But Daniel had never suggested a vacation to Ayo, and he’d never even been to Barbados.
He put the phone away.
Daniel turned to his best friend. “I’m gonna go back to the hospital, check on Kara,” he lied.
Pat nodded to Daniel with what might’ve been a knowing smirk, or might’ve been nothing at all. “Catch you on the flipside, brother.”
56: HELL IS CHROME
11:13 p.m.—Fifty-nine hours after contamination . . .
If you ignored the complete absence of people and cars, it could’ve been any quiet night in downtown Columbia. Daniel sat at the top of the South Carolina State House steps, just outside the beam of the floodlights, a palmetto tree rising from a planter to his left.
When Daniel heard the leather-soled footsteps approaching, he didn’t turn around. The footsteps stopped just behind him. He still didn’t turn around.
“You gonna join me?” he said.
Evan Sage sat to Daniel’s right. He fished a pack of cigarettes from a pocket and lit one and blew a stream of smoke at the stars. He said, “Is this the part where you try to break my nose?”
“No,” said Daniel, “this is the part where I ask for your help.”
“So now we’re both off the reservation, is that it?”
“I suppose it is.”
“Lemme guess, Conrad Winter is off-limits.” He held Daniel’s gaze. “Yup, I was told the same thing by my people. And I’m sick to death of being jerked around by people who know things I don’t, including you.”
“Maybe I should’ve waterboarded you instead.”
Sage shrugged. “Fair point. But I don’t owe you a favor.”
“I didn’t say favor, I said help. Conrad Winter was responsible for this plague. What’s stopping him from cooking up another batch and releasing it somewhere else? I know where he is, I just need a quick off-the-books flight there. All I’m asking you for is a lift. Some jet fuel.” Daniel looked out across the silent, empty streets, watched the traffic lights change for no one. “It comes down to this: I don’t want to live in a world where someone can do this and still be off-limits . . . and I’m betting neither do you.”
“What are you gonna do if you find him?”
“You know what I’m gonna do.”
“And you’re gonna be okay with that?”
“Conrad killed my uncle, he killed that entire village in Liberia, he infected over a hundred thousand Americans . . .” Daniel started to add Kara to the list, stopped himself. “It may not be self-defense, but it’s not revenge, either. The man has to be stopped.”
Sage sat and smoked and thought about it, and Daniel let him. He’d made his pitch, there was nothing else to say.
“I’ll get you the plane. But that’s all. After this, I’m out.”
“Thank you,” said Daniel.
Evan Sage said, “Send the bastard straight to hell.”
57: IT’S NO GAME
St. Michael, Barbados
Conrad Winter hadn’t expected fanfare. He hadn’t expected a victory party. But he’d expected something. Maybe a quiet celebratory drink on the pool deck while the old man offered awkward congratulations for a job well done.
Something.
Instead he found a note on the dining room table.
Gone to Singapore.
That’s it.
Fine. He’d celebrate alone.
Conrad opened a bottle of Dom and took it to the living room. He toasted his reflection in the blank screen of the plasma television.
He could declare victory on all three levels. There would now be a war that would dwarf Iraq, Middle East oil secured for another ten years at least. Dissent in America would look like treason, the surveillance state locked in for a generation. And the Council had collected 263 people with AIT—263 sources of secret intelligence that would be the Council’s alone. No telling what they would be able to do with that information.
Would’ve been nice to have more, but Kara Singh might’ve called it in to Daniel before Conrad spotted her, so he’d had to shut it down. Anyway, 263 would be plenty, for now. Conrad had left South Carolina while the trucks were being refueled for transport out of state. By now, those people would be in ten different locations across six different states.
He’d done it. This is what victory felt like. In a few short months, he would take over the director’s chair. Unfortunate that Michael Dillman wouldn’t be there to advise—worse than unfortunate—but important victories rarely come without sacrifice.
Conrad made a silent toast to Dillman and refilled his glass.
Claim it and own it, the old man had said.
Conrad had done just that.
He looked out through the French doors to the pool deck. He’d avoided this place for years, but now he saw it differently. Now it was something he’d earned. He would be director now, perhaps he’d keep this place as a winter home.
Why not?
The phone in his pocket vibrated and the screen showed it was coming from the director’s plane.
“Good morning, Father,” Conrad allowed a little swagger into his tone. He’d earned that, too. “Sorry you couldn’t stick around for the debrief. We had to cap the AIT project a little early but we’ve got 263, which is plenty. All other aspects were a complete success.”
The old man cleared his throat in Conrad’s ear. “You don’t even know, do you?”
“Know what?”
“You’re sitting around my house, drinking my champagne and congratulating yourself like a child,” the old man growled. “And you don’t even know.”
Conrad felt sick. “What?”
“Turn on the damn television.”
Conrad grabbed the remote and turned on CNN. It was an aerial shot of the warehouse north of Columbia.
Or what was left of it. A smoldering ruin, surrounded by fire engines and police cars and National Guard vehicles.
The director said, “Carter Ames knew somehow, took it out with a drone strike, before your men got the people out. You were too cocky, Conrad.” He cleared his throat again. “Charles has been cleaning up your mess. He seeded a cover story with our allies in the federal government. It’ll be used to support the al-Qaida story. But you’ve lost the directorship. The board of advisers met this morning and gave Charles a five-year term.”
Conrad’s father ended the call without another word.
Conrad watched the champagne bubbles rise with his temper, felt the pressure building in his head, then hurled the glass against the wall.
Shit. Piss. Damn.
He turned up the television’s volume.
The newsreader was saying, “ . . . details still coming in, but government sources tell us that late last night, acting on intelligence gathered by the CIA, a joint FBI–Homeland Security task force tracked the al-Qaida terrorists to this warehouse north of Columbia. Rather than surrender, the terrorists detonated the building, committing mass suicide. Six Yemeni passports have been recovered from the site, apparently ejected from the building by the explosion, but it will be some time before authorities can move in and comb through the wreckage for more forensic evidence . . .”
Conrad turned off the television.
He drank some champagne straight from the bottle. It was bitter on his tongue.
Five years until he might get another shot at the directorship.
Five years he’d have to serve under Charles Carruthers.
He’d come so close.
And failed.
Conrad wept.
The west coast of Barbados lay to Conrad’s port side, glimmering in the midday sun, palm trees swaying in the breeze blowing in off the Caribbean Sea, luxury hotels dotting the shoreline white and pink, waterski boats dragging rich tourists in their wake, WaveRunners buzzing like water insects closer to shore, a coup
le of dive boats at anchor over popular reefs.
Conrad stood up on the flybridge, piloting the luxury motor cat down the St. James coast, toward Dottins Reef. He’d stop there and drop anchor for lunch, maybe take a dive in the afternoon.
Being out on the water would bring perspective, would clear his focus.
In time.
But for now it would hurt. It had to. Bottom line: The last major event of Conrad’s life before his father’s death was a failure. And there was nothing he could do about that.
Knock off the self-pity, be a man. Reframe it, find what you can use, and plan the path forward . . .
Okay. It wasn’t a total loss. In fact, it was still mostly a victory. The board of advisers would see that. Yes, Charles would get the director’s chair, but Conrad would be right there next to the seat of power, and he’d find a way in.
It wouldn’t take five years, either, dammit. Charles would make a mistake in his first year—Conrad would make sure of it, and jump on the opportunity. Meanwhile, he would plan another way to tap into the power of AIT. He still had the formula to engineer the bacterial strain and there were plenty of desperate places in the world to set up another lab.
Once he had enough . . . there would be another chance.
It would not take five years.
Dottins Reef was unoccupied as Conrad approached. He eased back on the throttle and moved in to drop anchor.
Then his engines quit.
He knew he had plenty of fuel, but maybe there was a pinhole in the fuel line system, probably the filter. Mechanical fuel pumps were prone to shutdown with the tiniest amount of air in the line. The boat was new, and there were usually a few bugs to work out, even in the best yachts.
They were temperamental mistresses.
Conrad dropped anchor and walked down to the deck. At the lower helm, he grabbed the keys, then opened the hatch and climbed down the aluminum steps to the starboard engine room, switching on the LED lights on his way down.
The engine room was gleaming white, no fuel leak, no moisture on the line or the floor below the pump. He followed the line and found the culprit.
The fuel had been shut off.
Shut off.
The valve had been turned, manually.
By someone.
Someone on the boat.
And Conrad’s gun was back in the cabin, at the main helm station.
Shit.
Conrad crept slowly back to the hatch, wrench in hand.
Then up the steps and onto the deck, silent as a shadow.
There was a man standing in the cabin, at the helm, his back to Conrad.
Conrad inched forward, wrench held high, as his eyes adjusted to the bright light and the man came into focus.
The man turned around to face him.
Daniel Byrne.
Holding Conrad’s gun.
“Put the wrench down, Conrad.”
“Hello, Daniel,” Conrad dropped the wrench. “You coming out, or am I coming in?”
Daniel walked forward, out onto the deck, the barrel of the gun never leaving Conrad’s chest.
Daniel said, “Did you really think I wouldn’t come after you? After what you’ve done, did you think I would let anything stop me?”
“Carter Ames would never sanction this.”
“What Carter Ames wants is immaterial.”
“This is not how we play the game.”
“It’s no game.”
“You do this, it’ll be all-out war. And we’ve got more resources than you do. Think about it.”
“I don’t have any resources at all,” said Daniel. “I’ve just got your gun, and a keen desire to stop you.”
“I know you, Daniel, you’re not a murderer.”
“You don’t know me.”
There had to be a better angle, another approach. Play for time . . .
Conrad said, “Look man, it’s all messed up, I understand that. But this solves nothing, just makes everything worse.” Then the better approach came to him. “You know what Carter Ames did last night, right?”
Daniel’s expression didn’t change, but there was a flicker in his eyes. He didn’t know yet.
Conrad said, “Your Foundation’s Department of Contingency hit that warehouse with a drone strike, killed 263 innocent people along with my men. You really want to work for an organization that would do that to a warehouse full of innocent civilians?”
“You put those people there.”
“Yeah, I put those people there. But you didn’t save them, Daniel. You killed them. And now you want to kill me? It won’t change anything, but now you’ll be a murderer. And that won’t wash off, you’ll carry it with you forever.”
“Maybe I don’t care.”
“You care. You’re better than this. I know you are, and so do you.”
Daniel shot Conrad Winter twice in the chest.
Conrad looked surprised. He opened his mouth to speak, but his heart was no longer pumping blood, and after standing still for several long seconds, he spasmed once and collapsed to the deck.
Dead.
No, it wasn’t self-defense. It was defense of the entire world.
Could Daniel live with that?
He thought he could.
58: CLAMPDOWN
Central Park—New York City
Two weeks after contamination . . .
Carter Ames entered Central Park from Seventy-Fourth Street and strolled past the copper-roofed boathouse, past the model sailboat pond, toward the statue of Alice in Wonderland. The pond was busy today, dotted with a hundred white sails, grandparents and children elbow to elbow along the shoreline clutching radio-control transmitters, eager to get some model sailing in before the weather turned crisp.
He continued on through Bethesda Terrace to the Bow Bridge, a graceful cast-iron structure spanning sixty feet across Central Park Lake. The man standing in the middle of the bridge looked much older and smaller than Carter remembered him, and his hair was gone.
Even from a distance, it was clear that the director of the Council for World Peace was a dying man. Carter walked to the middle of the bridge and stood beside him.
The old man cleared his throat for a long time. “I didn’t know you had it in you, Carter. A drone strike? Not exactly Foundation protocol.”
“You didn’t leave us any choice, Tom.”
“There’s always a choice. Even when there are no good options, there’s still a choice.”
“Then let me put it this way: The Foundation’s choice is to draw the line right here, however poor the options.”
“Dark times ahead,” said the old man. “If you don’t embrace change, you can’t influence it. You’ll get run over.”
“That’s a poor excuse for collaboration. No thanks, we’ll fight it.”
“You know what’s coming, Carter. The shift has already begun.”
“And your policies are accelerating it. Which is why I cannot allow the Council this advantage. Hundreds of your own pet prophets? I won’t allow it.”
“You can’t stop us.”
“Actually, I think I can.” Carter looked out across the lake. Couples walking along the shore, hand in hand. Old people feeding the birds. Kids playing catch. All of them unaware of how close the whole system was to collapse. He said, “I’m sorry about your son, Tom. Our man went rogue, we tried to stop him . . . we got there too late, he was already gone. But we gave the boat a thorough going-over, and we have Conrad’s computer.”
The old man stared at Carter but didn’t speak.
Carter said, “Yes, we decoded the recipe. And now we can do it, too. We’ve already cooked up a batch, a very big batch, which will stay under lock and key in our labs. We won’t use it to our advantage, and you won’t use it to yours.”
The ol
d man said, “Mutually Assured Destruction?”
“Something like that, yes. The strain is contained and it’ll stay that way. But if even one case of your designer plague appears on our radar anywhere in the world, we will raise our own little army of prophets. See, your problem is that you only considered the massive advantage it would give you, never the massive disadvantage if we had it. Now we do. If we both deploy, it will be utter chaos—AIT isn’t predictable, and your wealth advantage can’t ensure that your prophets would be equal to ours. It could even tip the scales in our favor. So we will both stand down, and neither of us will force nature’s hand.”
“You call it nature. You don’t know what’s causing it any more than we do.”
“No, but I know that we won’t be causing it. And neither will you.”
The old man thought for a long time, then nodded once and cleared his throat again. “All right. The plague goes on ice—for both of us. We’ll continue fighting over what ‘nature’ sees fit to give us. But your man has to pay for my son. That can’t go unanswered.”
“No. That’s off the table.”
“What?”
“I am sorry for your loss, but Conrad overreached and he paid the price. Daniel is not to be touched.”
“You’re willing to risk everything just to protect this man?” The director of the Council held Carter’s eyes, perhaps looking for some sign of a bluff.
But Carter Ames wasn’t bluffing.
“Everything. The crossover is coming and . . . Daniel Byrne may somehow hold the key to a future for us all. You go after him, it’ll be all-out war between us. You may very well win that war, but I’ll do everything in my power to see that you come away from it permanently crippled, if not mortally wounded. I’ll burn us both to the ground if necessary.”
59: WHAT ABOUT NOW
Bathsheba, Barbados
Nine weeks after contamination . . .
Today is a good day to die. But I’ve decided to stay alive until tomorrow.
Daniel ended his meditation, opened his eyes, and watched the waves roll in from the Atlantic Ocean and break against the massive coral rock formations. He stood and stripped out of his shirt, ran down the beach and into the surf.
The Devil's Game (The Game Trilogy Book 2) Page 26
