“Is there any chance that the connection between MACE and the Evangelical Alliance has been made by the authorities?”
The voice on the other end of the line was grim.
“Everyone is dead so nobody’s talking now, but we can’t take any chances.”
Patterson sat in catatonic silence for a long beat before slamming a clenched fist down on his desk. The sound made the two MACE guards standing by the door of the office glance across at him. He forced himself to calm down.
“Then this is damage limitation. We must hold them off for as long as possible. Intercept the jet when it reaches Dulles and ensure that the remains on board are safely locked away before the FBI or anyone else can seize them. Destroy everyone and everything that may betray our involvement, is that clear?”
“That may involve people, not just material.”
“Do what must be done, for the greater good.”
Patterson put the phone down and looked at his two guards. “Gentlemen, Senator Isaiah Black will be attending his primary rally in the District this evening. I am going to request that he call in here beforehand. Please ensure that the church is secure, that all church employees are sent home, and all security staff are at their posts.”
One of the guards frowned.
“We heard that Byron Stone is dead,” he said uncertainly. “We’re not sure who should be giving us our orders if—”
“Byron Stone is indeed dead,” Patterson snapped. “Which means you do as I tell you. Unless you’d rather be unemployed?”
Both of the guards nodded curtly and left the office.
Patterson waited until they were gone before rubbing his face with his hands, struggling to maintain his composure. He walked across to the towering chrome crucifix, standing before the altar and falling slowly to his knees.
“Give me strength, Father, to do what must be done.”
Slowly, he stood, and with one hand moved the bronze eagle on his desk. Moments later, and he was walking down a narrow passage concealed behind the walls of his office, descending in silence to where a door opened into a chamber where the sound of his footfalls sounded dead, as though soulless and without form.
He flicked a switch on the wall, and a single fluorescent tube illuminated an operating theater complete with heart-bypass machine, monitors, glass cabinets filled with vials and serums, and a single, T-shaped operating table.
He checked that everything was in order and ready for his guest before returning to his office. He picked up the phone and began to dial Senator Black’s personal number.
ROOM 517, HART SENATE OFFICE BUILDING
CONSTITUTION AVENUE, WASHINGTON DC
Please wait one moment, Detective.”
Tyrell stood in a plush corridor and considered the opulence around him as a young aide hurried into one of the Senate offices. He’d already waited two hours, but then he was a mere mortal walking among the most powerful men on Earth.
The United States of America was built upon the policy of all Americans being equal. The American Dream was supposedly their future, yet too many were born into unimaginable squalor and hardship, their lives expiring from a cocktail of drink, drugs, and sickness, like his older brother. The American Nightmare. It didn’t much matter whether you were black or white, Mexican or Latino; for the Phillies or the Knicks, a Fed or a Yankee. Life was gonna be short and would likely end much as it had begun: feeble, dependent, and flat broke.
“Detective, this way, please.”
Glass doors at the entrance to the two-story duplex suite were flanked by dark-blue flags bearing the Texas State emblem. Senator Isaiah Black extended a hand as Tyrell entered the suite, a bright smile painted across his permatan features. Tyrell relaxed a little as he looked into the senator’s eyes and judged that smile to be genuine.
“My apologies for arriving unannounced, Senator.”
“It’s no problem,” Black replied, gesturing to a chair. “But I’m due out in about ten minutes so this may have to be a little rushed.”
“That’s fine, sir,” Tyrell said. “I’ll be brief.”
Tyrell reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved the images of the dead bodies from the Potomac projects, fanning them out across the senator’s desk before he sat down. Black froze with hands flat on the desk and legs half-bent.
“Three young men whose postmortems suggest they were murdered, the killings made to look like a drug-related act of misadventure.”
Black slowly sat down. “Do you know who they are?”
“All three have been identified. Two of them were petty criminals but the one in the middle was a respected scientist working in the District with no history of drug abuse. Do you know him?”
Senator Black shook his head, still looking at the gruesome images. Tyrell swept the photographs out of sight, eager to judge the senator’s expressions as he continued.
“The victims all suffered an illegal medical procedure designed to alter their genetic structure by contaminating them with foreign DNA.”
Senator Black’s jaw dropped like a stone. “You’re not serious.”
“Yes, sir, I am.”
“Why are you here?”
“We believe that the procedures were financed by the American Evangelical Alliance, with the knowledge and consent of Pastor Kelvin Patterson, who believes the DNA to be that of angels known as Nephilim.”
Black’s face collapsed like a pile of granite slabs.
“Kelvin Patterson?” he repeated, his mouth moving slowly as though wrapping itself around the name. “That’s not possible. The pastor is a man of God.”
“Many have committed terrible crimes with God’s name on their lips,” Tyrell said. “That has been true for all of human history.”
“What does this have to do with me?” Black asked.
“I am trying to connect the events in the District with those in Israel. We believe that there is a link and we think it may be this man.” He handed the senator a picture of Dr. Damon Sheviz and decided to twist the screws a little. “I don’t want to expose you to any negative media at such a sensitive time in your campaign by applying for a subpoena from the district attorney. I thought it best that we should be able to speak privately about this first. Do you know or recognize this man?”
Senator Black looked at the picture and shook his head.
“Never seen him before in my life.”
“He’s a surgeon of some repute. He was here in DC at the time the murders were committed, working for one of the Evangelical Alliance’s churches, and has since traveled to Israel.”
Senator Black nodded slowly. He looked at the picture again.
“You remember something?” Tyrell prompted.
The senator shook his head. “No, I’ve never seen this man before, but …”
“Anything, no matter how trivial, may be worthwhile knowing.”
The senator looked out of his office window, trying to remember.
“Kelvin has spoken publicly of his support for Israel based on a biblical interpretation of history. I’ve tried to distance myself from his comments, and his association with other companies involved in such lobbying.”
“Which companies?”
“MACE, a security and arms company, owned by a man named Byron Stone.”
Tyrell frowned. “This MACE is involved with the alliance?”
“Yes, and they’re one of the companies supporting my campaign,” Black said.
“Why would an arms company ally themselves to an evangelical church?” Tyrell asked.
“MACE is owned by the church,” Black explained. “They’ve invested large sums into advanced aerial drones and cryogenic battlefield trauma surgery to save lives that otherwise would be lost to …”
Tyrell didn’t hear the rest. Four words rolled through his mind. Cryogenic battlefield trauma surgery.
What kind of surgery?” Tyrell asked. “How were they doing it?”
Isaiah Black seemed momentarily stumped.
> “Something to do with a kind of advanced suspended animation, I think.” Tyrell felt a shiver down his spine as the senator spoke. “They rapidly freeze people with severe injuries to prevent death and then thaw them out once surgery is complete. Quite remarkable, although I don’t really understand the details of it all.”
“I’m beginning to,” Tyrell murmured thoughtfully. “Senator, the battlefield surgery could be a cover for these experiments.”
Senator Black looked at him for a minute as his brain processed the allegation.
“That’s ridiculous,” he stammered.
“Ignoring the connection would be ridiculous, Senator, for more reasons than one.”
“This could be detrimental to my campaign,” Black uttered as he made the same connection, then rubbed a hand across his face. “I should disassociate with them. I should have done it years ago.”
“That might be premature,” Tyrell said. “It might alert either Patterson or his accomplices to our investigation. We’ve already had one witness die under suspicious circumstances.”
“Suspicious?” the senator echoed in alarm.
“I would seriously suggest that you do not approach Patterson in any capacity, Senator,” Tyrell cautioned.
The senator sat for a moment, and then shook his head.
“I can’t let this get out to the American people,” he said finally. “It could upset the entire primary campaign and throw the party into confusion. If we lose our way now, we’ll never get our momentum back before the election.”
Tyrell saw his chance slipping away.
“We could preempt any political fallout, Senator, if we act now. Would you be willing to accompany me to the district attorney’s office? With you there I feel certain that I can obtain a prosecution, which would alleviate any pressure on your campaign, but alone I’m not able to present a case.”
Senator Black sat for a long moment and then looked at a copy of the United States Constitution affixed to the wall nearby.
“You’re sure that your case is sound, that the DA will be open to a prosecution? It’s a hell of a chance for me to take.”
“I’m sure,” Tyrell said. “All it needs is your support.”
The senator took a breath and was about to speak when the glass doors to the office burst open behind Tyrell with a loud crack, and he whirled in his seat to see four Capitol police officers rush into the office.
“Detective Tyrell, would you come with us, please?”
Tyrell struggled to his feet as the officers surrounded him. “What the hell’s this?”
Before the police could answer him, Captain Louis Powell swept into the suite.
“This comes to an end, now,” Powell growled.
Tyrell felt a plunging sense of dismay sink through him. “Lopez,” he said softly.
Powell turned to Senator Black.
“My apologies, Senator, but your time has been wasted.”
“I’m not wasting anybody’s time!” Tyrell shot back at the captain.
Senator Black raised his hands.
“Gentlemen, please. What the hell is going on here?”
Captain Powell gestured to Tyrell.
“Detective Tyrell has been ordered off this case by the District commissioner herself. It’s based on dubious evidence, unconvincing methods, and has been dismissed by every single authority involved, including the FBI.”
Tyrell struggled to keep himself under control.
“People have died and the case has been closed despite the evidence, not because of it.”
“The evidence you’ve acquired is inadmissible,” Powell said before turning again to the senator. “With your permission, Senator.”
Senator Black looked from Tyrell to Powell and back, and his survivalist political instinct took over.
“I’m sorry, Detective, but I can’t help you.”
Powell grabbed Tyrell’s arm, pulling him out of the suite. Tyrell looked over his shoulder at the senator.
“Stay away from Patterson,” he said as he was manhandled out of the suite.
Powell released him as the suite doors closed behind them.
“What the goddamn hell do you think you’re doing here?” the captain demanded.
“It’s something to do with a security company, MACE,” Tyrell said quickly. “They and the Evangelical Alliance are planning something in Israel. Get in touch with Interpol and—”
“The hell I will,” Powell said, cutting Tyrell off. “Your badge and your weapon.”
Tyrell felt the bottom drop out of his world. “You’re kidding me?”
Powell held out his hand.
“You looked at where we’re standing, Tyrell? You thought about the fact that it might not be your ideas that are crazy but your way of following them? Hand them over or I’ll have departmental charges made against you through Commissioner Devereux.”
“You’re making a mistake.”
“Maybe,” Powell said. “But you’ve already made yours by putting yourself where you shouldn’t damned well be.”
Tyrell was about to say something when his train of cognition slammed to a halt. Putting yourself where you shouldn’t damned well be. An image of Daniel Neville’s room at the hospital drifted through the field of his awareness and he gasped as a flood of revelations rushed through his mind.
“Damn, I’ve been an idiot,” he said out loud.
“Smartest thing you’ve said all day,” Powell snapped. “Badge and weapon.”
Tyrell focused again on Powell and handed his service pistol over as an image of Claretta Neville flashed through his mind. You gimme somethin’ to have faith in.
“There’s no way I’m going to walk away from this. I know how the kid died. It ain’t over till it’s over, and the key to it all is Casey Jeffs.”
Captain Powell rubbed his temples with his free hand.
“You want to keep chasing rainbows, Tyrell, then go ahead, but make damned sure neither I nor the commissioner hear a damned thing about it till you can prove something. As far as the department’s concerned you’re suspended until further notice.”
Relieved of his weapon and badge, Tyrell strode past Powell toward the Senate building’s elevators.
* * *
Senator Isaiah Black watched as Detective Tyrell was stripped of his badge and gun before he and the remaining police officers stode away to the elevators. He was thinking deeply about what he had heard when he felt his cell phone vibrating in his pocket. He lifted it out, and saw the name flashing on the screen. k. patterson.
The senator took a breath, and answered the call.
“Kelvin.”
“Senator,” the pastor replied formally down the line. “I hope that I’m not interrupting anything?”
“No, Pastor, but I’m just on my way out to the rally. What can I do for you?”
The senator heard a sigh down the line before the pastor spoke.
“You were right, of course. I can’t afford not to bridge our differences, especially not at such a critical time in your campaign. America needs you as much as I do, and we will be stronger unified. Perhaps you could stop by the church on your way through? I’d be delighted to join you at the rally, and proclaim our support for your campaign.”
Senator Black struggled to control the broad grin that spread across his face as he glanced at his reflection in the suite’s glass doors, an image of the White House appearing unbidden before him. Detective Tyrell’s image materialized before the reflection, his warning echoing around the senator’s brain. Two guards, that was all he’d need, and he could slip out of the Hart Senate Office Building’s tunnel entrance and avoid the army of journalists camped outside the building.
“I’d be delighted, Pastor. I’ll be there in half an hour.”
FIRST DISTRICT STATION
M STREET SW, WASHINGTON DC
Lopez tossed her case files onto her desk like a spoiled child discarding an old toy and picked up her jacket and car keys. She couldn’t bring
herself to hate Captain Powell but she sure as hell hated herself. If she hadn’t reported Tyrell, then none of this would have happened. By now he’d probably be having his ass whipped by Commissioner Devereux, and Lopez herself was headed home with her own tail between her legs.
From where the files had fallen, a picture of Damon Sheviz stared out at her in black and white, his eyes a mischievous cross between those of the enlightened and the fanatic. There was something about the image that made her feel uneasy, something primal.
Beside her Lucas Tyrell’s phone rang suddenly, making her jump. She reached across and picked the receiver up.
“Yeah?”
“Hello,” came a voice that Lopez guessed was probably from the Windy City. “Is Detective Tyrell there?”
“He’s”—Lopez picked her words with care—“off duty right now. Let me take your name and number and I’ll get hold of Tyrell.”
“Of course,” the voice said, “my name’s Douglas Jarvis, Defense Intelligence Agency.”
“And what’s it regarding?”
“It’s regarding a report filed with the ICMP. I’ve been trying to reach Detective Tyrell but he’s been away from his desk.”
Lopez looked at the file in her hands and felt an almost supernatural tingle rippling down her spine.
“I posted information to the ICMP about a man found dead in the capital two days ago, a scientist by the name of—”
“Joseph Coogan?” asked the voice.
“How did you know that name?” Lopez asked in surprise.
“What’s your connection to this?”
“Lucas Tyrell is my partner. We’ve been working on this case for the past forty-eight hours or so.”
There was a pause on the line. “What sort of case?”
“Homicide that looked like an overdose but the pathology didn’t figure.”
“What was the discrepancy?”
“Too complicated to go into without the paperwork, but Coogan appeared to have died after some kind of unexplained medical procedure performed by a Damon Sheviz.”
“Was that analysis obtained during autopsy, something to do with traces of excess hydrogen sulphide in the blood?”
Covenant Page 35
