Circle Series 4-in-1

by Ted Dekker

  Dial tone.

  She dug out the card Gains had given her and stared at the number. What if he was the very mole she had warned him of? Maybe she should call the president himself. No, he was in New York today, speaking at the United Nations.

  She dialed the number, let the phone ring, and prayed that Gains, mole or not, would answer.

  7

  THOMAS AWOKE on his back. The sheet was over his face. Odd. Although the desert night was cool at times, he wasn’t one to smother his breathing by burying his head under the covers like some. Covers also impaired hearing. At this moment he couldn’t hear his fellow prisoners breathing, though he knew they were sleeping to his right, chained at the ankles with him. He couldn’t even hear the sound of the horses near the camp. Nor the Scabs, talking over morning campfires. Nor the campfires themselves.

  He yanked the sheet from his face. It was still night. Dark. He still couldn’t hear anything other than his own heart, thumping lightly. No stars in the sky, no campfire, no sand dunes. Only this thin rubber mattress under him, and this cold sheet in his fingers.

  Thomas’s heart skipped a beat. He wasn’t in the desert! He was on a mattress in a dark room, and he’d awakened with a sheet over his face.

  He moved his feet. No chains. He’d fallen asleep as a prisoner in the desert and woken in the histories. Alive.

  He felt the edge of his bed. Cold steel tubes filled his hand. A gurney. Carlos had shot him, when? Three days ago, Kara had said. He hadn’t dreamed for thirteen months in the desert because there was no Thomas here to live the dream. They’d brought his body here, why? For examination? To keep the Americans guessing? And where was here?

  France.

  Thomas eased his legs from under the sheets and swung them to the cold concrete floor. A loud slap echoed in the room and he jumped. Nothing happened. Something had fallen on the floor.

  His eyes adjusted to the darkness. A wedge of light shone through the gap at the bottom of the door. He saw the square shape by his foot. Picked it up. A book. He felt its cover and froze.

  The blank Book of History, entitled The Story of History. His hands trembled. The Book had crossed over with him!

  A chill swept over his body. This Book—its story, its words—had brought him back to life. Here he stood, dressed in a torn jumpsuit, barefooted on a concrete floor in France, holding a Book that could make history with a few strokes of the pen.

  Justin had called it dangerous and powerful. Now he knew why.

  His sole objective was immediately clear. He had to find a pen, a pencil, anything that could mark the Book, and write a new story. One that changed the outcome of the Raison Strain. And while he was at it, one that included his survival.

  Thomas paused at the unexpected thought that the Book wasn’t unlike the artifacts from Judeo-Christian history. The ark of the covenant with the power to conquer armies. The serpent in the desert with the power to heal. Say to this mountain, be thou removed and it shall be removed. Jesus Christ, AD 30. Words becoming flesh, Ronin had said.

  There were now officially four things that crossed between the realities. Knowledge, skills, blood, and this Book, these words becoming flesh.

  He could just barely see the outline of a door ten feet away. Thomas walked for the door, tested the knob, found it unlocked, and cracked it ever so slightly. The room beyond was also dark, but not black like this one. He could see a table, a couch. Another door edged by light. A fireplace . . .

  He knew this room! It was where he and Monique had met Armand Fortier! They’d brought him back to the farmhouse.

  Thomas slipped out, still gripping the Book in his right hand. He covered the room quickly, found nothing of benefit, and moved to the opposite door. Unlocked as well. He’d twisted the knob and cracked the door when the sound of echoing footsteps in the hall reached him.

  Thomas stood immobilized. Under no circumstances could he allow the Book to fall into their hands. His escape was no longer as important as the Book’s safety.

  He eased the door shut and ran on his toes for the cell. He slipped into the dark, shut the door, stepped toward the gurney, and shoved the Book under the thin mattress. Then he lay back down and pulled the sheet over his head.

  Relax. Breathe. Slow your heart.

  The door opened thirty seconds later. Light flooded the room. The footsteps walked across the floor, paused for a few seconds, then retreated. A man coughed, and Thomas knew it was Carlos. He’d come for something. Surely not to check on a dead body.

  The room went black.

  Thomas waited a full minute before rising again. He walked to the door, flipped the light on, and surveyed the room. Concrete all around. Except for the gurney and one bookshelf, the room was empty. A root cellar at one time, perhaps. They’d probably put his body here because it was cold and they wanted to preserve it for tests.

  He decided that the risk of being caught with the Book was too great. He would find something to write with and return.

  Thomas checked the adjoining room, found it clear, and stepped out. This time the hall was clear. He hurried past the same window he and Monique had climbed through just a few nights earlier. Sunlight filled the window well. He was about to mount the stairs that climbed to the next floor when a door across the hall caught his attention. A reinforced steel door, out of place in this ancient house.

  He stepped across the hall and opened it.

  No sound.

  He peered inside. Another long hall. Steel walls. They’d built a veritable fortress down here. This hall stretched far beyond the exterior wall and ended at yet another door.

  Now he was torn. He could either climb the stairs, which could lead to a guard station for all he knew, or he could examine the door at the end of this hall. Just as likely to find a guard there.

  Thomas eased into the hall and walked fast. Voices came to him while he was halfway down, and he paused. But they weren’t voices of alarm. He ran the last twenty paces and pulled up at the door. The voices were from the room beyond.

  “They’ve killed half the fish off our coast with these two detonations, but they won’t target our cities!”

  They were talking about nuclear detonations? Someone had launched nuclear weapons!

  “Then you don’t know the Israelis. They know we have no intention of delivering the antivirus, and they have nothing to lose.”

  “They’re still principled. They won’t take innocents down with them. Please, I beg you, the Negev desert was bad enough. We can’t target Tel Aviv. A power play to realign powers is one thing. Detonating nuclear weapons over densely populated targets is another. They’re bluffing. They know the world would turn against them if they targeted civilians. As it would turn against us if we did the same.”

  “You think that world opinion is still an element in this equation? Then you’re more naive than I imagined, Henri.” So the man protesting was Paul Henri Gaetan, the French president. “The only language that the Israelis understand is brute force.”

  A third voice spoke. “Give them the antivirus.”

  Armand Fortier.

  “Pardon me, sir, but I thought—”

  “The plan must be flexible,” Fortier said. “We’ve shown the world our resolve to use whatever force is required to enforce our terms. We’ve blown two massive holes in their desert, and they’ve blown two holes in our ocean. So what? The Israelis are snakes. Utterly unpredictable except in the defense of their land. If we fire again, they will retaliate. Two-thirds of the world’s combined nuclear arsenal is presently loaded on ships, steaming to our shores. Now isn’t the time to accelerate the conflict.”

  “You will leave Israel intact?”

  “We will give them the antivirus,” Fortier repeated. “In exchange for their weapons.”

  “What proof will you offer them?” President Gaetan again.

  “A mutual exchange on the seas, five days from today.”

  The room went silent for a few moments. The next voice that spo
ke was one that Thomas recognized at the first word.

  “But you will destroy Israel,” Carlos Missirian said softly.

  “Yes.”

  “And the Americans?”

  “The Americans don’t have the Israelis’ backbone. They have no choice but to deliver their weapons, regardless of all their noise. We’re listening to everything they say. They’re acting out of total confusion now, but our contact assures us they won’t have a choice but to comply in the end.”

  “They might demand an open exchange as well,” the French president said.

  “Then we will call their bluff. I can afford to make Israel wait until the time of our choosing. The United States will no longer play a role in world politics.”

  Thomas felt his heart pound. He pulled his ear from the door. He’d heard enough.

  “And if Israel does launch in ten minutes as they’ve promised?”

  Thomas stopped. A long pause.

  “Then we take out Tel Aviv,” Fortier said.

  Thomas sprinted back down the hall toward the root cellar. The plan had changed. He had to get word to the United States before Israel had a chance to launch again. He needed a phone. But in searching for a phone, he might find a pen.

  Dangerous, Justin had said. Everything was dangerous now.

  Thomas ran for the cell door and twisted the knob. Locked.

  Locked? He’d opened it just a few minutes ago from this side. He cranked down on the handle. Heat spread down his neck. He stepped back, panicked. Carlos must have engaged the lock when he left.

  Thomas ran his hand through his hair and paced. This wasn’t good.

  He needed a phone!

  The meeting was still underway. Thomas sprinted up the stairs, took the steps two at a time, and burst through the door at the top. A single startled guard stared at him. He’d clearly never seen a dead man walking before.

  Thomas took him with a foot to his temple, one swift roundhouse kick that landed with a sickening thud. Then a clatter as the man collapsed on the metal folding chair he’d been using.

  Thomas didn’t bother covering his tracks. No time. He did, however, pluck the nine-millimeter from the man’s hand. Short of finding a key to the cell, he would blow the door off its hinges. Noisy but effective.

  First the phone.

  He passed a window and saw a least a dozen guards milling around the driveway, smoking. They were mostly ranking French military, he noted. Not thugs you’d find in the underground. That would be a concern in a few minutes. Phone—where was the phone?

  On the wall, naturally. Black and outdated like most things in the French countryside. He dug in his pocket, relieved to find the card Grant had given him in Washington. On the back, scrawled in pencil, a direct line to the White House.

  Thomas snatched up the phone and dialed the long number.

  Silence.

  For a moment he feared the lines were out. Naturally, the French would monitor all calls. Getting through would be impossible.

  The line suddenly clicked. Then hissed for a while. He prayed the call would connect.

  “You have reached the White House. Please listen closely, as our menu options have changed. You may press zero at any time to speak to an operator . . .”

  Hand trembling. Zero.

  A switchboard operator answered after four rings. “White House.”

  “This is Thomas Hunter. I’m in France and I need to speak to the president immediately.”

  8

  THEN YOU were clearly mistaken,” Woref said. “Whatever you think you saw was never there.”

  Soren shook his head. “I could swear that I saw the albino shift an object under his tunic just before falling asleep. He managed to hide something from us during our initial search.”

  “But there is no object; you said so yourself. Get some sleep while you can. We raise the army in four hours. Leave me.”

  Soren bowed. “Yes sir.” He left his commander alone in the tent.

  They’d made good time and stopped for a few hours’ sleep in the dead of night. Tomorrow they would enter the city and receive their reward for Thomas of Hunter’s capture.

  They had forced the albinos to walk most of the way, carrying their chains, and they had fallen asleep almost immediately, according to Soren. Even if Hunter had managed to conceal a weapon in the folds of his tunic, they had little to fear from him now. The once-mighty warrior was a shell of his former self. He’d not only stripped himself of healthy flesh by dipping in the red pools, but he’d lost his manhood in the process. Hunter was nothing more than a diseased rodent, and his only threat to the Horde was the spread of his disease.

  Woref removed the hard leather breastplate and set it on the floor beside his cot. A single lamp spewed black smoke. He ran his hand over his hairy chest, brushed away the flecks of dried skin that had fallen on his apron, and pulled on a nightshirt. The day that he would finally take Chelise into his house as wife had come. The thought made his belly feel light.

  He drew back the tent flap and stepped into the cool night. They’d camped in a meadow that sloped away from the forest. From his vantage he could see the entire army, settled for the night, some in hastily erected tents, most around smoldering fire pits. They’d celebrated with ale and meat, both delicacies over the standard rations of fermented water and starch.

  The prisoners lay uncovered twenty yards to his right, under the standing guard of six warriors. Woref grunted and headed for the tree line to relieve himself.

  A deeper darkness settled over him when he stepped past the first trees. The Horde preferred day over night, mostly due to unfounded tales in which Shataiki lured men into the trees to consume them alive. Until this moment, Woref had never given any such myth a second thought.

  But now, with blackness pressing his skin, all those stories crashed through his mind. He stopped and gazed at the trunks ahead. Turned and saw that the camp slept as peacefully as a moment ago.

  Woref spit into the leaves and walked deeper, leaving the relative safety of the meadow behind. But not far enough to lose complete sight of the camp.

  “Wwrrrreffffffffsssssssss.”

  He stopped, startled by the sound of his name, whispering through the night. The trees rose like charcoal marks against the dark forest. He had imagined . . .

  “Woreffff.”

  He grabbed the hilt of his short sword and spun back.

  Nothing. Trees, yes. A thick forest of trees. But he couldn’t see the camp any longer. He’d wandered too deep.

  “You’re looking the wrong direction, my beast of a man.”

  The sound came from behind. Woref couldn’t remember the last time terror had gripped him in its fist. It wasn’t just the darkness, nor the whispering of his name, nor the disappearing of the camp. His horror was primarily motivated by the voice.

  He knew this voice!

  Gravel sloshing at the bottom of a water pail.

  He’d never actually heard the voice of Shataiki before, but he knew now, without looking, that the voice behind him belonged to a creature from the myths.

  “No need to be afraid. Turn around and face me. You’ll like what you see. I promise you.”

  Woref kept his hand on his blade, but any thought of drawing it had fled with his common sense. He found himself turning.

  The tall batlike creature that stood facing him between two trees not ten feet away looked remarkably similar to the bronze-winged serpent on the Horde’s crest. This one, though, was larger than any of the stories claimed.

  This was Teeleh.

  The bat drilled him with round, pupil-less red eyes. Bulging cherries. His fur was black and his snout ran long to loose lips that hung over yellow-crusted fangs.

  The leader of the Shataiki grinned and held a red fruit in his wiry and nimble fingers. “That’s right. In the flesh.”

  Teeleh sank his fangs into the fruit’s meat. Juice mixed with saliva dripped to the forest floor. He said the name, speaking through smacking lips.r />
  “Teeleh.”

  Woref closed his eyes for a moment, sure that if he kept them shut long enough, the vision would vanish.

  “Open your eyes!” Teeleh roared.

  Hot, sweet breath buffeted Woref ’s face, and he jerked his eyes open. He reached for the tree on his right to steady himself.

  “Are all humans so weak?” the bat demanded.

  Had Soren or the others heard Teeleh’s cry? They would come . . .

  “No. No, I don’t think anyone will come running to your aid. And if you think you need their help, then you’ll prove me wrong. I’ve been grooming the wrong man.”

  Woref ’s terror began to fade. The bat hadn’t attacked him. Hadn’t bitten him. Hadn’t harmed him in any way.

  “Do you know what love is, Woref?”

  He hardly heard the question.

  “You’re real,” Woref said.

  “Love.” The bat took another bite. This time he lifted his snout, opened his mouth wide, let the fruit drop into his throat, and swallowed it with a pool of fluid. When his head lowered, his eyes were closed. They opened slowly. “Will you have some?”

  Woref didn’t respond.

  “You don’t mind me saying that you humans make me sick, do you? Even you, the one I’ve chosen.”

  The leaves in the trees behind Teeleh rustled, and Woref lifted his face to a sea of red eyes glowing in the darkness. The rustling spread to his left, his right, and behind and seemed to swallow him.

  A bat the size of a dog dropped to the ground behind Teeleh. Eyes gleaming, furry skin quivering. Then another, beside him. And another. They fell like rotten fruit.

  “My servants,” Teeleh said. “It’s been awhile since I’ve allowed them to show themselves. They’re quite excited. Ignore them.”

  The bats kept their distance but stared at him, unblinking.

  “Do you love her?” Teeleh asked.

  “Chelise?”

  “He speaks. Yes, the daughter of Qurong, firstborn among the humans who drank my water. Do you love her?”

  “She will be my wife.” Woref ’s throat felt parched, his tongue dry like morst in his mouth.