The King of Plagues

by Jonathan Maberry

“Why?”

  “Unknown.”

  “He connected to the Kings?”

  “To be determined.”

  “Working alone?”

  “Possibly. It’s the impression he’s conveyed so far. Uses ‘I’ and ‘me’ rather than ‘we.’”

  “Demands?”

  “Aside from the usual precautionary requirements—keep our distance, don’t try anything, et cetera—he’s asked to speak to a representative of Homeland Security.”

  “Homeland? Does this guy know he’s in Scotland?”

  “He’s American,” said Hu. “Baker and Schloss lease half of the island from the Brits.”

  “Baker and Schloss? The male enhancement company?”

  Hu grinned. “Yeah, the pecker pill people. They’re a medium-sized pharmaceutical company with a board made up of American, British, German, and French members. Majority stockholders are the Baker family of Martha’s Vineyard. Old money. The male enhancement drug put them on the public radar, but they make their real money from government contracts.”

  “For what? Enhanced soldiers?”

  “Viral research,” said Church.

  “What kind? Germ warfare?”

  “Nobody uses that term anymore,” Hu said haughtily. “Baker and Schloss has government contracts for tactical-response bio-agents. TRBs.”

  “Which means what?” I asked.

  “Germ warfare,” said Church. “The point is that the situation is politically complicated. The title to the land is actually held by the U.S. Government. Baker and Schloss has access to it as part of their research contract.”

  “Why is it in Scotland?”

  Church said nothing.

  “What?” I prompted.

  Hu snorted. “It’s here because it’s not allowed to be in the U.S.”

  I studied their faces. Church was a stone, but Hu was smiling, and he never smiled unless something unpleasant was happening. “I’m going out on a limb here and guess that it’s not allowed in the U.K., either.”

  “No, it’s allowed,” said Church, “but only under the most exacting circumstances, which translates as ‘difficult and expensive.’ Those responsible for establishing this facility found it less expensive and more productive to simply move it outside of the scope of domestic regulars and congressional oversight. That itself is problematic in a variety of ugly ways. The nature of the work being done at Fair Isle contravenes half a dozen international agreements.”

  “Why is it even in operation?” I demanded.

  “It’s a holdover from a previous administration. And it’s one of those things that the layers of government power players fail to tell a new president.”

  “How—,” I began, but he cut me off.

  “There are too many secrets to tell any sitting president. At best the President can be briefed in general about the areas of research and given more complete information when the situation requires it. But the career politicians within the infrastructure have a skewed view of both ‘need to know’ and ‘plausible deniability.’ They believe they have the right to decide what the President is allowed to know, or not allowed to know.”

  I knew what he was saying. As much as we don’t want to accept the truth, there were layers of government that remained in place no matter which party held power in the White House. Shadow governments, cells and cabals, some of which believed that what they were doing was in the best interest of the American people, though in those rare cases when someone was able to shine a light on them it became pretty clear that money and the power it purchased was the only enduring motive.

  “If this got out,” Church said, “it could cripple the current administration and it would almost certainly result in some kind of criminal charges for key members of the previous administration.”

  I started to say something smart-ass, but he headed me off at the pass.

  “This isn’t a time to collect scalps, Captain. Playing politics has hurt our country too many times. And while I agree that those responsible should be held accountable, that’s something best done quietly on our own turf. Spilling this in public would do greater harm than good. The stock market is already taking very bad hits because of the Hospital bombing; this could crash it into a depression. It would also strip the power of the United States in critical negotiations with North Korea, China, and Iran.”

  “Yeah, stones and glass houses.”

  He nodded.

  I said, “Tell you, though … if someone wanted to do just that, this would be a good way to go about it. We have to consider that this might be a Seven Kings operation.”

  “No! Really?” said Hu dryly.

  Church adjusted his glasses. “We face three separate problems.”

  “Let me see if I can guess,” I said, and ticked them off on my fingers. “First, we need to contain the situation and prevent any bugs from getting loose. Second, we need to make sure this doesn’t embarrass the ol’ U.S. of A.”

  “Right. And the third?”

  “We have to find out why this guy is doing this. You said he wants to talk to someone from Homeland? Not the Brits? Not the press? That’s interesting.”

  “Isn’t it, though?” said Church. “He said one thing that I find particularly intriguing. He said that there’s still time to stop this.’”

  “That doesn’t sound like a threat,” I said. “Maybe he’s not a bad guy. Maybe he’s just a scared guy.”

  “Scared of what?” Hu asked.

  “Don’t know yet. But you don’t take people hostage if you’re not scared of something. Not unless you’re in it for the money, and this doesn’t have that kind of feel.”

  “Agreed,” said Church.

  “Or maybe he’s part of this thing, whatever it is, and got either cold feet or an attack of conscience.”

  “And if the Kings are involved we might finally have a doorway into them.”

  I nodded. “Couple questions, though.”

  “Go.”

  “First … why me? Where the hell’s the rest of the DMS?”

  “Everyone healthy enough to report for work has been scrambled and assigned to investigation or protection in the States. As for our teams here, Gog is still on the job in Prague and Magog has gone dark in Afghanistan, though that’s expected at this stage of that operation. We can’t get either of them here in time and this situation needs a shooter.”

  I gave him a sour look. “Swell. Joe Ledger, gun for hire.”

  “If your feelings are bruised, Captain, let me put it more delicately: this situation needs finesse.”

  “Thanks, but I wasn’t about to break out in tears.”

  Hu made a small grunting sound that I was free to interpret any way I wanted. I considered siccing Ghost on him.

  “We do have some local assets, however,” said Church. “Barrier is sending Lionheart Team as backup.”

  “I thought we had to keep the Brits out of this,” I said.

  “Officially, we have to keep the British government out of it,” corrected Church. “Brigadier Prebble, head of Barrier’s Tactical Field Office in Scotland, is an old friend of mine. He understands our need for discretion and he’ll be meeting us in a few minutes.”

  “Does Benson Childe know about this?”

  “Officially, no. Unofficially, I briefed him on the matter and he advised me that Prebble’s goodwill is only going to last as far as containment. If there’s any kind of biological breach, then Prebble will disown us. As well he should.”

  “As you would in the same circumstance.”

  “Of course.”

  The limo pulled out of traffic and through the gates of a large estate. A military helicopter was parked on the lawn behind the house, the rotors already turning, the engine whine rising to a scream.

  Interlude Fourteen

  Crown Island

  St. Lawrence River, Ontario, Canada

  Four Months Ago

  Gault stepped out of the steaming shower and reached for a towel. It wasn’t on the
rack. Instead Eris moved out of the mist and handed it to him.

  Gault snatched the towel from her and pressed it to his naked, scarred face, turning half-away. But Eris moved closer still. She still wore the bikini top, but she had shed the tight pants and wore only the scraps of bright cloth that comprised the bottom of the bikini. Her body was strong and taut, with hard muscles under tanned skin.

  “Let me see,” she said, touching the hand that pressed the towel to his face.

  “No,” he said hoarsely.

  “Don’t be a child, Sebastian,” she said in her low and smoky voice. “Neither of us is as pretty as we used to be. Life and time are monsters and they gnaw at us.”

  She kissed the back of his hand and then tugged lightly at the towel.

  “Please don’t …”

  But Gault knew from too many years and too many encounters that Lady Eris could not be told no. She kissed his hand and tugged, and finally he yielded, as he had always yielded to her. She tossed the towel aside and touched his chin, turning his face toward her. Her sea green eyes took in everything, missed nothing. The smile on her parted lips never wavered as each of the bruises and surgical scars was revealed.

  “This will heal,” she said softly.

  “Not all of it.”

  She touched the crow’s-feet at the corners of her eyes, then drifted her fingertips across her throat. “Neither will this. But only fools and mortals worry about these things.”

  “You aged; I melted,” he said as she moved even closer. Her full breasts brushed the naked skin of his stomach. “Surely that’s proof of mortality.”

  “No,” she said as she plucked the strings of her bikini. The pieces fell away except for the triangle that had covered her left breast, which was momentarily held in place by the pressure of one taut nipple against the rippled muscles of his abdomen. “No,” she said again, “we’re not mortals.”

  She kissed his mouth, his cheek, the corner of his eye, her breath furnace hot against the crooked lines of his scars.

  “We’re gods,” she whispered.

  Gault suddenly pulled her to him, crushing her against his chest, her softness pressed to him, his hardness pressed to her, the steam swirling around them both. Her lips and hungry hands were everywhere, touching him, stroking him, guiding him toward wetness.

  “Gods,” he breathed.

  And then they both cried out together as two gods became one.

  Interlude Fifteen

  T-Town, Mount Baker, Washington State

  Three and a Half Months Before the London Event

  Circe tried not to fidget as Maj. Grace Courtland, Mr. Church’s top field agent and one of Circe’s closest friends, read through the Goddess Report.

  Grace was slim and fit and was known throughout the counterterrorism community as the Iron Maiden. It wasn’t an insult. Grace was a top-of-the-game shooter for the DMS, which made her the best of the best of the best.

  “Bloody hell,” Grace said as she closed the report.

  “Am I crazy or is there something there?”

  Grace smiled. “Both, I daresay.”

  “Am I wrong?”

  “The FBI sent us a report on this a few weeks ago and they were all over the place with their suspicions, and none of their geniuses came within pissing distance of what you have here. This is brilliant.”

  “Really?”

  “No, I’m lying to you, you daft cow. Of course! Agencies are nodding at the Goddess postings and dismissing them as an aftereffect or a symptom.”

  “I know! But the dates clearly show that the posts predate the last couple of spikes in hate crimes.”

  “No doubt, but there are always other events that can be held up as causal factors. An Army drone hits a village mosque instead of a Taliban opium warehouse and bang!” Grace tapped the report with a forefinger. “But they’ll have to take you seriously once they read this.”

  “They have read it. This same report. They see my name on the document and they don’t take me seriously.”

  “Ah.” Grace Courtland pursed her lips. “Then the problem is the same one you’ve been facing since you started mucking about with the Goddess thing, love. There’s nowhere to go with it. That’s the trouble with the Internet—there are too many ways to create and maintain anonymity. The FBI is all about following bread crumb trails. Here there’s no trail to follow, and those wankers are too busy playing with their beef bayonets to try and find a way. That and they’re swamped trying to stop the Chinese ghost net from stealing every last effing secret we have.” She paused. “Is there any chance the Chinese are involved in this? We’ve been dealing with wave after wave of their cyberterrorism these last few years.”

  “Impossible to say.”

  They sat and thought about it.

  “So,” Circe said, “you see my problem. Even when I can get someone to agree that there’s something going on out there, no one can offer a single suggestion on what to do about it.”

  “Mm,” Grace murmured. “If this was piss easy we’d have solved all the world’s problems already. As it is … best I can do for you, love, is bring this to Aunt Sallie. She has the cybercrimes portfolio right now.”

  “But this isn’t a cybercrime per se. More like hate mongering, and technically that’s allowed under free speech.”

  “Well, as we don’t have a division for cyber fucking-about we’ll have to go with what we have.” She lifted the report. “Can I keep this copy? I’d like to read it again on the plane.”

  Circe chewed her lip. “Um … Hugo told me to keep this on the down low as far as the DMS is concerned. He said I could talk to you off the record. He’d kill me if he knew you had a copy of that.”

  Grace smiled and tucked the report into her bag. “If you don’t tell him, I won’t.”

  “Thanks!” Circe smiled weakly. “Do you have to get right back?”

  Grace smiled. “Not this minute. First … I want to tell you about something that you have to swear to God you won’t tell anyone else.”

  Circe crossed her heart and held her hand to God. “What is it?”

  “I can’t tell you his name. Security reasons, you understand.” Grace Courtland leaned forward and put her elbows on the desk. “But … I think I’ve bloody well fallen in love.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Over Scottish Airspace

  December 18, 2:09 P.M. GMT

  We flew to the outskirts of Glasgow and transferred to an unmarked black Barrier helo. The cabin was soundproofed. Once we were airborne, an officer came out of the cockpit. Medium height, with ramrod posture, a neatly trimmed mustache, and a black beret on which was the medieval castle emblem of Barrier. He gave Church a “now we’re in it” look, and Church nodded. The officer smiled at me and held out a small, hard hand.

  “Brigadier Ashton Prebble,” he said in a city Scots burr.

  “Joe Ledger, sir.”

  “Yes,” he drawled in a way that suggested he already knew who and what I was. “Pleasure to meet you, Captain Ledger. Glad to hear you’re back in the game. Timing couldn’t be more critical.”

  I snorted. “Nothing like jumping in with both feet.”

  Prebble had eyes like blueberries: dark and cold.

  Ghost looked him up and down but didn’t react in any challenging way to Prebble. I’ve started trusting the dog’s judgment of people. Prebble was “one of us.”

  “Ashton,” Church said, “would you bring Captain Ledger up to speed on where we’re going?”

  “Of course. We’re flying to Fair Isle,” said Prebble. The table between us was actually a computer, and he called up an aerial shot of a tiny speck of a place in the North Sea, halfway between Orkney and Shetland. “We’ve managed to quarantine the island and cut off all telephone, cell, and radio communication. We even shut down the Internet. Nothing’s getting off the island and we have gunboats in the waters.”

  “Has anyone noticed?” I asked.

  “They have, but we can play the Londo
n Hospital card for all manner of blackouts at the moment. Small mercies.”

  I glanced at Church. “No offense to the brigadier, but what’s on- and off-the-record here?”

  “Brigadier Prebble is in the family, Captain.”

  That was one of Church’s catchphrases. It meant that Prebble was in the select circle of people among whom there were no secrets. Well, none except those Church kept to himself.

  Prebble punched buttons that tightened the satellite image of the facility. “Fair Isle is five kilometers long, about three wide. It’s almost entirely surrounded by jagged cliffs. Seventy-three civilian residents, not counting the live-in staff at the facility. The civilians live in the southern third of the island, which is where the fertile ground is. They live in crofts along here.” He tapped the screen to indicate several small enclosed parcels of arable land, then rolled the curser to shift the image to the central and northern sections. “The northern part is largely rough grazing and rocky moorland. There’s a lighthouse on the south end, and a bird sanctuary.”

  I bent low and studied the aerial image. There was a compound at the northwest tip of the island. A handful of functional buildings surrounded by trees and a fence.

  “There are six buildings comprising the Fair Isle Research Endeavor—or FIRE, if you enjoy trite acronyms. According to public charter, the lab is there to study bacteria that affect fish and mollusks. And, before you ask, Captain, there really are some rare and even unique bacteria in those waters that do affect the marine life. It’s very good cover, and I believe a portion of the facility is actually dedicated to that purpose. Am I correct, Doctor?”

  Hu nodded. “About twenty percent of the work at the lab, and they’ve actually made some progress, too. Last two years have seen a four percent increase in clam harvests.”

  “Big whoop,” I said. “What about the other eighty percent?”

  “Ah,” said Prebble as he suppressed a smile. “According to what I’m not supposed to know, there are some very, very nasty bugs being studied there.”

  “Very nasty,” Hu agreed. “Baker and Schloss are working to develop a TRB, specifically an airborne strain of Ebola.”