Gault took a step forward and Toys noticed how his friend’s eyes had flared with interest at the word “kings.” For years Gault had written that word in doodles or used variations on it for passwords. Gault had never explained why.
“You speak of advisors to kings,” Gault said. “Is that what you are? Kings?”
“Yes,” said the American. “We are the Seven Kings of the New World Trust. Sons of Sargon through a thousand generations of men, the fruit of the Tree of Empire. Foretold in the Book of Revelation.”
Gault shared a look with Toys.
“‘Seven’ Kings?” Gault tilted his chin toward the empty throne.
“Seven we have been; seven we will be again,” said another voice. A man at the far side of the table leaned forward. Toys recognized him as an Israeli politician. “Seven is the sacred number of the Goddess.”
“Though, admittedly,” the American said, “we are one member short at the moment.”
“Kings of what?” asked Toys.
The Israeli and the American smiled as if they were waiting for that question.
“We are not kings of countries,” said the Israeli. “Each of us embraces a specific path, a specific view, and we claim kingship over everything that falls within the scope of this view.” He stood up and in a bold voice declared, “I am the King of War. No gun is fired, no border crossed, no weapons bought or sold but that I am involved. War and the threat of war cultivate commerce and cause innovation to advance by leaps and bounds. War evolves our society and defines our species.”
It sounded crazy, the words childishly grandiose, and yet the way in which it was said made the smile die on Toys’ mouth. He looked at this man and in a flash of insight believed him. Toys knew that, all phrasing aside, what this man said was the truth.
The Saudi stood. “I am the King of Lies. Truth is the clay in my hands, and information is the most potent force on earth. Nations rise and fall on what is said and what is believed. A whisper in the ear, a story leaked to the press, a piece of information seeded to an intelligence analyst can change the course of world events.”
Toys heard Gault catch his breath.
The Russian stood. “I am the King of Famine. The need for food is a universal constant, and no one takes a bite or lets water pass their lips unless I allow it. Fortunes are made from plenty as they are from want. I am both plenty and want.”
Another man stood and spoke in a cultured Italian accent: “I am the King of Gold. Money is the blood of this world. The lack of it destroys people and tears kings from thrones; the excess of it corrupts saints. World economies are mine to bend and twist and crush.”
A Frenchman stood. “I am the King of Thieves. My weapons are stocks and banks and loans and the flow of debt between peoples and corporations and governments.”
Finally the American stood and spoke in a booming voice: “I am the King of Fear. When a bomb goes off, it has my kiss upon it. Terror stirs the pot of chaos, and in chaos the Seven Kings thrive. I arm the faithful and the fanatical. I allow the disenfranchised a voice. Not to serve their ends, but to serve mine. Ours.”
Then all of them together raised their voices and roared out, “We are the Seven Kings. We are chaos!”
They sat, but the echo of their words punched all the walls and pounded Gault and Toys like physical blows. No one spoke until the last echo faded to a whisper.
The American smiled a devil’s smile. “And we would like you to join us, Sebastian. We have an opening at our table.”
“Opening?” murmured Gault faintly. His eyes were fever bright.
“We would like you to be our new King of Plagues.”
“Jesus,” hissed Toys, and grabbed Gault’s arm, but Gault laid his hand on Toys’ wrist and slowly pushed him off.
“The King of Plagues,” echoed Gault. He looked at each man … each King. He looked at their thrones and then at the empty throne, and as he did so he touched the bandages that still covered his ruined and remade face.
Toys leaned closed and whispered to him, “Be careful, Sebastian … . This is too weird … even for us.”
But Gault was not listening.
“What do you say, Sebastian?” asked the American. “We need a man of vision, a man who understands the power of self-interest. We need a man who grasps the many wonderful and life-changing potentials that wait in the RNA and proteins of a virus. Someone who is brave enough to use these pathogens like fists.” He paused and every eye in the room was on Gault. “Are you that man?”
Gault took an absent step forward, and then another, and a third until he stood at the edge of the table. He rested his fingertips on the cool polished wood and stared for a long minute down at his own distorted reflection.
Then, slowly, he raised his eyes and looked at the assembly of Kings.
“Yes,” he said in a voice that was more deadly than smallpox. “Oh … yes!”
Toys felt a pain in his heart as if some unseen hand had stabbed him. He looked at the rapt expression on Gault’s face, and then he closed his eyes.
No. Oh, Sebastian … no.
He did not—dared not—say it aloud.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Fair Isle Research Endeavor
The Shetland Isles
December 18, 2:38 P.M. GMT
We landed behind a stand of oak trees, scattering goats and gulls. Once the door was open I peered through the window just in time to see another chopper set down, a muscular Merlin HC3 transport chopper. The doors slid open and a dozen Barrier agents in SARATOGA HAMMER chemical warfare suits deployed and ran to formation past the outside edge of the rotor wash.
Prebble, Hu, and Dietrich climbed out of our chopper, but Church shifted to stand between me and the door.
“Hold on,” he said. His dark eyes, hidden behind the tinted lenses of his glasses, were like black marbles. “I’m sorry to have cut your vacation short.”
“No, you’re not,” I said.
“No, I’m not,” he admitted. “You’ve been through a lot and I’m throwing you into the fire. Dr. Sanchez tells me that it’s too soon, that you need more time to heal. Tell me if I’m making a mistake.”
I wanted to laugh. We both knew I’d rather be back in my hotel room in London. Or in the middle of the Sahara. Anywhere but here. Sometimes the absurd nature of what I do hits me. Here I was, a former Baltimore detective still young enough to kick some ass in a pickup b-ball game; a guy with a father who just won a nail-biter of an election to become the new mayor; a brother who was also a cop as well as a husband and a father to my only nephew; a guy who should have been working cases back home and maybe scouting for a wife of my own. With all that, here I was pulling on a combat-modified hazmat suit and gun belt because I was about to enter a building filled with some of the deadliest and more virulent diseases known to modern man, a building held by a lunatic who was threatening to release those diseases. A man I’d almost certainly have to kill and who might be part of a huge secret society trying to tear down the world.
How the hell did that become normal for me? Or for anyone?
Was it too soon? How could I—or anyone in my position—answer that question?
“You didn’t make a mistake,” I said.
He nodded but didn’t move.
“Is there something else?” I asked.
For a moment Church’s mouth was a tight and lipless line of tension, almost a snarl. “I didn’t want to tell you this in front of the others. I debated waiting until after you finished with the lab, but I didn’t think you’d thank me for that.”
“That’s ominous as shit, Boss. Spill it.”
“There’s been another incident.”
He told me about the explosions at Area 51. I could feel my stomach turning to icy slush, and there was a roaring in my ears that wasn’t the wind.
“Lucky Team, the investigators, the staff at the base,” Church said. “Gone. All of them.”
“And Echo Team? Top and Bunny—?”
&nb
sp; He shook his head. “We lost two. Sergeants Gomez and Henderson. The rest were outside. Scrapes and bruises, but no other casualties. They are, however, the only survivors. Everyone else at the base is dead.”
“I-I can’t believe it,” I stammered.
I didn’t know Henderson, but Ricky Gomez had been in active training around the time I took off for Europe. Nice kid from Brooklyn. His brother played single-A ball for the Cyclones. Now Ricky and Henderson and all the others were dust. Just like the four thousand at the London. Ash and bones. I could hear something ripping behind my eyes and a bloody haze clouded my vision. I had to force my voice to sound normal. I used the Cop voice, not the Killer’s.
“What do we know?” I demanded.
“Next to nothing. Nellis is sending a team and I’ve scrambled our people from the casino. We have Jerry Spencer’s number two, Bess Tanaka, out there working the scene.” Church paused. “So far no one has come forward to claim responsibility.”
“Has to be the Kings.”
“Probably,” he said, “but the unfortunate truth is that they’re not our only enemies.”
“What’s our play?”
“That’s being determined now. I’ve advised the President to keep this out of the media for as long as possible; otherwise the whole base will become a circus. The Internet and cable talk shows are already buzzing with conspiracy theories about the Hospital. This would be gasoline on that fire. We may have to spin a cover story to make it work.”
I nodded. “How the fuck does someone take out an entire military base? I mean, seriously—a secret and ultrahigh-security military base?”
“I can only think of one way,” Church said, his face turning once more to a mask of cold iron.
I looked at him and then nodded. He was right; there was no other way.
“God damn it.” They had to have someone inside.
“I’m sorry I had to dump this on you right before a mission, but I knew you’d want to know.”
I nodded.
“Do you want me to pull you from this?”
“Is that a serious question?” I said.
A ghost of a smile crossed his face. “I suppose not.”
He offered me his hand.
“Then good hunting, Captain.”
We shook, and he stepped aside to allow me to exit the bird.
Chapter Twenty-eight
The State Correctional Institution at Graterford
Graterford, Pennsylvania
December 18, 2:39 P.M. EST
“I’m sorry there isn’t more,” said Dr. Stankeviius. “Apparently the ‘maximum’ aspect of the security here at Graterford doesn’t extend to my office.” As he said it he shot a withering look at the warden.
Rudy Sanchez saw the barb go home. Certainly no love lost between these two, he thought.
“The records for this prisoner are sparse at best,” Rudy said aloud. “Is there any explanation for the omissions, Warden?”
The warden, a block-faced former state trooper named Wilson, spread his hands. “It’s a mystery.”
“A mystery,” Rudy said quietly, establishing and maintaining direct eye contact.
Wilson shifted in his chair. “Naturally I’ve initiated a full-scale investigation.”
“Naturally. But, tell me, Warden, what does that investigation comprise?”
“Sorry?”
“A full-scale investigation—what exactly will you do to try and locate the missing files?”
“I … I mean we will interview the staff, and review the duty logs … .” His voice trailed off.
Rudy removed a small notebook and jotted something. Wilson’s eyes were fixed on Rudy as he did so, but he didn’t let Wilson see what he wrote. The note read: Get car inspected.
Wilson immediately launched into a more detailed explanation of what would be done. Computer searches, extra staff brought in to scour the filing cabinets to check for misfiling, a complete search of Nicodemus’s cell, follow-ups with all current staff, and interviews with trustees and guards who worked in the medical unit during or after the murder of Jesus Santiago, the young Latino who had been mutilated with the numbers 12/17.
Rudy listened quietly. Then he wrote: Feed Joe’s cat. And closed his notebook.
Wilson was sweating.
“Thank you, Warden,” said Rudy. “I’m sure you are doing everything within your powers.” He leaned ever so slightly on the word “your.” He had no desire to roast anyone over a bureaucratic fire, but at the same time he despised incompetence, particularly in jobs related to health or security. He wasn’t fond of it before joining the DMS, and now he knew firsthand how sloppy work could lead to spilled blood.
Rudy turned to Dr. Stankeviius. “Doctor, you indicated to me that you believe Nicodemus to have unusual knowledge of the events taking place in London. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Has Nicodemus admitted such knowledge?”
“No, as I mentioned in my report—”
“He mentioned the Seven Kings, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Just the once?”
“Yes.”
Rudy did not mention the graffiti on the wall of the hospital or on the door of the murdered family. Instead he asked, “Has Nicodemus admitted to any of the crimes for which he’s been convicted or suspected?”
“No.”
“Has he denied involvement?”
“For Jesus Santiago? His response was obscure and evasive. I could not encourage him to say yes or no in simple terms. On the other hand, he flat out denied that he had been talking with Santiago; and the witness to that encounter—a guard—later died of a self-inflicted gunshot wound.”
“You don’t have any medical records for Nicodemus,” Rudy said. “Why is that?”
“There was a fire in the prison medical center,” said the warden. “Fire marshal says that it was rats chewing on the wires. They found a charred rat carcass. We lost a couple of years’ worth of records.”
Bullshit, thought Rudy.
Stankeviius nodded. “Much of our testing equipment and supplies were smoke and water damaged. The fire also damaged the CT scanner.”
“And the copies of the medical reports that should be in the file?”
Neither man answered. Rudy sat back and looked at them for several quiet seconds. Both men looked ashamed and nervous.
They’re both scared out of their minds. Dios mio! What in hell is going on here?
“I’m sorry, gentlemen, but I’m having a hard time understanding this. This is a maximum-security prison. A model for such prisons, as I understand it. You have a large staff, modern equipment, plenty of resources, and you’re telling me that you are unable to compile even a basic medical and psychological profile on a convict who has been incarcerated here for over fifteen years? One-room jails in third-world countries can do at least that much. I hesitate to use the word ‘obfuscation’ here, but—”
“Now wait a minute, Dr. Sanchez,” Stankeviius began. “We’re not doing this deliberately—”
“No? So, it’s just sloppy procedure?”
Stankeviius clamped his mouth shut.
“That’s unfair,” Wilson said tightly. “We’ve had a string of bad luck.”
Rudy eyed him coolly. “Bad luck is what happens when you buy scratch-off lottery tickets, Warden. As I understand it, it is not a factor in the American penal system, particularly at this level.”
Both men stared at him for a second; then their eyes faltered and they looked away. Rudy sighed.
They’re too scared to even properly defend their actions. Interesting.
“Very well,” said Rudy. “I’d like to see the prisoner now.”
The doctor and the warden exchanged a brief, defeated look. Finally the warden got heavily to his feet.
“Of course, Dr. Sanchez.”
Interlude Eighteen
The Seven Kings
Four Months Ago
Champagne was serv
ed and they all toasted; even the Saudi took a glass, winking to Gault as he did so.
Toys closed on Gault to whisper in his ear, “What the hell are you doing? We don’t even know what we’re getting into here. We just got out of a mess … . Do you want to walk into another one?”
Gault looked at him, his eyes hard and steady. “I know precisely what I’m doing, Toys. If you’re scared, you can leave any time you want.”
Toys took a step back as if he’d been slapped. “What are you—?”
The American cleared his throat and waved everyone to their seats. Gault and Toys remained standing, though now they stood a few feet apart. Toys looked both surprised and concerned, but Gault smiled and patted him on the cheek.
“It’s all going to be fine,” he said quietly. “You’ll see.”
When everyone was seated, the American pressed a section of the tabletop and it slid open to reveal a computer keyboard. He tapped some keys and the monitors on the wall flickered on to show a series of buildings in different cities.
“First,” he said, “let us show you our world. No secrets.”
“No secrets,” murmured Gault.
“This is the world of the Seven Kings.”
On the screens, one after another, buildings erupted into flame. School buses exploded, throwing small fire-wreathed shapes into the street. Jetliners slammed into tall towers, and those towers collapsed, pancaking down and filling the streets with deadly gray clouds. Suicide bombers walked into theaters and train stations. Kings and presidents were caught in indiscretions. Princesses were killed in car wrecks. Drug companies released medications that proved to be more dangerous than the diseases they were designed to combat. Flu epidemics sprang out of nowhere. It rolled on and on. A symphony of destruction that was at once shocking in its scope and elegant in its subtlety.
As each new image played, one of the Kings would tell the story behind it. Misinformation, disinformation, and the placement of carefully selected truths. Fuel thrown onto the fire of religious hatred. Ethnic wars funded by private dollars. Useful assassinations, and even more useful attempted assassinations.
The King of Plagues Page 19
