the Miracle Strain (aka The Messiah Code) (1997)

by Cordy, Michael

  The Secondary Imperative was thus born, but only those in the Inner Circle, and the two Righteous Cleansers--forever known only as Nemesis and Gomorrah--were told of its existence. The growing number of Brothers covertly seeded in various positions of influence throughout the world were only aware of the Primary Imperative.

  The Secondary Imperative had inevitably caused problems in the past, but not in the way killing Dr. Carter could. Ezekiel knew that it had never happened before--that the subject of a Righteous Kill for the Secondary Imperative also held a possible key to achieving the Primary. But then the flame hadn't burned white before either.

  He felt Brother Helix tap him respectfully on the arm. "Father Ezekiel, what is your decision?"

  Ezekiel frowned. Dr. Carter was a threat and every day his power was growing. He had to be stopped. "Until I am convinced that Dr. Carter would be willing to help us, I can only make one decision: to kill him."

  "But if he could be persuaded?" probed Helix. "Would you then postpone the kill?"

  "Possibly." Ezekiel turned to Brother Bernard. "When is the earliest you could safely cleanse the scientist?"

  "Well, there's additional security around him now, but it's superficial. Gomorrah will be too busy, but after completing her kill in Manhattan Nemesis should be available to complete the kill inside two weeks."

  Ezekiel thought for a moment, then turned back to his Champion of the Primary Imperative. "Brother Helix, we will delay for a further two weeks. You, therefore, have one month to convince me we can safely and effectively work with Dr. Carter. But after that time I will personally call up Nemesis and sanction the kill. Is that clear?"

  Helix smiled at a frowning Bernard and closed his laptop with a triumphant click. "Perfectly clear, Father Ezekiel, perfectly clear."

  Chapter Eight.

  Manhattan

  The striking man with long hair and sky blue eyes was whistling "Frere Jacques" as he walked down Fifth Avenue. The pale afternoon sunlight caught the white-blond of his hair, so it seemed to halo his head and broad shoulders. The man's angelic air was further enhanced by his black, almost priestlike garb. Only the blood-red roses that peeked out of the tote bag in his right hand, and the tightness of his black leather trousers, hinted at a more earthly passion. As he whistled he wore a serene smile of utter contentment on his fine-featured face.

  Passersby noticed him, but they had no way of knowing that the object of their admiration was not a man at all--but a woman. They certainly had no idea that this woman was on her way to perform a righteous execution.

  Maria Benariac blinked, momentarily hiding her colored contact lenses, and tried to stop the maddening need to scratch her scalp. She usually wore specially designed wigs, but she had needed to "borrow" this one. She was acutely aware that others who shared her vocation preferred the faceless "gray" look, staying as inconspicuous and unnoticed as possible. That worked well for some jobs and usually she hated unwelcome attention. But on other occasions she liked to use her surgically smoothed face and body as a canvas upon which to paint a strong misleading image that witnesses would later remember. This was one such occasion. Plus, today her very appearance should help her gain access to her prey.

  Maria could see Sly Fontana's apartment block now. Overlooking the park. Very impressive. According to Brother Bernard's manila folder, Fontana used this apartment as his East Coast residence, coming here whenever he needed to escape from L. A., or to spend time with Babe, the high-class male model-cumprostitute he was addicted to. Maria didn't find it ironic that Sly Fontana, notorious as a producer of hard-core hetero porn movies, should be gay. She knew from her own personal research that Sly Fontana was into every kind of sexual perversion. The winner of eight Hot d'Or porn awards at Cannes, Fontana controlled a huge share of the international sex film industry. However, his real passion was for snuff movies, videos showing victims--usually women--performing sex, before being sadistically murdered at the moment of climax. To prove their deaths were real the victims' throats were cut on camera, always in close-up and often so severely they were practically beheaded. Maria had seen one of these films. It was a grainy, scratchy copy many generations removed from the master tape, but the content had been clearly visible and it was still worth thousands of dollars.

  The copy had belonged to Babe and Maria had seen it last night when she'd visited his well-appointed apartment in Greenwich Village. His address was in Brother Bernard's manila folder, and it had been simple to break in and "interview" him. A knife and six minutes was all she'd needed to convince the body builder to tell her everything about Fontana, and arrange a meeting with him today. After breaking the worthless Babe's neck she had rifled through his wardrobe, selecting the all-black ensemble Fontana liked his favorite companion to wear.

  Scalping Babe's head had been more difficult than she'd thought, like trying to peel an orange in one go without breaking the rind. But eventually, after much effort, she had succeeded. She had left it to dry overnight, and this morning had used talc and adhesive strips to apply the scalp to her shaved head. The effect was good but it itched like crazy.

  She took the Ray-Bans out of the black leather tote and put them on. She was only yards away from the uptown apartment tower now. The familiar feeling of excitement and righteous anticipation rolled like warm, delicious syrup in her belly.

  The doorman was standing beneath the entrance awning. He looked huge in his uniform, but he posed no threat. He immediately turned away when she approached in her blond, black-clad disguise--just as Babe had said he would. Babe had explained that the doormen knew all the whores--male and female--who serviced the tower's well-heeled residents. Without exception the doormen knew when not to notice people coming into the building. Maria allowed herself a thin smile at the irony of Sly Fontana slipping the protective doorman money to grant his killer access to his home.

  With barely a glance toward the doorman Maria strolled confidently into the gloomy marbled lobby and headed straight for the elevators. Once inside she checked her watch: 2:52. Fontana was expecting Babe at exactly 3:00 P. M. Plenty of time.

  On the seventh floor she got out and walked to the stairwell where she waited. It was dark here, pitch black, and as always it made her uncomfortable. Taking a deep breath, she reminded herself that the darkness was only temporary. To her right she saw a timed switch glowing like a beacon. She pressed it and the sudden light chased away her demons. She looked into her leather tote and pulled out a pair of condom-thin surgical gloves. Expertly she rolled them onto her hands, then returned to the contents of the bag. First she checked the video camera; no incriminating tape of course, but it would suffice. At the bottom of the bag, beside the camera, lay her trusty kukri. She foraged around under the red roses feeling for the remaining three smaller objects: a roll of strong, highly adhesive duct tape, a garrote, and a black fountain pen. She put the first two in the side pockets of her jacket. The pen looked quite normal until she opened the top, revealing its unusually long nib-- not far short of a hypodermic needle. She blew down the nib, confirming it was clear, then replaced the cap and put the pen back in the tote. Everything was ready.

  She felt the righteous thrill fill her chest. She was the avenging angel, the scourge of God. On this day the vile tide of Evil would be stanched momentarily, one of its many hydra heads severed.

  She opened the door on to the seventh floor and looked down the corridor. She could clearly see the dark wooden door at the end of the corridor with its brass number 70 prominently displayed. Behind that door Sly Fontana should be alone, expecting three knocks and a pile of red roses on the doormat--Babe's trademark greeting. How touching, thought Maria, without a trace of a smile touching her lips.

  The pulse alarm on her wristwatch vibrated silently against her skin. She looked down: 2:59. It was time.

  She walked down the lush-carpeted corridor, placed the pile of roses on the floor outside apartment 70, then flattened herself against the wall to the left of the doorway. Her r
ight hand played with the garrote in her pocket as if it were a string of worry beads. And once she had controlled her breathing she rested her knuckles against the door.

  Knock. Knock. Knock.

  Movement. The shuffling of feet moving toward the door.

  She heard a bolt being pulled, and a chain lifted. Then a key being turned. Followed by yet another key. Security conscious, thought Maria with grim humor. She listened to the door opening, sensed a subtle shift in air temperature. It was warm in the apartment. She heard an intake of breath and then an excited chuckle as a man stooped to pick up the roses.

  Adjusting her shades and lowering her head so Babe's long blond fell hair over her face, Maria stepped out in front of Sly Fontana, the crotch of her tight leather trousers inches from his head. Even though Fontana was bending over, she could see that the porn producer was a short man, less than five seven. He had thin, straggly black hair and a flabby body that even his outsize silk shirt couldn't disguise.

  She watched him slowly straighten, holding the roses. He looked up at her with hungry, beady eyes, trying to see her face beneath the hair. It reminded her of a time back in the orphanage--a time she'd rather forget.

  "Hiya, Babe," Fontana said excitedly, his hand unconsciously rubbing his crotch. "God, I'm glad you're here. I've been set to explode ever since we talked on the phone." He backed into the apartment, beckoning her to follow.

  Maria, whose hands were busy preparing the garrote behind her back, kicked the tote in front of her and walked into the apartment, allowing the door to close behind her. Fontana glanced down at the bag by Maria's feet and licked his lips. "You've brought some toys for us to play with?"

  "You could thay that," answered Maria, doing a passable imitation of Babe's lisp.

  But perhaps the imitation wasn't good enough, or the hair was no longer covering her face, because Fontana suddenly looked at her more closely. "Have you grown or something?" he asked.

  Maria stepped forward and smiled, bringing her hands around to the front as if to embrace him. "Not really. I've been this height for years."

  Fontana was frowning now, the lust in his eyes replaced by suspicion and fear. He realized something was wrong. But Maria didn't care. It was already too late; she was inside. Even as she watched his lips start to form an outraged "Who the hell are you?" Maria brought the garrote around his neck, squeezing off his question with the practiced skill of a surgeon. Fontana immediately dropped the roses, gasping and twitching like a landed fish as he clawed at the cheese wire digging into his neck.

  Why did they always do that? Maria wondered, looking into his bulging terrified eyes. No one ever did the sensible thing and focused on her fingers, breaking each one in turn, until she had to let go. They always went for the wire that was already cutting through their neck. It was so foolish, so futile.

  Maria quickly scanned the open plan apartment, until her eyes settled on the pale leather chairs and the all-important TV in the living room area. Pulling Fontana like a whimpering dog on a leash, she led him past an ostentatious pink marble fireplace and pushed him into a chair directly facing the magnificent television screen. Large and as black as polished jet, the TV was a fitting altar for her task.

  She released the garrote, but before Fontana even had time to catch his breath she took a small pink marble egg from the nest of similar objets d'art on the coffee table beside her, and pushed it into his mouth. Then she pulled the roll of duct tape out of her pocket, tore off a strip, and sealed his lips with it. Without a pause she wrapped the tape around his body and the chair. Finally she taped his eyelids open so only his darting, panicky eyeballs could move. She reached into the tote for the video camera. She could now take her time preparing for the performance.

  It took her a moment or two to fathom all the controls on the smooth, apparently buttonless TV once she'd located the flush sliding panels. After connecting the necessary cables she placed the camera on top of the TV, and pointed the lens at the gagged man. Then she reached for the remote controls and activated both machines. The picture flickered for a second, until the large screen was filled with the top part of Sly Fontana's forehead. The definition was good and Maria could see each drop of sweat forming below his receding hairline.

  "You look nervous, Sly," she said. "I'd have thought you'd be used to auditions by now." She adjusted the camera and zoom lens, until the screen showed Fontana from the waist up in perfect focus. Dark circles of sweat radiated out from the underarms of his pale cream silk shirt as his frantic eyes pleaded with her. His every muscle seemed to be straining against the reinforced tape. She smiled and pulled off her wig. Sly Fontana's eyes bulged further, taking in her shaved appearance, and they almost came out of their sockets when she reached into the tote and pulled out the unsheathed kukri.

  "Right," she said, walking around to stand behind him, her left hand holding the camera remote and the right hand the curved dagger. "Let the show begin."

  She bent down so her face was alongside his: both clearly visible on the screen. She put her mouth close to his ear and saw wax and hair, then she whispered with the intimacy of a lover, "I've seen some of your more specialized work, and although I can't hope to match it, I would like you to think of this as a kind of homage. Remember the Bible. 'All they that take the sword shall perish with the sword.'" With the remote she zoomed the lens onto his neck until the whole screen was virtually filled with his sweaty throat, Adam's apple bobbing nervously up and down. Then she looped her right arm around his neck and placed the edge of the dagger to his throat. On the screen the flawless silver of its keen, curved blade contrasted with his L. A. tan. She felt Sly try to turn away, but the tape and her arm locked his head in place.

  As she slowly pushed the razor-sharp edge of the kukri into his flesh she directed the camera lens away from the neck and onto his eyes, until only his eyeballs filled the screen. Sly desperately tried to close his eyelids, and look away from the screen--but the duct tape held them open. And as her right hand slowly drew the blade across his throat, severing muscle and tissue, Sly Fontana had to stare into the windows of his own soul, the terrified star and audience of his own snuff movie. Those trembling eyeballs were forced to witness their own agony and death--to see the perfect moment that Maria always looked for: the flicker of dilating pupils that marked the departure of a damned soul to another place, where judgment would be stern and punishment eternal.

  Just before her blade reached the jugular she pulled back from the already copious flow of blood and hissed into his ear, "You will die now, and be damned forever." Satisfied that the man knew his sins had caught up with him she pulled the blade across the rest of his throat. She watched, along with Sly, as the blood from his ruptured jugular sprayed the screen--then, after a second or two, the giant pupils flickered and went blank.

  Maria released a small involuntary sigh. The kill had been executed. She should leave now. She was Nemesis, the professional avenger who had performed another perfect kill. But she couldn't go. Not yet.

  She had to sign her work: to prove that she'd performed the act. She reached into the tote and pulled out the fountain pen, unscrewing the cap to reveal the custom-made extra-long nib. Then she approached the corpse, and after locating the jugular in Sly's neck wound, plunged the long nib into the artery, filling the pen's reservoir with blood.

  When she had enough she withdrew the nib and proceeded to write on the still-dry area on the back of his pale cream shirt collar.

  "All they that take the sword shall perish with the sword."Matthew 26:54.

  Afterward she replaced the cap on the pen and put it back in the tote with the rest of her equipment. Then she fixed Babe's blond locks back on her head, picked up the roses lying on the floor of the hallway, and threw them into the kitchen trash can. She thought nothing of the small pain as one of the thorns ruptured the rubber glove, and pierced the soft flesh of her right thumb. And as she sucked it clean, she barely registered the metallic, salty taste on her tongue. Fina
lly she checked that the hallway corridor was clear, and quietly left the apartment, closing the door behind her.

  No mistakes this time. The perfect kill.

  Damascus

  Ezekiel De La Croix walked in his garden, past the orange trees to the olive grove that sloped down to the perimeter of his land. He stopped and looked out at the Damascus skyline two miles to the south. The air was chill, but the late afternoon light cast a warm golden glow on the twisted olive trees and distant city. He had spent his life traveling the world but the large old house behind him had always been his home--as it had for six generations before him. It saddened him that he had no child to inherit it. He loved this place, especially at this time of day. It reminded him of the walks he used to take with his wife when she was alive. When they would talk, and soothe away each other's problems.

  A sudden searing pain in his stomach made him reach for the small metal box in his pocket and take out a white tablet. He swallowed it, letting the antacid work on his ulcer. As the pain softened he thought of Brother Helix's plan. Last night, after returning from the meeting of the Inner Circle, Ezekiel had endured his recurring nightmare again. And as always in the dream he had not only failed to save the New Messiah but had helped crucify him too. It brought home the dread he felt of failing in his life's mission, making him consider Helix's proposal more seriously. He was only too aware that as each day passed without finding the Messiah, the balance of risk moved in favor of adopting the younger Brother's daring plan. Assuming, of course, that Helix could convince the blaspheming scientist to work with them.