The Devil's Game (The Game Trilogy Book 2)

by Sean Chercover

  The plaques described the plague’s decimation of the region, but also the local legend that gave the place its name.

  Mandal meant Man Dale, or Man Valley. But many among the older generation translated the name to One Man Valley, adding another layer of meaning. The local legend said that after the Black Death claimed victory, there was but one man left alive in this entire valley. In another valley there was but one woman left alive, and the town there was called Kvinesdal, or One Woman Valley.

  At a plaque titled a romantic legend, Daniel read the story a few old-timers still believed: The One Woman came here after the plague and married the One Man, and they became the Adam and Eve of this valley, the original ancestors common to almost everyone who’d been born here since.

  “It’s a myth, of course,” said Kara. “To populate this entire valley from just two people, especially considering infant mortality rates in the Middle Ages, brothers and sisters, fathers and daughters, mothers and sons would all have to breed together. The bloodline would’ve committed suicide long ago.”

  “The legend sounds somewhat less romantic as you describe it,” said Daniel.

  They moved on to a photography exhibit, beautiful rural landscapes printed on canvases as large as six feet across, fjords and forests and farms and valleys. In front of each photo, a page from a topographical atlas was mounted on a pedestal, a red dot showing where the photographer had stood when capturing the photos.

  Daniel was almost at the seascape photos when he realized Kara was no longer beside him. He turned to see her, frozen, staring at a canvas.

  “Kara? What is it?” She didn’t answer. He touched her shoulder but she didn’t seem to notice. He followed her gaze to a landscape photograph of an empty green valley.

  Kara’s voice sounded far away as she said, “That’s impossible.” Her hand went up to cover her open mouth.

  “What is?”

  She kept staring at the photo, her expression growing more haunted as she took in the details. “That’s where my dream took place. The hillside—the ridgeline in the background—I mean it’s identical. In the dream, the little hamlet was in the foreground where that field of wild grass is, but it’s the same place. I’m positive.”

  Daniel pulled out his phone, photographed the page from the atlas and the landscape photo. He examined the topographical map. It was a rural part of the valley about a hundred clicks north of the town of Mandal. “We’ll drive there in the morning,” he said. “I’m hungry, let’s go find some fish balls.”

  “But Daniel . . .”

  “What?”

  “There’s no way they could’ve transmitted this into my head. Even if they sat with this photo and described it in detail, they couldn’t have put the exact picture in my mind.”

  “I know,” said Daniel. “Let’s eat.”

  23: RIDDLE ME

  Berlin, Germany

  The problem was, eight microbiologists had to die in the next ten days. It wasn’t a logistical problem . . . a few hours in the data stream to determine who among the eight had a heart condition, who drove drunk, who drove tired, who was having an affair, who was drowning in debt, who was secretly gay, who was secretly depressed. Match each problem to a plausible cause of death, and the wet teams could be dispatched within a day.

  In fact, the process was already in motion.

  Logistics was the easy part. The problem was that these weren’t just any microbiologists, but eight of the world’s preeminent molecular immunology specialists at leading research labs—WHO in Geneva, CDC in Atlanta, ECDC in Stockholm, Institut Pasteur in Paris, University of Illinois in Chicago, National Institutes of Health in Bethesda. Even if the deaths were spread out over ten months, people would notice. But ten days? God just doesn’t make coincidences that big. It was so statistically unlikely, it would be impossible not to see it. It was sure to blow up the blogosphere and social media, and once that happened, even an establishment journalist or two might notice.

  Regardless, it had to be done. Conrad had read the final report from Africa—complete success with phase one—and the old man had been explicit about accelerating the timeline.

  Bottom line: The timing of these deaths would be noticed, so Conrad’s computer geeks would play it up. They’d plant the seeds in online forums and blogs, leading the conspiracy-minded down the rabbit hole to a cornucopia of competing theories ranging from plausible to truly insane. The lunatic fringe would take sides and argue violently over minutia, discrediting both themselves and the idea of conspiracy in general, leading reasonable people to conclude that the issue had been looked into and the timing was really just a coincidence—strange but nothing nefarious.

  That’s how it would play out—you could bet grandma’s pension on it. Reasonable people always shrug these things off and get on with their lives, reassuring each other that all those other folks are paranoid, spouting bromides like three can keep a secret if two are dead.

  They were as reliable in their way as the paranoid were in theirs.

  Michael Dillman said, “Big Pharma is an obvious choice, they subsidize almost every major research lab to one degree or another, plenty of overlap, plenty of dots to connect. I’m also thinking we should put a nation state in the mix. Russia, or—”

  “Not Russia,” said Conrad, “we’re active there right now on other projects. Let’s say North Korea. Call it a preemptive strike against world pressure to open their bioweapons program for international inspections.”

  “Great, done.”

  “We still need some red meat for the fringe,” said Conrad.

  Dillman nodded. “I was thinking a large-scale eugenics-slash-depopulation scheme, pointing to the usual suspects both real and imagined—Club of Rome, Bilderberg Group, Illuminati. New World Order stuff, UN black helicopters . . . just go full-on crazy with it. Too much?”

  “No, it’s good. Those’ll be our Big Three. You fill out the rest, say another half dozen or so. We need this up and ready when our scientists start dropping tomorrow.”

  “On it.” Dillman picked up the target files and left the room, the soundproofed door whispering shut behind him.

  Asshole or not, the director was an excellent judge of people to whom he was not related, and Colonel Dillman was proving to be a perfect choice as Conrad’s first mate.

  Asshole or not, the director wanted to die knowing he was leaving the Council in the hands of his son.

  That had to count for something.

  Claim it and own it, the old man said. Now Conrad would.

  Having read the files left for him on the boat, Conrad understood the director’s insistence that this project could only succeed if no fingerprints were left behind.

  “This isn’t Iran-Contra or the Kennedy boys,” the director warned in their final meeting before Conrad left Barbados. “This is a huge gamble. As we move to the next phase, we must give it solid cover. We’ve got the new Middle East offensive almost ready to go—the next front will be Yemen. You cloak AIT into the Yemeni project, make them serve each other. But AIT is the top game, the one to protect. It can never be known. If we lose this game, we could very well spark an unsponsored revolution. We cannot afford that outcome.”

  “But if we win,” Conrad said, “the entire game board is ours. We write the future unopposed.”

  The old man smiled for the second time during their meeting. “You need to keep that thought if you’re going to win the director’s chair. Charles is playing to not lose. You play to win.”

  Claim it and own it.

  Conrad had always known this day would come—his father had laid out the long-range career plan when installing Conrad at the Vatican after university. And Conrad had worked tirelessly for it, had done unspeakable things to get here.

  Now he was just one step away from proving himself.

  It was everything he ever wanted, but it also
meant closing the door on the church that had given him so much for so many years. The church had become his home, had given him structure and camaraderie and the closest thing to love he would ever feel, and had shielded him from the treachery of women.

  Conrad would always have God, but he would no longer have God’s grace. That was the price to be paid.

  24: NUE

  Man, Norwegian is easy.” Daniel put his menu aside. “Fish balls? Fiskeboller. Fish soup? Fiskesuppe. Fish burger? Fiskeburger.”

  “What?” Kara’s mind was still back at the photo gallery.

  “Guess how to say, ‘Shall we go pick blueberries?’ in Norwegian. Go ahead, give it a try.”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  “Skal vi gå plukke blåbær. Seriously, I read it in the phrase book. I mean, how easy is that? Speak English with a Norwegian accent and you’re practically speaking Norwegian.” He sipped his wine. “Why the phrase book thought I’d need to invite a Norwegian blueberry picking is, however, perplexing.”

  Kara brought her hand down hard enough to rattle the cutlery. “Daniel, stop. I know what you’re trying to do, but please stop it.”

  “You’ve had a bit of a shock,” said Daniel. “I was just—”

  “I haven’t had a bit of a shock, I’ve found out that what I’ve been going through for the last six years, everything I learned about it—my working hypothesis as you so cavalierly put it—is dead wrong.” She shook her head. “I mean, how is this possible? Why are my dreams leading me to a photography exhibit in Norway? Doesn’t make any sense.”

  Carter Ames had once said to Daniel: Walk the path and you’ll learn the truth. Daniel now said, “We’re looking for the same thing, Kara. And we’re finding it . . . or it’s finding us. Either way, we’re on the right path.” She broke eye contact and stared at her wineglass but didn’t reach for it. “I know letting go of what you thought you knew is hard,” he said, “but were things really better when you thought government thugs were beaming voices into your head?”

  Kara smiled despite herself. “No, of course not. It was just . . . something solid.”

  With her working hypothesis now shattered, Kara wanted to hear all the details of Daniel’s experience with Tim Trinity. He told her all he could without mentioning the Foundation or the Council, focusing on Trinity’s voices and vision-dreams and predictions, holding back on all of the Foundation’s research on AIT.

  “So there’s me, your uncle, and the man you told me about who said the thing about Mandal. How many other people have you found?”

  “I don’t know. Just take some comfort in the fact that you’re not alone.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, you know exactly how many others you’ve found.” She stiffened. “What else aren’t you telling me?”

  “Actually, I don’t know means I don’t know. Most of the cases have turned out to be mental illness,” Daniel lied. He could’ve sealed the deal with Don’t be so paranoid, but he couldn’t bring himself to strike at her soft spot. Not because he was smitten, he told himself, but because she deserved to know what was happening to her and not telling her was bad enough.

  He continued the riff. “Other than my uncle, I haven’t had as much time with the other cases as I have with yours. Of those I’ve seen so far, maybe a half dozen will be the real thing, maybe more.”

  Maybe about ten thousand more . . .

  Alone by the flickering orange light of the living room’s gas fireplace, Daniel sent the photo of the topographical map to Ayo with a message:

  Need GPS to location of red dot ~100k n/nw Mandal.

  That done, he plugged his phone into the speaker dock and put Nils Frahm’s Wintermusik on and returned to the couch where he sat with his coffee and his music, not trusting himself to climb the stairs and walk past Kara’s bedroom door without knocking and asking if she needed a glass of water . . . or anything.

  He fired up his laptop, opened the e-mail application. There was an e-mail from Julia. He clicked on the message to open it.

  Danny: Sorry I called you weirdo. You’ve been a huge help with my research and I appreciate it more than I can (or do) say. I didn’t mean to put pressure on—I’m sure you’ll get back to Dr. Singh as soon as you can make time. I guess I’m having a little trouble accepting that you won’t tell me about the new job that’s keeping you so busy. And this isn’t some ex-girlfriend thing—this is a friend thing. Friends talk to each other about their lives, keep each other grounded, and I want us to be friends forever, no matter what else. I’m worried about you, Danny. You seemed different when I saw you in London . . . harder. You’ve been through a lot in the last year, and that’s when people lose their way. I hope you’re not isolating yourself. And I hope you haven’t joined Pat Wahlquist’s world. Pat’s charming and I know you love him, but the man is a mercenary. His world scares me. It isn’t the world for the Daniel Byrne I know. Love, Julia.

  Awesome.

  Daniel sat back and sipped his coffee. He didn’t bother to pretend he was going to hit Reply. He knew he wasn’t. Because what could he say? He’d already lied to her and poached her interview subject, and capped that off by manipulating her so that she was now apologizing to him.

  What a guy.

  “Being a spy means being an asshole to pretty much everyone in your life,” Raoul had said during training. “It’s part of the price this job demands of you, a price paid not only by you but also by anyone foolish enough to love you. That’s why dating citizens is a bad idea.” Training had included coping techniques, which mostly meant knowing how to draw boundaries and sell lies.

  There would be a reckoning with Julia once he and Kara returned to London. It would be ugly, and Daniel would have to figure out how to fit it in with his cover story. He’d sheepishly admit to Julia that solving the Trinity Phenomenon had become a personal obsession, he’d cop to poaching Kara, but he’d mitigate that by offering whatever he and Kara learned here. And when the Foundation had enough to begin to understand AIT, Daniel would bring it all to Julia and she would bring it to the world. It would be the journalistic scoop of all time.

  But would that undo the damage he was now doing to their friendship?

  The worst part, Raoul had warned, was that no one outside the game would every really know you. Daniel could feel the distance growing between the man Julia had known and the man he was becoming. He realized now that he was playing the role of his earlier self whenever he spoke with her, and as time went on that role would only recede further from reality, and she would continue to know him less until she didn’t really know him at all.

  And this too was the life he’d chosen.

  He opened a new message, to Ayo and Raoul, cc’d to Carter Ames. He told them about Kara’s vision-dream and the matching landscape photo they’d found.

  It is becoming increasingly clear, Daniel concluded, that Dr. Kara Singh is suffering from Anomalous Information Transfer. To keep her on board, we will need to tell her more about her condition. She deserves to know.

  He held down the backspace key, erasing the last sentence before hitting Send. Singh was a chess piece to them, as he knew she should be to him. What one woman deserves to know doesn’t much matter when you’re playing the big game, fighting for the future.

  But with this woman, it did matter. Raoul would call this a case of smitten overriding judgment. Maybe he’d be right.

  Daniel heard a door close upstairs. He put his laptop away as Kara came down the staircase carrying the bottle of Laphroaig she’d picked up at Duty Free.

  “Too wired to sleep,” Kara held up the bottle, “thought you might like to help me crack this.” She was wearing the soft blue robe again, over purple silk pajamas. She was wearing a little lipstick and eyeliner, too.

  Daniel stood. “I’ll get glasses.”

  “Sit, I’m closer.” She walked into the open kitchen. “I was alread
y a single malt drinker before moving to the UK and, like a typical American, thought people who put water in their whisky were doing great violence to it, thought true aficionados drank it neat.” She opened the fridge, poured some water from a filter pitcher into a small milk pitcher, put it beside the bottle on a tray. “And I went around London proudly ordering my single malts neat and collecting some strange looks from the Brits, especially the Scots.” She put a couple rocks glasses on the tray and carried it to the living room. “Imagine my embarrassment when I went on a distillery tour of Scotland.”

  She sat next to Daniel on the couch. He could feel the tension in her body, a living energy field reaching him from two feet away. And she was wearing perfume. Smelled like honey.

  “I learned the truth at the first distillery on the tour,” she said. “The master distiller was a very kind man, he didn’t make me feel foolish at all when I expressed astonishment that people were adding water.” She handed the bottle to Daniel. “Pour, and don’t be stingy.”

  He stripped the foil and pulled the wooden cap. Kara jumped a little when the cork came out with a louder-than-expected pop. As he poured, she continued her story. “The distiller asked me about my favorite single malts and complimented my choices, and told me that many people, not just Americans, make the mistake of taking it neat. He explained how Scotch is made, saying, ‘Fer heaven’s sake, we add bloody water to it with great violence before we put it in the bloody bottle.’ He explained how adding a splash of water opens the spirit up, unfolding layers of complexity on the tongue.”

  Kara lifted the little pitcher of water, poured a splash into the amber spirit in her glass. She hovered the pitcher over Daniel’s glass, cocked an eyebrow at him.