Kill Switch

by Jonathan Maberry

  “That book,” she said, “was removed from a temple in Syria. One of the many archaeological sites where treasured artifacts have been stored or placed on display for the benefit of humanity. ISIL has gotten a lot of press because of the destruction they’ve leveled on those sites. Not merely UNESCO sites, but mosques, temples, shrines, great ruins, and more.”

  “I’m sure that sucks to someone who gives a wet fart, but so what?”

  “So some of those sites have a second purpose,” said Violin. “Some of them have been used to store dangerous objects for many years. Often the staff is seeded with soldiers or special clerics ordained for the purpose of protecting the world from the objects they guard.”

  “You’re shitting me,” said Harry. “This is a joke, right?”

  “It’s not. The world is larger, stranger, and darker than most people know. There are wars being fought on all levels, and many of them are very old wars in which blood has been shed for hundreds, even thousands of years. Maintaining the security over those items is critical, but the power of ISIL is so great that they have been able to overwhelm the guardians. The Brotherhood was quick to act and they sent teams into the field to try and reclaim these objects.”

  “If this stuff is so dangerous, why not let ISIL just destroy them?” asked Harry, then he added, “And I can’t believe I’m building a case for those fucktards to do even more damage.”

  “If these were ordinary books,” said Violin, “then the Brotherhood might have done just that. However, these books are not ordinary and it is possible, even likely, that an attempt to destroy them would result in a catastrophic release.”

  “A release of what?”

  She shook her head. “I … don’t know. There are so many different opinions on the subject because no one has ever opened some of those books. Not in many hundreds of years. In many cases the books themselves, the materials used to make them, and the inscribed metals that bind them were carefully constructed to contain the knowledge, to confine the power.”

  “This is nuts,” said Harry. “We’re talking about books. I mean, c’mon, I read explosive thrillers but it doesn’t mean they actually blow up. You tell me this isn’t magic but then you tell me this crap?”

  Before she could answer, the front door exploded inward.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  SEAHAWK PLACE

  DEL MAR, CALIFORNIA

  AUGUST 28, 12:52 A.M.

  Alexander Chismer—known as Toys to everyone who knew him—poured more wine into Junie Flynn’s glass, considered, added more. Then he refilled his own. The wine bottle was nearly as empty as its two predecessors and they were both well over the line into being drunk. They drank. She cried a little and he held her. They talked off and on. Sometimes they even laughed.

  The TV was on but the sound was muted. On the screen a trio of thirty-something real estate brokers were backstabbing each other in pantomime as they fought for multimillion-dollar listings of Southern California properties. Toys had turned it on because the men were pretty, but he had no interest in the show. He had even less interest in the god-awful Enya music she had on an apparently endless playlist. He endured it, though, and the middling wine. At least in terms of the latter there was a lot of it.

  Apart from the TV the only lights were a few votive candles and the starlight visible through the open French windows. The music was low enough so that the soft, rolling whoosh of the waves was not drowned out. Tibetan temple incense perfumed the air, and that was okay. Toys had bought that for Junie at a shop in Encinitas.

  “I wish somebody would call,” said Junie. Toys figured it was the tenth time she’d said it.

  “They can’t,” he told her. As he had before. “You know the drill with these spy chaps. Everything is hush-hush and need to know, and sweetie, we do not need to know.”

  “I do, damn it,” she said, too loudly and with an emphatic swing of her glass that sloshed good Riesling on the couch. She yelped, lunged for it as if she could catch the spilled wine, and slid right off the sofa. She landed with a thump that spilled more of the wine.

  Toys plucked the glass from her hand. “Oh, you silly cow, you are shitfaced, aren’t you?”

  Junie looked down at the mess and began to cry.

  Toys set his glass on the coffee table and joined her on the floor, wrapping a wiry arm around her and pulling her close until she laid her head on his chest.

  “Oh, my little Junebug,” he said. “You are going to be a right mess tomorrow, you know that? Joe will come home and you’ll be tits up on the carpet. Very exciting.”

  She punched his chest, and a snort of laughter bubbled out through the sobs.

  “You’re snorting now,” he said, arching his eyebrows. “You’ve now become actual American trailer trash. Congratulations.”

  “You are a total bitch,” she said as she pushed back from him. Junie swiped at her tears.

  “You didn’t expect me to slog all the way over here to braid your hair and have a pillow fight, did you?”

  “Bitch,” she repeated.

  “Drunken sow,” he said.

  They had some more wine.

  Ghost was curled up asleep in his big dog bed in the corner behind the dining room table and as they laughed, and drank, and wept, the dog twitched and grunted softly. His legs moved as shadows flitted through his dreaming dog mind.

  Then Ghost snapped awake and sat up, looking around at the room, at the people, and then through the window at the night. He sniffed the air and whined softly. He got up and walked over to the French doors, paused for a moment to sniff again, taking in the scents on the night air, then he went out onto the balcony. Toys and Junie did not notice any of this, nor did they see Ghost stand up on his hind legs with his front paws on the edge of the wrought-iron rail. They did not know he was even awake until the dog raised his muzzle to the sky and let loose with a howl that was high, plaintive, sad, and entirely wolflike.

  INTERLUDE SIXTEEN

  BELL FAMILY ESTATE

  MONTAUK ISLAND, NEW YORK

  WHEN PROSPERO WAS SEVENTEEN

  Mr. Priest declined the offer of a scotch.

  “Sit,” said Bell, and they both settled into comfortable leather chairs. It was late and the estate was quiet. Most of the servants had gone for the day except for the live-ins, and they had been told to stay in their wing of the house. That part of the house did not have a view of the driveway.

  “Where’s Dr. Greene?” asked Bell. “Should I start looking for an obituary?”

  Priest did not smile. “No, sir. He’s alive and well.”

  “Where?”

  “He owns property in Washington state. He’s living in a Winnebago. You might be interested to know that he removed the tires and has it resting on blocks. He bought enough supplies to last him for months.”

  “Does he know you know this?”

  “No,” said Priest. “Nor does he know that we’re tracking his purchases and Internet usage. He drives to several local towns to use the free Wi-Fi. He’s visiting conspiracy theory Web sites. A lot of them. And he’s e-mailing some of the people who run those sites. He’s spoken to George Noory, Whitley Strieber, Junie Flynn, and several others. UFOs, alien races, secret societies, and government cover-ups.”

  Bell grunted.

  “He’s also been doing a lot of research on the various books that comprise the Unlearnable Truths. He’s bought copies of some, but alas, they are fictionalized or pseudo-nonfiction. He’s nowhere near obtaining a real one, of course,” said Priest. “I’ve made copies of all of his Net searches and obtained duplicates of every book he’s purchased or checked out of a library. I sent a complete report to your Drop Box account.”

  “Good.”

  “Our Dr. Greene seems to think he’s dropped off the grid.”

  “Have you figured out who it was who came to his office and scared him off?”

  “Yes and no,” admitted Priest. “That they are Closers is unquestioned.”

&
nbsp; “Closers? Really? So they’re working for Howard Shelton or someone at Majestic Three?”

  “The man I had watching Dr. Greene’s office followed them to a military airbase in New Jersey. It is my understanding that the Majestic program no longer uses military transport for its operatives.”

  “No, they don’t.”

  “Perhaps they are working for Gateway,” said Priest. “I know you are in business with them, but surely you don’t trust them. Who else would want the case files about your son?”

  Bell nodded. “Yeah, dammit. That’s what I’ve been thinking, too. When you told me about Greene I figured Gateway was trying to do an end run around me. They’re having some problems with their machine.”

  “So you led me to understand. I wonder, though, why they haven’t simply taken Prospero.”

  “I have a whole military academy keeping an eye on him.”

  Priest said nothing, but his skepticism was there to be read in his bland smile.

  “Okay, okay,” growled Bell, “I’ll have Stark add more people.”

  “If you like, sir, I can have some of my people keep an eye from a distance. Watch the watchers, as it were, yes? If anyone makes a move on Ballard we will make a move on them.”

  “What if they send Closers?”

  Priest shrugged. “My people are second to none. They were trained by my brother.”

  “Your brother? I didn’t know you had a brother.”

  “We are not that close, but you know how family is. Besides, Rafael has found religion. He has convinced himself that his employer’s mother is a goddess and he worships the very ground on which she walks.”

  “And yet you think he is fit to train top mercenaries?”

  Priest laughed. A rarity for him. “No one is better at turning men into murderous fanatics than Rafael. No one. He calls his elite operatives ‘Kingsmen,’ and they are as dangerous as anyone you would ever hope to meet. Or, to not meet.”

  “Good. Put them on it.”

  “There is a cost element.”

  “I know,” said Bell. “Whatever it takes. But do not let any of those Closers come anywhere near my son. You understand me?”

  “Perfectly.” Priest cocked his head to one side. “Out of curiosity, sir, why is Dr. Greene even in the picture? With what he knows I would think it would be more useful to close that particular door.”

  “Not yet. He’s the only person my son will open up to. Him and a kid at his school. Leviticus King. A juvenile delinquent with rich parents.”

  “Anyone we should look into?”

  “I don’t think so. The commandant of the school is keeping an eye on them, but it looks like they bonded out of need. King has been keeping the school bullies at arm’s length, and my son is providing him with some recreational party favors. I make sure Prospero has access to a few things. It helps him unwind after sessions in the lab. Kid blows a few joints, then goes back in next day, drops some speed, and he’s raring to go.”

  Priest nodded, then changed the subject. “You already have the first of the Unlearnable Truths, The Book of Eibon. Has it been useful?”

  “Prospero nearly creamed his jeans when he got it. But then two days later he freaked out when he said it only had some of what he needed. He needs all of them to solve the sequencing problems.”

  “Correct me if I’m wrong,” said Priest, “but your son is a physicist, yes? These books deal with magic and ancient belief systems. Other worlds and strange gods. I’m not sure I understand how they will help Prospero solve a mechanical problem with his machine. I ask only because it might help me determine if there are other books, or perhaps more contemporary books that might be of greater value.”

  Bell considered, nodded. “Prospero believes that this God Machine of his is not something new and he doesn’t think it’s even his original idea.”

  “I do not—”

  “The kid thinks that this is sacred knowledge given to a special few by what he called the Ancient Ones. Yeah, I know how it sounds, but it’s not the nuttiest stuff I’ve heard. I mean, go read the Book of Mormon or the handbook of Scientology before you judge. Fuck, read Ezekiel and all that Old Testament shit.”

  Priest held up his hands. “No judgment, just curiosity.”

  “Okay, okay. This ancient knowledge is kind of a test. Solving it accomplishes two things. It proves that you belong to the race of people from wherever these fruitcake Ancient Ones are from. Not another world, not somewhere out in space, but in another dimension, follow me? Good. The other thing you accomplish is to build a doorway that will take you home. Or, that’s what Prospero thinks. He believes that the knowledge of how to build the machine is encoded in his DNA. That it is there as a kind of race memory for those of his species.”

  “Sacred knowledge,” suggested Priest.

  “I suppose that’s as good a term as any. It’s sacred to Prospero. The kid believes this shit with his whole heart. Always has,” said Bell. “Just like he believes that these Unlearnable Truths were written by people who are either from the same race as the Ancient Gods, or who recorded what they learned from people who are. I think a little of both. Now we get to the tricky part. The science of the God Machine is amazing. I told you some of it. Absolutely brilliant. But there are some flaws in the system, and my people tell me that the flaws look deliberate. Like fail-safes.”

  “What are they safeguarding?”

  “Use by the unenlightened,” said Bell. “Prospero’s words. He said that they were put there so that only a true believer could solve them. He said that other people like him have built God Machines before and that they were able to go home. Funny thing is I did some research on it and the kid may be on to something. There’s a really good chance that Nikola Tesla built one. It fits, too, because right after that there was a rash of people who had some of the known side effects. Unusual kinds of dreams, visions of fantastic places. Almost a one hundred percent chance the entire surrealism art movement started because of the effect of the ‘god wave.’ That’s Prospero’s name for the energetic discharge of the machine when it’s in idle mode. Are you following any of this?”

  “I am following all of it, Mr. Bell,” said Priest. “And it’s very useful. It corresponds to some of what I’ve discovered while researching provenance of the Unlearnable Truths. And I think I can add to what you know. You say that the surrealism movement in Europe was a possible side effect? I’m almost certain that Mr. Tesla may have built two God Machines, the second one being here in the United States. The sudden and dramatic explosion of a very specific kind of dark fiction and fantastical art in the twenties and thirties is not only similar to the surrealist movement; those stories are where we see mentions of these books.”

  Bell considered that. “That fits. I’m more than halfway sure the Russians tried to build one in Poliske in Ukraine. A full-sized one, too. That’s probably why Chernobyl blew up. And the Nazis almost certainly did. Their Thule Society, those freaks. God knows that might explain a lot. For all I know the Ark of the Covenant might have been one. At this point I’m keeping an open mind. So, this isn’t new, Mr. Priest. It’s a matter of Prospero being the only person we know of who is able to build one now. He can’t finish it, though, without a code hidden in certain passages and spells in those goddamn books. So, crazy as it sounds, we need to get the rest of them for him.”

  “Some of them may have been destroyed,” said Priest.

  “I don’t want to hear that. Maybe there are copies. Find out.”

  “This is getting expensive, Mr. Bell.”

  Bell gulped some scotch. “No kidding.”

  “I have to ask … but is it worth it?”

  “Christ,” said Bell, “I hope so.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  ARKLIGHT SAFE HOUSE

  UNDISCLOSED LOCATION

  BUDAPEST, HUNGARY

  TWO WEEKS AGO

  The force of the blast plucked Harry Bolt off the carpet and slammed him into the wall. He reboun
ded and fell hard, his head ringing with the blast, eyes stinging with smoke, and flesh screaming from where a dozen splinters had stabbed him. Violin was on her knees, face twisted in pain, one hand clamped around a splinter as thick as a pencil that was buried in her chest above her left breast. Red blood boiled out around the wound and ran over her fingers.

  Harry looked up to see glowing red lines bobbing through the pall as dark figures clogged the shattered doorway.

  “Move!” he bellowed as he launched himself from the floor and tackled Violin as the first barrage of bullets ripped through the smoky air. They fell together, but she pushed herself away and with her free hand swept her pistol from its holster. As the first of the men entered the room, she shot him in the face.

  Harry clawed his own gun free and rose to a kneeling position, bringing the gun up in both hands, and fired. The doorway was packed with men. Missing was impossible, even for Harry. He aimed for center mass on the next man in line, missed but hit him in the shoulder. The impact spun the man, jerking him backward toward the shooter behind him. It caused a chain-reaction collision as the men behind bumped into the man he’d shot.

  The smoke eddied as the men pushed through, and Harry saw that these were not the Brotherhood. They were dressed differently, in dark suits with white shirts and sunglasses. They looked like Secret Service men, though that was impossible. Some kind of government goon squad. If that was the case, then they might be official agents and not actual murderous bad guys. That thought stalled him because he did not want to murder Hungarian cops.

  Violin had no such qualms.

  Even with a chunk of wood buried in her chest, she rose and fired, attacking them as they tried to untangle themselves. She went for headshots only, and pressed her attack because Harry’s poor aim had created a momentary advantage.

  There were five men in the entrance.

  She killed them all.

  Ten shots, two into each man.

  They died.