Assassin's Code

by Jonathan Maberry

  Church paused a little before he said, “Yes.”

  “Do we have an overall game plan yet?”

  “If we can we locate the last two devices, then we go for a quarterback blitz.”

  “That’ll be interesting.”

  “Won’t it, though?”

  I closed my eyes and prayed to the gods of war to cut us a break. What Church was suggesting was to have teams move against every target at exactly the same time. It was a strategist’s worst-case scenario because if thousands of years of organized warfare have taught us anything it’s that no major campaign ever goes off exactly according to plan. There are always snafus. And that word came into military parlance as a result. SNAFU. Situation normal all fucked up. Tells you all you need to know.

  “And if we don’t locate the other two?” I asked.

  “Then we may have to try something riskier.”

  “Like taking out the five we know about in order to secure suspects who we can interrogate?”

  “Glad to see we’re on the same page.”

  “It’s not a good page, Boss. There are a lot of ways that can go wrong too.”

  “Yes.”

  “And only one way it can go right.”

  “Yes.”

  “Holy shit.”

  “Yes.” He sighed. “I’ll be landing in Kuwait in a bit. Hope to see you there by this time tomorrow.”

  I heard the faint bing-bong of the doorbell downstairs.

  “I think the courier’s here,” I said, and disconnected.

  Chapter Seventy

  Private Villa Near Jamshidiyeh Park

  Tehran, Iran

  June 15, 6:52 p.m.

  Hugo Vox was bent over the toilet, his stomach heaving and churning with nothing left to expel, when the phone began ringing. His private cell.

  He clawed a towel off the bar and wiped his mouth and crawled out of the bathroom to the night table. Walking was an impossibility this soon after the dose kicked in. There was only enough time to drive home and swallow half a dozen aspirin before the first waves hit, and it was worse with each treatment. He joked to Grigor about the fact that the cure was going to kill him before it cured him. Now he wasn’t sure it was a joke.

  The thick sausages of his swollen fingers were clumsy on the buttons, but he finally hit the right one.

  “What?” he demanded.

  “Mr. Verrecchia?”

  Ah. It was Father Belloq, East Asia regional coordinator for the Sabbatarians. That group knew Vox by his old family name, Verrecchia—a name his grandfather had changed at Ellis Island, but which Vox still used for certain operations. As far as Belloq was concerned, “Luigi Verrecchia” was a devoted and very rich Catholic who was serving God by covertly using a great deal of his wealth to fund the operations of the Inquisition. And that wasn’t all that far from the truth, except in terms of motives. Vox couldn’t care less about the church, or its God, but he found it useful to have a vicious little private army he could aim at his enemies. The Sabbatarians were everywhere, their ranks significantly expanded over the last fifteen years thanks to the millions Vox funneled into their numbered accounts. They were blind fanatics who were convinced they were making serious inroads into the fight against supernatural evil. In point of fact, they had contributed significantly to five of the most lucrative operations of the Seven Kings.

  They had no real role in the chaos that Vox was building around the Red Order, the Tariqa, Iranian politics, and the mad plans of the King of Thorns; but that was the point. Vox loved adding random elements. It would drive Church and the DMS up a goddamn wall trying to figure out how the Sabbatarians factored in. Sure, there was the obvious vampire connection, but the Sabbatarians created the wrong connection. Chaos was a lovely, lovely thing.

  Vox took a breath and adjusted his tone. “Yes, Father. Do you have something to report?”

  “We have had a problem, sir.”

  “Tell me.”

  Belloq told him about the failed ambush of Joe Ledger.

  “You lost the whole team?” growled Vox. His anger was only partly contrived. It would not have surprised Vox to hear that Ledger had taken out at least half the team; he knew Ledger was that good. But all of them?

  “Every last man is in the arms of Jesus.”

  “Please, Father Belloq, this is madness,” said Vox, mopping sweat from his face. His stomach felt like it was ready to explode, but there was nothing left it in. “What could possibly have happened to all those men?”

  “There is only one possible explanation,” said the priest with undisguised contempt. “Upierczi.”

  Vox faked a gasp and then waited a few seconds for Belloq to appreciate how disturbed he was by this news.

  “Surely no single Red Knight could—”

  “No, sir. We believe that the Upierczi are out in force. Sir … I’m afraid that the thing we were afraid of is about to happen.”

  “You mean…?”

  “Yes … it seems certain now that the Upierczi have obtained nuclear weapons.”

  Vox didn’t have the energy for a cry of dismay, so he let a protracted silence convey the right amount of shock. When he thought enough time had passed, Vox said, “Are you positive?”

  “Sir,” said Belloq, “when you know the world of covert operations as well as I do, you understand that very little is certain. We operate on degrees of ‘confidence’ in a thing, and then we are forced to act. If we waited for absolute certainty it would be too late.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Vox with feigned distress, “you are right, of course. I don’t understand these things. It’s just that … my God! Bombs? What would vampires want or need with such dreadful weapons?”

  He heard Belloq sigh with exasperation. Good. That was the right reaction. He wanted the man to be impatient. Impatience was useful.

  “Sir,” said Belloq, “I’ve explained this a dozen times. The Red Order has lost control of the Upierczi. The Kingdom of Shadows is in open revolt and they are about to make war on the world of men. And the human traitors who work for the Upierczi have infiltrated every government, every level of industry and world trade. The launching of bombs will be the first wave … and I believe it will send a signal for a complete takeover of world governments and key industries.”

  “You think it will actually come to that? Humans helping monsters to conquer the world?”

  “It is happening!” insisted the priest. “And we are running out of time. That list your chief of security provided … We need to act on that immediately. We need to cut off the Hydra’s head before we are overwhelmed.”

  Vox almost laughed. The phrasing was so trite, so corny. Belloq might be a ruthless killer, but he was also a complete ham-bone. That was also useful.

  “The list,” Vox echoed, as if fretting over a dreadful decision. In truth the list was one he had prepared and added to while still in the good graces of Church and the president of the United States. It was his own version of a nuclear bomb, and once used it would do far more damage than the Teller–Ulams hidden throughout the Middle East. That list would blow a hole in the world and leave nothing but chaos behind.

  A very, very profitable chaos.

  “I’m sorry,” Vox said contritely. “This is all beyond me, and it terrifies me.”

  “We’re all scared,” Belloq assured him. “But courage is defined by acting even in the presence of great fear. God needs us to be courageous. God needs us to be the heroes in this battle against the forces of evil.”

  Forces of evil. Vox had to cover the phone while he laughed quietly. He wished he could put that on a business card.

  “Tell me what to do,” he said after a moment.

  “There is only one thing you need do, sir. You need to give me permission to use that list. I promised that we would do nothing without your say-so. Mr. Verrecchia—now is the time. Search your heart, search your faith … Ask yourself what God requires of you.”

  Vox was silent as he picked lint off his pajama botto
ms, letting the clock burn. Letting Belloq imagine the torment that “Verrecchia” must be experiencing because of the consequences of this action. Many people would die. Thousands of them. Men, women, and even children. No one could be spared. It was the only way to protect the world from the vampire uprising.

  Although he kept his voice grave, Vox was smiling as he said, “Let God’s will be done.”

  He disconnected and tossed the phone on the bed.

  The sickness in his stomach was still there, but Vox realized that the trembling in his legs and arms was less. Much less. Even though the side effects hit him sooner and harder with each treatment of Upier 531, there was no doubt at all that they were wearing off sooner. He rolled up his sleeve and peeled off the bandage to examine the puncture marks.

  There were none.

  Vox pulled open his robe and pulled up his vomit-stained undershirt.

  This time his gasp was genuine.

  The big puncture wounds from the horse needles Dr. Hasbrouck used on him were …

  Well, shit, he thought. They were gone.

  No. That wasn’t the right way to think of it, he realized with a new and dark delight.

  They were healed.

  He closed his eyes.

  The treatments were working.

  And with a jolt he realized that he hadn’t had a coughing fit all day.

  Hugo Vox smiled. If Father Belloq had been there to see that smile, the Sabbatarian would have screamed and grabbed for a hammer and a stake.

  Chapter Seventy-One

  The Hangar

  Floyd Bennett Field, Brooklyn

  June 15, 10:25 a.m. EST

  Church’s phone rang and he saw that it was Lilith again. He answered.

  “Have you had a chance to look at the contents of the flash drive?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Your opinion?”

  “It’s contrived.”

  “That was Circe’s take.”

  Lilith paused. “How is Circe?”

  “She’s well,” said Church coldly, “but she is not a topic of conversation.”

  “You are a difficult person to like,” she said.

  “Many have said the same about you.”

  Neither of them spoke for a few seconds, and in that silence much was said.

  Eventually Lilith returned to Church’s original question. “Rasouli is feeding the Red Order to you.”

  “So it seems,” agreed Church, “though I still don’t know what the Red Order is. Not in full. I suspect you do.”

  “Actually,” she said, “I don’t. I know how they operate, I know some of the players, but there is something called the Holy Agreement, and I would give a lot to know what’s in it. We believe that the Agreement was drafted and signed by Sir Guy LaRoque, the first Scriptor of the Red Order, and his counterpart, Ibrahim al-Asiri, who was, in turn, the first Murshid.”

  “Surely you have a guess about its content.”

  “Guesses are useless in the absence of verifiable information. We have a thousand theories, and some of them may be correct, but there’s no meter that will let us know. It’s fair to say that Rasouli’s information does more harm than good to our speculations, because we can’t factor nukes into any of our scenarios.”

  “We’re building some theories along the lines of a doomsday cult. Does that make any sense based on your understanding of this matter?”

  “Doomsday? No.”

  “What about a faction rising within the Order or the Tariqa with a bent toward mutually destructive tactics? Suicide bombers and big-ticket destruction are not unknown in these circles,” he said.

  “Maybe, but in their own way, both sides of the Agreement have tended more toward moderation than extremist acts.”

  “You view blowing up mosques and murdering nuns to be indicative of balance?”

  “Yes,” she said. “No other view makes much sense, not when you consider how long this has been going on.”

  “Interesting,” he said thoughtfully, then changed the subject. “We are trying to make sense of Rasouli’s mention of the Book of Shadows. My people are trying to decode the fragments of the book included on the drive.”

  “Good luck. We’ve been trying to decode that damned thing for—” She suddenly stopped and there was a heavy silence at the other end.

  “Lilith?” prodded Church. “How exactly have you been trying to decode the pages? Is there something you would like to tell me? Did you provide those pages to Rasouli? Is that what you started to say?”

  “God, no. But…” Lilith cleared her throat. “We, um … we actually have a complete copy of the Book of Shadows. We’ve had it for some time.”

  “Have you?” Church said mildly. “And were you planning on telling me about it before or after the nukes detonated?”

  Lilith said nothing.

  “How long have you had the Book?”

  “Well … give or take … seven years.”

  Church sighed. “This kind of obfuscation is exactly why counterterrorism is a bureaucratic nightmare.”

  “Wait a damn minute,” snapped Lilith. “You speak as if you had a right to it. Some of our people died to obtain this copy.”

  “So lay some flowers on their grave and move on from the dramatics,” he fired back. “I’ve made my resources available to the Mothers and to Arklight on a number of occasions.”

  “Sure, but you never let us have access to MindReader. You keep that to yourself.”

  “Hardly the same thing.”

  “Well, it’s water under the bridge, isn’t it?” she fired back. “We have a copy of the Book of Shadows, and if you stop being such a prick I’ll consider e-mailing you a high-res scan.”

  “Have you translated any of it?”

  “No.”

  “In seven years?”

  “Perhaps we may have accomplished something if we had MindReader.”

  “Point taken. Send me the e-mail now and I will make sure that it is fed through MindReader. I further promise that I will share the results of that scan. All of it, unreservedly.”

  After a moment she said, “Thank you.” And hung up. Forcefully.

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  Over Kuwaiti Airspace

  June 15, 10:28 a.m. EST

  Church pressed the intercom.

  “Bug, I’m sending through a file. It’s a complete scan of the Book of Shadows. The book is four hundred and thirty one pages of densely written and coded text. Run it through MindReader. Pattern recognition, decryption, the deciphering software, all of it. If you get anything, no matter how small it seems, contact me at once.”

  “You got it.”

  “Also, tell Circe and Dr. Sanchez that we have this. Let them have full access. Circe may want to compare it to the Voynich manuscript.”

  “Sure.”

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  Mustapha’s Daily Goods

  Tehran, Iran

  June 15, 6:54 p.m.

  I went downstairs and out through the back to meet Abdul Jamar. Twilight brought the cool breezes and birdsong that are the rewards for anyone who survives the blistering heat of the day. I stayed in the shadows as a three-year-old Runna X12 pulled to the curb. I noted that the dome light was rigged not to come on as he opened the door.

  Abdul was dumpy little man with face like a tired accountant and glasses with thick lenses. You’d never pick him out as a dissident operative working with the CIA to overthrow Ahmadinejad, which I suppose was the point.

  He looked me up and down with apparent disinterest. “Cold for this time of year,” he said.

  “More like January,” I agreed.

  He sighed as if the simple exchange of code words was a burden and a pain in the ass. He glanced at Ghost, who was poking his head out past my thigh.

  “Friendly dog?” Abdul asked, beginning to reach out for a quick pet.

  “Not today,” I said. Abdul whipped his hand back. He opened the trunk of his car and produced a zippered la
ptop case and a blue gym bag.

  “For you,” he said to me, keeping an eye on Ghost.

  I took the items and handed him a plain white envelope that I had borrowed from Jamsheed. It was sealed and folded several times around the flash drive.

  “For the pouch?” Abdul asked.

  “Yes. I’m not joking when I say that you need to protect that with your life.”

  Abdul managed to look deeply unimpressed. Without another word he got back into his car and drove away. Charming guy.

  I checked that the alley was empty and went back inside. Jamsheed was in his store, so I took my gear to the bedroom and locked the door. The briefcase and valise I’d taken from the vampire hunters were on the bed. I told Ghost to guard the door and he did so by flopping down in front of it and falling asleep.

  The laptop was a DMS tactical field computer. Ultrasophisticated, hardened against EMPs, rigged with 128-bit code scramblers, with a powerful satellite uplink. I turned it on and punched in the proper passwords.

  The other bag included party favors. A Beretta 9mm with a Trinity sound suppressor and four extra magazines loaded with subsonic hollow points. A nylon shoulder rig was included with a fast-draw holster, and it had slots for two of the mags. A Rapid Response Folder, which is a nifty tactical knife that clipped on to my right pants pocket and hung out of sight. A snap of the wrist flicks out a 3.375-inch blade which, though short, allowed a fighter to cut and slash at full speed with no drag at all on the arm. There were four flash-bangs and four fragmentation grenades. And a Smith & Wesson Airweight Centennial, a hammerless .38 revolver in an ankle holster. As I unpacked it I could feel my body happily pumping out testosterone. If I ran into another Red Knight, it was going to be a substantially different encounter, no matter what Church or Violin thought about my chances. I felt like saying “Fuckin’ A” or “Bring the pain,” but I knew Ghost disapproved of that kind of rah-rah crap.

  I strapped on the Airweight and clipped the RRF in place, then shrugged into the shoulder rig.

  The computer case had a few extra goodies, including a new set of earbuds with a pocket-sized uplink booster. The receiver looked like a mole and affixed to the inside of my ear. The mike was a pale freckle on my upper lip. The technology is a couple of giant steps ahead of what’s in all of the holiday catalogs for the covert-ops community. Mr. Church has a friend in the industry, and he always has the coolest stuff.