No reply.
"Listen carefully, darling. First, know that I have perfected a virus so extremely lethal as to have a mortality rate of nearly one hundred percent. Yes, you heard me right. I said nearly one hundred percent. Second, my scientists carefully crafted it to be airborne."
Indira raises her head, shocked by both his statement and his obvious insanity. "Why would you do such a thing?"
"As the ultimate offering, of course," Pal replies. "The entire world, destroyed as a sacrifice to Kali-Ma, made in my name." He grins and winks. "Oh, and by the way, there is an antidote. But only a chosen few are to receive it. Those, like my friend Gorman here, who are among the most loyal of my students. This will insure that my name is immortalized, the man who has become as one with Kali-Ma, both the destroyer and creator of worlds."
His wife is soon sobbing quietly, tears rolling down her cheeks. "Mo, I can't believe you would do this."
Pal leans forward. "Oh, but I already have done it." He glances at the obscenity that is Buey, shoves with his left hand. The bloated body falls heavily to the carpet. Pal snaps at Gorman. "Remove this piece of shit."
Gorman obeys. Pal does not speak again until he has left the room. "And tonight's festivities will be capped by my ritual suicide, Indira. My pain has become so intense the drugs no longer contain it. You, my wife, shall die with me in the sacred rite of Sati. Two bodies, burned as one . . . however, you will still be alive to feel every moment as your flesh bakes, your blood boils, and your skin fries like bacon in a pan."
"Go to hell."
"Oh, I have already been there, Indira. It is home to me now. And soon you will join me."
Her eyes shine with contempt. "Why do you hate the world so?"
Pal finishes his cognac. "I do not hate the world, my dear. I merely embrace its true, dark nature. When Mr. Burke is unable to get here in time and sees film of how painfully you died, he will no doubt embrace it as well. You see, when I sought someone to create my virus, Kali brought me to Buey, another of Mr. Burke's enemies. I knew at once that this was our destiny. Such synchronicity cannot be denied."
A soft knock. Mr. Nandi floats into the room. Pal tilts his head, motions to Indira with his right hand. "She is to be taken downstairs, Mr. Nandi, and bound." Pal looks at his watch. He seems to have difficulty focusing his eyes. "At precisely eleven fifty-five, bring her to the burial mound. Mr. Nandi?"
"Sir?"
"When I am dead, burn her alive."
Indira, hearing the expected sentence pronounced, jumps to her feet and flees the room. Mr. Nandi starts to pursue her.
"Wait!"
Pal has ordered him to stop, so Nandi does, with one hand on the doorknob. Pal smiles. "Give her a moment or two head start and then go chase her down. I rather like that she will enjoy a tiny bit of hope first. It is certain to intensify and prolong her suffering."
Mr. Nandi nods with understanding, yet trembles like a horse at the starting gate. Once Pal raises a finger in acquiescence, he is gone.
Dr. Mohandas Hasari Pal finishes his brandy. At first the diffuse warmth of the alcohol helps to dull the persistent pain in his bowels. But after a few moments his system begins to react badly. With a cry, Pal collapses. He is doubled over, writhing; his shaved head raps against the wooden table and he stuns himself. The medications no longer help. Death anxiety floods his already overloaded system with adrenaline. Pal shakes like a man in the throes of a jungle fever. This paralyzing terror has long been his deepest and most persistent enemy. To fight against it, Mohandas Hasari Pal has marshaled and nurtured an overriding hatred for the indifferent world that will live on without him, virtually undisturbed by his passing.
Oh, but now they shall remember me, he thinks, rocking himself like a small child awakening from a nightmare, oh, now I shall never be forgotten!
SIXTY-FIVE
Harsh in the headphones: "Go!"
And Bowden leapfrogged ahead of Burke. He raced along the porch and further down the outside wall of the hacienda. He kept low, crawled under the plate glass window, careful despite the drawn curtains. He raised a fist, motioned to stop. Burke, several yards behind, immediately melted into the shadows. Bowden heard breathing in the headset, then Burke whispering: "Your play."
Bowden, who had locked down purely from instinct, waited quietly for the bad guy to reveal himself. After a few seconds he sees the orange tip of a cigarette. Bowden shifts in the darkness, slips his goggles on. Now the thin guard's greenish figure was clearly outlined. He stood leaning against the wall, smoking. His rifle was looped around his shoulder, over the front of his arm with the barrel down. Given warning, he would still be able to fire and at minimum alert the others.
Bowden slipped free of his weapon. He set it down carefully, put his large knife between bared teeth, and approached. He moved silently, staying low and behind the man. He was patient, even though the minutes were ticking away, willing to trade precious time to preserve the element of surprise. One board in the porch gave slightly, made a faint squeak like a trapped rodent. Bowden locked his muscles into place, despite being trapped in an awkward duck-walk position, ready to charge.
The guard took another drag on his smoke.
Bowden crossed the last few steps in a quick rush. The cigarette went flying and the guard, whose reflexes were excellent, groped for his weapon and managed to turn partway around. Scotty reacted quickly to the change in position and successfully clamped his hand over the man's mouth. He stabbed the knife deeply into the thorax, yanked it free but held on tight. A soft, muffled grunt of pain followed. Bowden drew the knife across the man's throat, blood splattered dirt. He yanked the rifle away and stepped back, but held on to the man's greasy hair.
Hissing blood and gasping for air, the guard dropped to his knees, clutching at the wound. As the life left the body, Bowden lowered it forward onto the wooden planks. He dropped the rifle in the dirt, kicked it under the porch with one foot. Bowden motioned Burke forward, whispered in the headset. "Let's move."
As Burke, wearing night vision goggles again, trotted up the stairs leading to the hacienda, the porch light flicked on, probably triggered by a motion detector. His eyes were flooded and the sudden change momentarily blinded him. Flashback: everyone blind and Doc and Top and Bowden trapped in the open and the cult members all start firing . . . Bowden had already removed his goggles. He knelt in the dirt and raised the silenced Heckler and Koch MP-5. The door opened and three men emerged backwards, all bunched together, chatting amongst themselves. Meanwhile, Burke backed away into the dark, blinking frantically and rubbing his eyes.
Bowden's jaw drops a bit. Each of the men was dragging a body by the legs. Two of the corpses were older females; their fancy dresses rode up on pudgy thighs. The third wore the uniform of one of Buey's own guards. Bowden saw the first guy focus on him, drop the woman's legs to go for a sidearm. Bowden takes out all three men with a measured burst of 9mm ammunition. The silencer makes a sound like popcorn in a lidded pan. The men were flung against the wall and all six bodies landed in a cluster fuck.
Burke trotted over to Bowden's side. The headset made his low voice seem oddly out of synch. "The fuck is going on around here?"
"Looks to me like the bad guys are taking each other out."
"Fine by me."
"You okay now, Hawkeye?"
"Very funny." Burke moved up the steps carrying the CAR-15. He had yet to fire a shot, but when he did it would be loud. He stepped into the hall, goggles around his neck. The corridor was carpeted, the walls covered with flocked, obnoxiously ornate gold wallpaper. Burke moved further into the hacienda, eyes roaming. He hesitated at the first doorway, moved to the side. Scotty Bowden backed into the hall with his silenced 9mm raised. Burke opened the door.
"Empty."
Burke moved to the next door, opened it. Bowden looked, shook his head and whispered, with some relief, "Clear."
They came to the end of the corridor and turned in tandem. The hallway was empty. Burk
e eased another door open. They saw a long mirrored wall, some gold-plated toilets but no urinals. It was a bathroom for the whores.
"Time?"
"Four minutes."
Both men were perspiring heavily from an intoxicating mixture of excitement, fear, and dread. "Okay," Burke whispered into the mouthpiece. "Let's keep moving."
Bowden was up next. There were two blue doors, side by side, with odd metal handles that looked like leaping dolphins. Scotty entered the room, Burke followed. One naked woman lay on a bed as if sleeping, vomit near her face. Bowden crossed to her side, sought a pulse. He shook his head. "Probably an overdose."
They examined the bedroom, which was enormous. There were large round beds, mirrors on the ceiling, video cameras on tripods, and large-screen television monitors. "Either Buey is into making porn now, or he's been taping his escapades for posterity."
"I've seen his picture," Bowden said, quietly. "That is one nauseating thought."
They slipped out of the room, closed the door behind them. Burke motioned for Bowden, who had the silenced weapons, to go ahead. The two men trotted down a long stretch of corridor, past more doorways and more empty rooms. Soon they arrived at wooden double-doors, clearly the entrance to some kind of master suite, probably Buey's boudoir. Bowden took the right door, Burke the left. They turned the golden handles at the same time and rushed inside.
"Shit."
The room stank of spoiling meat.
It was indeed a master suite, with a huge waterbed, a long bar, and a large flat television on one wall, but the entire bedroom was filled with bodies, human beings stacked waist high. Some of the dead men were dressed as women. Burke and Bowden exchanged looks. Burke knelt next to four of Buey's men in blood-spattered guard uniforms. He examined the bodies. "Scotty, it looks like they've all been strangled. This one here got his throat cut, maybe because he started moving again."
"Like I said, I guess the bad guys are killing off the bad guys. This is a good thing."
"Maybe it is," Burke replied, "but it also means the ones that are left are some really ruthless motherfuckers."
"You think Pal did this?"
Burke jumped to his feet, even more frightened for Indira than before. "It has to be him, man. Most of the dead guys are in uniforms and the girls look like hookers or transvestites."
"Except for our cross dressers, here."
"Peter Stryker wore dresses sometimes. It was a cult thing. I'd say Mohandas Pal and his followers wiped out Buey's gang and a few of their own weak links tonight, all in one shot."
Bowden whistled. "You can't strangle a drug lord and a shitload of gang members without drugging them first."
"Or exposing them to something lethal." Christ, are we all already infected?
But Bowden's mind was elsewhere. "Let's get a move on, we're running out of time."
Burke hesitated. "Scotty, if he's already released the virus, we can't go back. You know that, don't you?"
Scotty Bowden looked at the pile of bodies. Flies were already feeding. He shrugged and nodded. "Aw, shit. I know that. Hey, but then my kid gets a quarter of a million bucks. So let's go do what we came here to do."
"Can you set the charges alone?"
Bowden was puzzled. "Why deviate from the plan?"
"I guess because the plan was built around us getting in and out alive," Burke answered. "If I'm going to die here, I want to do it with Indira around. If she is going to die here, I need to be the one who . . . sees to it."
There was nothing Bowden could say in response to that. He moved for the doorway. "I'll set the charges." And that is when Burke heard her screaming.
SIXTY-SIX
Mohandas Hasari Pal has battled his way back into control of his own, tormented body. The excruciating pain has sobered him up; he is soaked with sweat. Pal knows he cannot take more medication and remain in control of his faculties, but he has done nearly everything he set out to do. The virus is ready, the sacrifice prepared, the wife in position.
And he will be remembered.
It's time to finish this. Mohandas Pal hears another knock at the door. He struggles to his feet. "Come."
Gorman enters the room. His busily tattooed arms are damp with sweat. "Your orders have been carried out." He waits silently for further instructions.
"Help me get down below." Pal quotes with wry humor, "It is time to cry havoc and let loose the dogs of war."
Gorman takes his arm with a firm but sympathetic grip. He guides Pal out into the hallway.
"You will be the Prince of Man," Pal whispers seductively. "It is the dawn of your era, my loyal student."
Gorman responds in a voice thick with emotion. "And you shall be remembered as the incarnation of Shiva himself, the creator and destroyer of worlds. This is a promise, my guru."
"It is a shame that fool Stryker got cold feet," Pal wheezes. "With his writing talent he could have created works that would have survived us all by thousands of years. Would that he had only remained true to the cause."
Gorman grins wickedly. "His bowel tasted like fine pork sausage."
The two men laugh, which causes Pal to stumble and lean against the wall. Gorman holds him, looks down upon him lovingly like a grown child doting over a senile parent.
"I have prepared the virus for you, Gorman. As discussed, it will be contained in your suitcase, in a coffee thermos. There is one thermos for each of the cities on your route. Your airfare has been prepaid, the tickets and your passport are in the locker at the Mexico City airport. Do not fail me."
"I will not fail you."
"Your hypodermic with the antidote will be in the suitcase, along with the containers. Remember, the antidote will not be effective unless you have already been exposed, so do not use it until you have opened the first thermos. Perhaps when you are about to leave Los Angeles airport would be best."
"Yes, sir."
"Then you are scheduled to visit airports in New York, London, Zurich, Tokyo and Moscow. Then India."
"Then Beijing, Ho Chi Minh City, then to Africa, Australia. I know the whole route, sir. I have it memorized. I will be living on airplanes for a fortnight."
"And the world will be changed forever."
They come to the end of the hallway, turn right, and arrive at the stairwell. Down below, they hear a woman shriek in terror or pain. Gorman raises an eyebrow inquisitively. Pal chuckles. "That was my unfaithful wife, no doubt. This nonsense is taking far too long to suit me. Perhaps it would be best if you fetched her, Gorman. Just send Mr. Nandi to join me in the laboratory at once."
"Are you well enough?"
"I will be fine, Gorman. Bring Indira to me where the subject's bodies are kept, and be sure to carefully bind her hands and feet."
Gorman bows respectfully, a slight leaning forward from the waist. He turns on a dime and jogs down the hall. Pal straightens against the wall. He feels a wave of dizziness and a razor-edged cramp grips his bowels. To his humiliation, a small squirt of diarrhea escapes into his trousers. But soon I shall leave this useless body behind, and be as a God!
Pal steps carefully down the carpeted stairs, clutching his abdomen. He does not want to take more heroin until he has finished one final task. He steps out through a side door into the courtyard. A guard lies dead near his feet. Pal assumes this is the work of his own people. He is pleased. He stumbles across the lawn by moonlight, through the dirt and up the steps to the laboratory. He uses his key and steps inside. Another guard is lying in a pool of blood near the desk.
A fresh, electrical shock of pain causes his flesh to quiver. Pal closes his eyes and leans against the wall. After a long moment he forces himself forward. The discomfort passes as he finds himself moving more rapidly through the sterile, white complex. Pal takes an elevator down to the basement. When the door opens, he sees the white-coated scientists who worked for Buey piled in a corner of the room. Their throats have been cut. The sight makes him giggle.
"Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, for
your dedication."
Pal goes behind the stainless steel table and opens the door marked DANGER in English, Spanish, and Russian. He moves into the room past the white cell where several test subjects were imprisoned, injected, and observed. A red-and-black checkered suitcase lies open on the floor. It is filled with silver cylinders that contain the deadliest poison ever created by man.
Pal sits on the floor, cross-legged, and tries to go deep into meditation. Nonetheless, he feels a flutter of fear grip his heart. Pal's dark secret is that his faith in the surreal is less certain than his driving ambition to be immortal. Still, he slows his breathing and tries to relax. He soothes himself that he has enough heroin to insure that his own demise will be painless. No one need know that he fears and rejects the pain required of self-immolation. That bitch Indira shall be denied anesthetic, however. Pal wants to see her tormented flesh burning before he administers his own, merciful overdose.
"Sir?"
Pal opens one eye, looks over his shoulder. It is Miyori, one of his Japanese followers, who is on a paid sabbatical from the Los Angeles Coroner's Office. Dr. Miyori is a chubby man with an annoying alcohol problem. Pal has arranged for Gorman to dispose of Miyori later, so as not to leave any potential embarrassment behind. Pal forces a thin smile. "Our work here is nearly done."
Miyori bows rapidly. "I am joyous, guru. Is there more that I can do?"
You have probably done nothing since the executions but drink and pass out in the back room, Pal thinks, his mind sour with cynicism. But aloud: "Go and find Mr. Nandi, perhaps he will have some more work for you."
Miyori bows again and backs away. Pal returns to his meditation. He summons up the image of the Goddess Mother, Kali-Ma, with her necklace of human skulls and her sleek, black skin. He is vaguely aware of a ping as the elevator arrives to take Miyori upstairs. Some time passes.
The Pressure of Darkness Page 34
