inside their homes. Jeser had already anticipated this possibility, and Rider effortlessly switched to the contingency plan..
In a little over twenty-four hours, he would carefully apply a fine powder to several sheets of brittle yellow paper and then soak them in water for five minutes. The sheets would transform into what looked like ordinary notebook paper, and the deadly Hybrid virus would be safe inside tiny microscopic cocoons made of high-molecular-weight plastic, so long as they weren’t exposed to intense light. Rider would then simply distribute tiny bits of paper, each no bigger than a fingernail, to various places across the county, and the sun and wind would do the rest. It would take a day or two, and then the paper would begin to break down into extremely fine dust particles that were lighter than air. It was a much slower process, but in the end, it would find the hiding Americans.
He wondered how the others were doing. If everything had gone to plan, there would be one more Servant of God somewhere in northern California, and a third further up the Pacific coast. He only had a general idea where the others were supposed to be, and no idea how many more had made it this far. Three years was a long time to be perfect, and that was what was required of them. Still, there was enough redundancy built into the plan; they only needed eight for all the infected areas to converge and completely blanket the United States. He didn’t fear for himself. He was sure that a man in his position would hear the enemy long before they were close. Even if he was captured, the only thing he would regret would be his failure. The Americans could do nothing to him; he was already a dead man who long ago had made his peace with God.
Still, Rider would have preferred the original plan. He preferred the more personal touch. There was a certain satisfaction in knowing that you had personally killed the man who had just rudely brushed past you—along with his family, friends, neighbors, and city. Rider wondered if his streak of cruelty offended Allah. Certainly, the Prophet in all his battles must have drawn some personal satisfaction from the destruction of the unrighteous. Comforted by that thought, he returned to his computer and the plans for shutting down Los Angeles.
He was trapped by his own cleverness.
“Maybe that’s not such a bad thing,” Pushkin said as he floated through the wall that separated the kitchen from the living room.
Reisch watched his mentor drift a foot off the ground; a mist of silver sparkles trailed behind as he glided towards the big picture window. The late afternoon Colorado sun shone through Pushkin, and for a moment Reisch lost him in the bright light. “Are you real or just a product of my mind?”
“If you knew the answer to that question, you would know the answer to a lot of other questions,” Pushkin said smugly.
“That’s true, but it would also tell me if all those people outside can see you through the window.” Now it was Reisch’s turn to be smug.
“They can’t,” the Russian said, unconcerned with the foot and automobile traffic in suburban Pueblo. He turned towards Klaus and began to condense into his usual form. “I think it’s a good thing that you’re now forced to rely on your skills and experience as opposed to your paranormal abilities. They’ve weakened you, and made you sloppy at the worst possible time.”
Reisch didn’t want to argue, and there really was no point in denying the truth.
In the last two days, he had been shot three times, very nearly caught twice, and forced to flee before a foe at least as powerful as him. All three were firsts for him, and all three were a direct result of poor planning and execution. He had begun to put his infallibility before three decades of experience. But that was changing now; he was out of Colorado Springs, and already he could feel the mental fog begin to lift.
The theatrics in Fort Carson had thrown Amanda off his trail, but to stay below her radar he was forced to stay inside of himself. Twice he had squared off against her and the best he had achieved was a draw, but only after she had soundly thrashed him in their first encounter. Both meetings had been unexpected and on her turf; he was going to change that. They would met again, but not until everything was over.
“So when are we going?” a more solid-appearing Pushkin asked.
“Later; I can’t escape the military without alerting her, so I’ll have to wait until they thin out.”
“It is interesting that she could have destroyed you both, but didn’t. Why is that do you think?”
“If I was forced to guess I would say that it was nothing more than survival instinct.”
“Strange that after all she has been through that she still clings to life.”
Twenty-eight hours left, and they finally had Rachel Hill, aka Maria Belsky, and Alexander Stone, aka Kameel Neser, in the same building. Kyle Stanley watched as Neser was shackled to the metal table. Maria was in the next room sitting in front of a similar metal table. Stanley had decided not to have her s
hackled after she had positively identified Neser. The Russians confirmed Maria’s identity and story, but only after the president had called the Russian president and explained his extreme displeasure with their stonewalling.
“Are you sure you want to be involved with this?” one of the assistant directors asked Stanley.
“We are well past any need for plausible deniability, Jack. I will be quite happy to explain to a judge or the American public why I did what we’re about to do. Let’s get started.”
Stanley walked into the interview room just as the tech was finishing with the IV. “I’m Kyle Stanley, director of the FBI. You are Kameel Neser, are you not?”
Neser looked up and sneered. “Where’s my lawyer? And what the hell is this shit about?” He waved his restrained arm and the IV, still in his Alexander Stone persona.
“Let me explain the ground rules to you, Mr. Neser. As of fifteen minutes ago, you have no rights. As a matter of fact, you no longer exist. I have very little time, so you will either give me what I need now, or we will extract it from you.”
Neser smiled and stared at Stanley for a long minute. “It’s happening, isn’t it?” He started laughing. “And you think I have the answers. That’s beautiful. Go ahead; ask away, because I was never told a thing.” He leaned towards Stanley as far as the chains would allow and then smiled broadly.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. All we want to know is who you killed and when.”
Neser continued to smile. “Bullshit. The director of the FBI doesn’t bother himself with trivial little matters like homicide. What’s happening outside? Tell me, and I’ll give you a name.”
For an instant, Stanley was tempted. “What’s happening outside is that the climate has changed. As soon as we found out your real name, you became the property of the FBI courtesy of the United States Congress and House Bill 1278.” Stanley slowly relaxed himself into a chair opposite Neser.” We have a small project that you have just been enrolled in. I’m afraid that it’s very new. In fact, you are our first test subject. That’s why I’m here. Although I am curious to know what you’re talking about.”
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