“That’s an effective security protocol,” said Church.
Lilith’s laugh was ugly. “I’ve found that every man is willing to tell everything if you ask in the right way. One of my sisters asked the right way. Unfortunately the person we asked isn’t high enough to know much.”
She said that the Mullah of the Black Tent was working to unite the various factions of Islam under one banner, promising that the caliphate had a great weapon that was going to bring America to its knees. Normally such claims would be met with skepticism, hostility, or indifference, because there had always been threats like that.
“They started paying attention when there was a terrible accident at a racetrack. I think you call it NASCAR? The Mullah predicted that event and it happened exactly as he said it would. Then there was a similar event at a presidential debate. It is one thing to step up and try to claim responsibility for an event but it is entirely different when the event is predicted.”
“So this prophet has insider knowledge of the impending events,” said Church.
Lilith’s voice became intense. “Arklight is no more at war with true Muslims than we are with true people of any faith, as long as religion is not used like a knife. But this Mullah is dangerous. He is perhaps the most dangerous man alive today, because when he speaks there are Shiites and Sunni who stop to listen. Not merely a few, but many, and each time one of the Mullah’s predictions comes to pass his following grows.”
“Thank you for telling me this, Lilith. I will put resources on it and—”
“There’s more, St. Germaine,” she said. “Are you listening?”
“I’m listening.”
“The Mullah has made several predictions about a much bigger attack. Something so big it will bring America to its knees. Now, I know we’ve both heard threats of that kind before, but this is different. I did not know what it could be until my sources told me about the incident at the research laboratory. About the theft of the weaponized smallpox. SX-56, yes?”
“Yes,” he said, and his voice was faint. “What have you heard?”
He heard her take a breath. “The Mullah has prophesied that the hand of God will reach down from heaven and scatter pestilence across the land of the great Satan. The faithful need only watch, and from each finger of God will fall the seeds of punishment that will wipe out a generation.” She paused. “Do you understand what that means? Ten fingers, ten points of attack. Ten cities. And this pestilence has to be the SX-56.”
He said nothing.
“St. Germaine,” said Lilith, her voice softer now but more desperate. “You know who is most vulnerable to that disease. You know how fast it spreads. This weaponized strain is the Devil’s own design. Goddamn the men who conceived it it. Be damned to the people in your government for allowing it to exist. The Mullah and his army are going to launch a plague upon ten cities and slaughter a generation of children.”
Church closed his eyes. “Do you know when this will happen?”
“No. The men we interrogated did not know.”
“Can you find someone who does know?”
She was quiet for a moment. “Perhaps.”
“Will you?” asked Church. “I know it is a lot to ask.”
“I will not do it for you,” she said. “But tell me, St. Germaine, what do you think I would not do for those children?”
She did not wait for his answer. The line went dead.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
CATAMARAN RESORT HOTEL AND SPA
3999 MISSION BOULEVARD
SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA
SEPTEMBER 8, 9:11 P.M.
It was four to one.
Toys was in pajama bottoms and a plain white undershirt. No shoes, no weapons. The four intruders had guns, Toys could see the bulges under their jackets, but they came at him barehanded. Quick, quiet, deadly, all in a rush, wanting to smash him down and shut him up before he could call for help.
Toys never shouted.
He never called for help. It didn’t occur to him.
The man closest to him tried to end it with a vicious front kick to the groin.
Toys twisted and crouched, and as he did so hooked the attacking foot with the crook of his left arm and chopped down on the knee with his right elbow. The joint disintegrated and the attacker shrieked. Still holding the shattered leg, Toys rammed him backward into the others. There was an instant confusion of arms and legs as they tried to catch their friend and push him out of the way at the same time so they could kill their enemy. Toys didn’t give them the chance.
He jumped at them, using a leaping hip check to drive the wounded man more solidly into the others while lashing out at the two closest masked faces. He caught them both with solid palm-heel shots because there was no room for them to dodge. They crumpled under the force of the blows and the weight of their friend, and Toys landed beside the mass, pivoted to engage the fourth man, slapped the intruder’s hand away as he sought to draw a pistol, and chopped him solidly across the Adam’s apple. The man reeled backward, clawing at a crushed throat, trying to gasp in even a spoonful of air and utterly failing.
Toys turned again and kicked at the closest of the others, catching him on the temple with his bare heel. Toys was thin and looked skinny in clothes, but his body was all wiry strength and he knew how to hit and how to hurt. He rechambered his foot and swung a very short, very fast heel kick at the opening of the last attacker’s mask, catching the man in the left eye. Now there were three injured men on the floor, groaning and crying out in pain and surprise.
For the tiniest fragment of a moment Toys paused, not really wanting to do what had to be done. Not wanting to do what he’d already done. But behind him Job hissed once more, in mingled fear and anger, and that turned a switch in Toys’s head. A veil of dark red seemed to drop over his eyes and there was a sound in his ears like green wood being pulled apart.
He did not lose himself in the moment. His mind did not go black and he never for a moment lost control of himself or what he was doing. Not once.
Nor was he lost to some savage joy. No inner darkness took hold of him or owned him.
He beat them all into silence.
He broke them apart.
All the time he was aware that his cat was watching him.
And that maybe God was watching him, too.
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
THE PIER
DMS SPECIAL PROJECTS OFFICE
SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA
SEPTEMBER 8, 9:17 P.M.
Mr. Church spent the rest of the evening on the phone, disturbing some people as they settled in for the night, getting others out of bed, catching some late owls at their desks.
He called the White House and was told that the president was not able to take his call. He called thirty-four separate members of Congress and nine high-ranking military officers. He had friends who listened, and he spoke with friends who clearly did not believe him. And he spoke to many who were afraid of even talking on the phone with him. Many of them reacted with the guarded caution people reserve for the hysterical and the insane, proof that his credibility had been eroded.
He made calls to the Centers for Disease Control, to the National Institutes of Health and FEMA. He spoke with various friends in the industry. The ones he expected to have courage and vision listened and promised to help, but it was a smaller number of allies than he expected to find.
Aunt Sallie promised to put every available resource on it, but many doors had been shut to the DMS. Walls had been built.
With great reluctance Church brought Harcourt Bolton into the loop, and his new codirector surprised him by believing in this horrific new intel. Bolton hurried back to his office to see if he could get through to the people who had rebuffed Church.
Hours burned away.
Lilith did not call back.
No one returned his calls.
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
CATAMARAN RESORT HOTEL AND SPA
3999 MISSION BOULEVARD<
br />
SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA
SEPTEMBER 8, 9:44 P.M.
It would soon be a problem of logistics. Of concealment and disposal. Of constructing explanations in case anyone heard the scuffle.
Toys was aware that there were now so many details to be handled.
He was aware of it, but he didn’t care.
What mattered to him was the man who sat bound and bleeding on the floor. The man’s legs were wrapped with an extension cord. His wrists were tied with strips torn from Toys’s undershirt. He sat in a pool of his own blood. Not too big a pool, but enough. Pain had carved his face into an inhuman mask; fear had turned that mask to stone.
Toys sat on the small, wheeled desk chair. Job perched on the edge of the bed, watching like a vulture, or a jury. Also on the bed were four very strange pistols, all identical, all with a cluster of prongs instead of gun barrels. There were also four disposable cell phones, four rolls of twenty-dollar bills totaling two hundred dollars each. And four short fixed-blade fighting knives. Good knives, too.
The moment had stretched thin, quivering like a frayed guitar string that needed only a feather-light touch to snap.
Without saying anything, Toys reached back, stroked Job’s fur for a moment, then reached past him and picked up one of the knives. He weighed it in his hand, getting the feel of its size, its balance. Its potential. The blade was like many that he’d handled over the years and the bound man watched as Toys moved it in his grip, reversing the hold, learning it, making it his own. Then he bent forward and set the knife on the floor near the man’s right foot.
Toys sat back in his chair, crossed his legs, and settled his bloody hands in his lap.
“You know the bloody drill, mate,” he said quietly. “The whole ‘there are two ways we can do this’ thing, right? We both know you don’t want it to be the hard way, so do us both a favor and let’s skip to the part where you tell me what the bloody hell you’re playing at. Why did you and these effing twats break in here, what are you looking for, and who sent you?”
The man clamped his jaws shut as if afraid that all of those answers would tumble out against his will.
Toys sighed.
“If you make me pick up that knife it’s going to force us to go down some very bad roads,” said Toys quietly. “If you know who I am, then maybe you know what I am. Is that true? Have they briefed you on me?”
The man tried not to respond, but his head nodded anyway. Just a little. Enough.
“Then why do you think that this will end any way except my way?” asked the sad young man.
The wounded man stared up at him, eyes wide, growing wider, filling with a dreadful understanding.
CHAPTER SEVENTY
THE OVAL OFFICE
THE WHITE HOUSE
WASHINGTON, D.C.
SEPTEMBER 8, 9:45 P.M.
“Deacon,” said the president, leaning back in his chair and holding the phone to his ear, “sorry to call you so late, but I just got off the phone with Harcourt Bolton. He warned me that you wanted to talk about something earthshaking.”
“Warned?” asked Mr. Church.
“A joke. Personally I thought you’d be licking your wounds and keeping a low profile.”
“Is that what you thought, Mr. President? I’d have guessed that a comment of that kind would be beneath you. I will adjust my expectations henceforth.”
“Now is not a good time to get high-assed with me,” snapped the president. “You don’t have the political currency needed to buy much goodwill. Not from this administration. I know you enjoyed a great deal of freedom with my predecessors, but times have changed. Your team in Wisconsin was supposed to find out who stole the SX-56. A simple interrogation. Instead what happened? They went crazy and killed our only suspect and then themselves. Now God only knows where it is. If it’s released, then any civilian deaths are on your head. Let’s be clear about that.”
“That is precisely why I wanted to speak with you directly. I have received reliable intel about the SX-56.”
“Sure,” said the president, “we heard about some of that. It’s rumor-mill garbage.”
“I assure you it’s not. I need you to act.”
“You need? You? Really?” The president sighed. “You used to be the best in the business, Deacon, but times have definitely changed.”
“Have they?”
“Yes, they have. I don’t have skeletons in my closet,” said the president, “which means you don’t have any dials to turn on me. Everyone seemed to want to give you a long leash and let you do whatever you wanted to do. That’s not going to happen. I’ve gone over the wording of your charter. It was created by an executive order and it’s a stroke of my pen to cancel that charter.”
“So you keep telling me,” said Church.
The president made a rude noise. “Harcourt tells me that you’re trying to establish a connection between the power outages and that Gateway debacle.”
“We believe we have.”
“Are you calling to get me to put you back in charge of that case?”
“I am. We have intelligence from a reliable source that the attacks are being directed by an ISIL leader who goes by the code name of the Mullah of the Black Tent. In the last few hours I have managed to obtain copies of two different sources, one in Central Intelligence and one in Barrier, that have mentioned this man. I can find no evidence that either report was taken seriously or that any actions were taken to pursue the investigation.”
“We’re looking at him,” said the president.
“We as in who, exactly?” asked Church.
“That’s none of your business. It’s not your case.”
“It is if the agencies looking into this are not filing reports or taking appropriate actions. Why don’t we have a detailed file on this man in the shared database?”
“It’s a developing case. We don’t know much about him yet.”
“Mr. President, would you care to wager how much information I can amass in the next twenty-four hours?”
“Let me say it again more slowly so you can catch the words,” said the president. “It’s. Not. Your. Case.”
“I see.”
The president wanted to hurl the phone out the window. “You heard me that time. Good. Is that all?”
“No. I have obtained additional evidence that may connect Gateway with the Majestic program. This evidence may also connect the Stargate project with Gateway, as well.”
The president laughed. “God, you’re really losing it. Why are you wasting my time with this crap?”
“Because I have reason to believe that Stargate was never shut down. I believe it was transferred internally to Majestic and from there to Gateway. And I believe the technology is being used to attack the intelligence community of this country.”
“You’re being paranoid.”
“And you’re being obstructive.”
“I’m sorry … what did you just say?”
“Mr. President, I’m coming to you with new intelligence that, at very least, must make us reconsider our response strategy to a national crisis. We are talking about the pending release of a dangerous bioweapon on ten American cities. Even if you think I’m off my game, I can’t think of a single valid reason for you to dismiss it out of hand. Why would you, of all people, risk it? And yet you do. I find it curious that your response is to dismiss and mock.”
“Want to know what I find curious?” said the president sharply. “That you have the brass balls to talk to me in this manner. Perhaps I need to remind you who is commander in chief and who is a subordinate.”
“I am very much aware of the Washington power structure, Mr. President.”
“Are you? That may require a formal review. If you thought that by calling and insulting me you would somehow reclaim what you justifiably lost, Deacon, then you are very much mistaken. You’ve mismanaged the powers and authority granted you by my predecessors. If I had any doubts before about putting Harcourt in charg
e of the DMS, I have none now. In fact I wonder if he’s not the most appropriate person to take exclusive directorship of the DMS.”
Mr. Church said, “Since you are being frank with me, Mr. President—and as it seems I can’t get further onto your bad side—let me be equally frank with you.”
“Oh, please do. You’ve got a little bit of rope left.”
“I will give you the benefit of the doubt that you made a decision based on your understanding of the situation as it stood prior to this conversation. I called to help you clarify your vision. We are at a crossroads, you and I. I would hate to see you take the wrong path merely because you dislike me. I would hope your integrity, political sobriety, and good judgment will keep you from making choices that could have unfortunate consequences for the nation we are both sworn to protect.”
“Don’t you dare threaten me, you arrogant son of a bitch,” growled the president.
“That was not a threat, Mr. President, though I find it significant that you’ve chosen to take it as such.”
The line went dead.
The president stared at the phone for a moment.
“Asshole,” he muttered.
Then he bent forward, cleared the line, and made a call.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
SEAHAWK PLACE
DEL MAR, CALIFORNIA
FIVE DAYS BEFORE THE PULSE
SEPTEMBER 8, 10:12 P.M.
I had high hopes for a quiet night.
I got home very late and had a nice dinner with Junie. Fish tacos and dirty rice. Then we put the dishes in the sink and moved to the balcony to watch the stars over the ocean. It had been cloudy earlier but now there were stars by the billion.
Junie was in on the case now, and I was free to share the rest of what had happened with her. I told her about Lilith calling Mr. Church with a tip about a new and very mysterious ISIL leader she called the Mullah of the Black Tent.
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