A Pale Horse
Page 3
“Oh, God, Nick,” he gasped. “It’s been a rough night. Mother . . . she’s . . . ”
Nick nodded. “It’s okay, Jas,” he said softly. “I know. She’s dead. A heart attack.”
“How?” Jason rubbed his eyes wearily, then shook his head.
Nick looked back at him steadily. “You need to take the envelope, Jas.”
“Nick . . . ” Jason ran his palm over his face, feeling the old, familiar frustration rising. “You’re not back on the coke.”
Nick shook his head at his older brother, completely composed. “For once in your life, Jas, give me the benefit of the doubt.”
“Okay, Nicky.” Jason held up both hands. “The benefit of the doubt.”
Nick held out the envelope again.
Jason frowned, took the envelope from him, and reluctantly tucked it in his pocket.
“An unmarked car will pick you up from here at four a.m. sharp. It’ll be one of ours.”
Jason stared at him in bemusement.
“Take out the sim card before you leave. No X-pads. No cabs. You’re under surveillance. Your handheld, transaction data, GPS—Guber and his thugs are monitoring your every move.”
“Guber? What’s he got to do with this?”
“We’ll explain everything once you arrive.”
“Where, Nick? Arrive where?”
“Ireland. The northwest of Ireland. It’s all in the envelope.”
Jason took another step back, scrunching the empty cigarette pack in his fist.
Nick’s eyes narrowed. “You stopped smoking years ago.”
Jason shook his head. “Not mine,” he grunted. “Dad’s hidden stash. It’s been quite an evening.”
Jason scanned Nick up and down for the fourth time in as many minutes.
Faded Levi’s. Brown leather jacket. Satchel. Same sun-bleached hair. Much longer, though, than the last time he’d seen Nick—now it skimmed the top of his shoulders. And he was tanned.
Nick De Vere still looked the pretty celebrity boy, except that the last time Jason had seen him he was gaunt, his body consumed by AIDS. He had filled out. In fact, he was looking like his old self.
“You’re looking good, Nick,” he said awkwardly.
Nick grinned. “More than I can say for you.”
Jason gave a grudging half smile. He was fully aware that his 48 years looked more like 55. But vanity was not Jason De Vere’s Achilles’ heel. He was still ruggedly handsome but well worn, his tanned face creased and the cut of his cropped, silvering hair unbecomingly severe.
He paused, then frowned. “How did you get through the curfew?”
“Same as you.” Nick held up a neon orange card. “Special pass. Except mine’s a flawless forgery.”
Nick handed Jason a silver and teal pen.
Jason frowned. It was a Conway Stewart Westminster —hellishly expensive.
“It’s a fake,” Nick said. “A very good fake. It’s a secret camera. For Julia. We need her to do something for us, Jas. To go to the Redgrave Medical Registry on Wimpole Street.”
“Wimpole Street,” Jason muttered, his mind racing.
“We need her to photograph two sets of documents,” Nick continued. He handed Jason a memory stick.
“Details of the files, for Julia.”
Jason slowly took the memory stick from Nick’s hand.
“Tell her you saw me. Whatever she photographs will be transmitted straight through to Ireland.”
“What’s in Ireland?” Jason held up the envelope. “The Ark of the Covenant?” He gave a wry smile.
Nick looked at him without a glimmer of humor.
The sound of voices echoed from the front hall. Nick looked around, uneasy.
“I can’t stay, Jas. Adrian’s on his way here from the hospital.”
Jason stared at him, completely bewildered.
“Adrian,” Nick said softly. “I know who he is, Jason.”
Jason’s mind raced back to Mackenzie’s disclosures.
“You’re not . . . ” He looked at Nick incredulously. “You’re not seriously trying to tell me you believe the old professor?” He shook his head in disbelief
Jason fell silent. Strangely troubled.
“We’ll talk. In Ireland. I promise.”
Jason nodded. “We’ll talk. In Ireland.”
He put his hand on Nick’s shoulder, then clasped him fiercely to his chest.
They stood completely still, eldest and youngest brother embracing in the snow.
Finally, Jason released Nick. Nick walked toward the back gate. Jason noticed a slight limp in his left leg.
“Your leg . . . ”
“From the accident. By the way, Jas, Maxim’s fifth column. One of us,” he said softly. He punched in the code to the gate. “Brothers,” he whispered. “For eternity.”
“Brothers,” Jason echoed.
“I love you, Jason.” Nick turned. “Always have.”
Jason stared blankly after Nick as he disappeared out the back gate. He had never felt so good but, at the same time, so shaken in his entire life.
There was something different about Nick. Something indefinable—he couldn’t put his finger on it. All he knew was that, against all his misgivings, he liked it.
“Love you, too, Nicky,” he whispered. His eyes watered. “Always have.”
But Nick had already vanished into the falling snow.
Chapter Two
Dublin Airport, Fingal, Ireland
December 2024
IKE AND THE ALIENS: THE URBAN LEGEND
From July 13 to July 29, 1952, the world was stunned by newspaper headlines and photos of a series of unidentified flying objects appearing repeatedly over the United States Capitol in Washington, D.C.
Four months later, World War II hero Gen. Dwight Eisenhower was elected president.
Testimony by former from New Hampshire state representative Henry McElroy verifies that in May 2010, McElroy viewed a document, addressed to President Eisenhower and prepared by a governmental department, briefing him on the current situation and the history of UFOs on planet Earth.
The document advised Eisenhower that aliens existed on planet Earth and that a meeting with representatives of the aliens could be arranged. He was further advised that security would not be a problem, since the aliens had shown no hostility toward the human race.
On February 24, 1954, President Eisenhower reportedly made a secret trip to Muroc Airfield (now Edwards Air Force Base), in the California desert, accompanied by generals and four eminent leaders in the religious, economic, and media sectors.
Urban legend has it that while at Muroc Airfield, Eisenhower witnessed the landing of an extraterrestrial craft. Several extraterrestrial beings emerged to converse with the president and his generals. A researcher named Gabriel Green, on the base at the time, stated that he had earlier seen five UFOs fly in overhead and land. A retired Air Force test pilot stated that he had seen the UFOs under guard in the hangar. He described two as cigar shaped and three as disks.
The foundations were laid for a treaty between the United States and the extraterrestrial beings, which would be cemented less than a year later.
The treaty was known as the Greada Treaty.
An exchange was agreed. The aliens would furnish the United States with advanced technology and would assist in technological development that would allow the USA to maintain technological supremacy over the Soviet Union.
It was also agreed that the United States would allow the visitors to abduct a small number of humans, on a limited and periodic basis, for the purpose of medical examination and monitoring of human development only, with the stipulation that the humans would not be harmed, would be returned to their point of abduction, and would retain no memory of the event. Reporters were fed the cover story that the president needed to see a dentist.
On the night in question, events took a strange turn. The Associated Press reported: “President Eisenhower died tonight of a heart attack in Palm Springs.”
Two minutes later, the report was retracted. The AP reported that Eisenhower was still alive.
Decades later according to urban legend, it became apparent that the aliens had deceived Eisenhower. The U.S. government received far less than the technology agreed on, and abductions increased a thousandfold.
The Greada Treaty had been broken.
Disclosure of the aliens’ existence would mean the inevitable exposure of the U.S. government’s covenant of death: the exchange of human software for extraterrestrial hardware.
Exposure of the U.S. government’s complicity would result in revolution—a risk the government could never afford to take. As of today, the existence of an extraterrestrial race continues to remain undisclosed.
—Alex Lane Fox
Staff writer, New York Times
Alex yawned, tapped his glass X-pad, then glanced down at the time. It was past midnight. He walked over to the window of the nondescript airport hotel and gazed out at Dublin Airport’s recently completed new runway.
It was 12, 008 feet long. Postponed in December 2008—a result of the 2008–09 global financial crisis and falling consumer demand for air travel—it was recommissioned in 2020. Estimated cost: two billion euros. Actual cost: two billion eight hundred million euros.
He ran his fingers through his thick, dark shoulder-length hair in frustration. With an investigative journalist’s ability to retain inane trivia, he had long ago discovered that the devil was indeed in the details.
Which brought him back to the present: the Greada Treaty.
Alex stared down for the tenth time that evening at the cutout of the now dog-eared article on Eisenhower’s rumored meeting with ETs in the UK tabloid the Daily Mail, dated February 15, 2012.
Someone had shut the story right down twelve years ago—someone powerful. But Alex Lane Fox intended to get to the truth, whatever that may be.
He would finish his report first thing in the morning and file it before driving straight across to Easkey on the northwest coast, to meet Dylan Weaver.
And Nick.
Nick . . . Alex couldn’t wipe the grin off his face.
If he hadn’t seen Nick last night in Dublin, he wouldn’t have believed it himself. Incredible as it seemed, it was an indisputable fact.
Nicholas De Vere was alive.
Chapter Three
De Vere Mansion, London
December 2024
“Ahem, sir, your brother is waiting for you in the kitchen, Master Jason.”
Jason turned. Maxim, Lilian’s valet, who had raised him, stood at the back door.
Jason studied Maxim warily.
Maxim looked back at him, inscrutable. Jason walked inside.
Adrian De Vere, President of the European Union Superstate, stood at the kitchen table, looking the epitome of “presidential.” Expensive tailored suit, fading Caribbean tan, chiseled movie-star features, not one raven hair out of place. His manicured fingers toyed idly with the blue card attached to the whisky bottle from Lilian.
Neil Travis, his personal bodyguard, and two ex-SAS men paced restlessly in the hall.
“You okay, Jas?” Adrian’s piercing steel blue eyes surveyed Jason. “You look pretty rough. It’s freezing out there, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
“Just having a cigarette,” Jason muttered.
“You don’t . . . ”
“Still don’t,” Jason replied. “One from Dad’s old stash. It’s been quite a night.”
“I thought I heard voices.”
Jason held up his glass cell phone. “Purvis,” he lied. “She’ll liase with Rosemary about the funeral arrangements.”
“It was peaceful, Jas.” Adrian scanned Lilian’s card. “Mother’s passing.”
Jason nodded. Adrian felt in his top pocket and took out his cell phone. He tapped the flexible willow glass display screen. “Copy of Mother’s death certificate.”
Jason stared down at his own phone screen as the certificate appeared. “Cause of death: acute myocardial infarction.”
“She had a good life, Adrian,” he said softly.
“She did, Jas.” Adrian smiled. “She had a really good life.”
He looked down at his watch. Distracted. “Look, I’m sorry, but I have to get back. To Babylon. Tonight. Second session of the bailout talks starts at eight a.m. Then final session moves to Normandy Sunday night. I’ll fly out to Mother’s funeral from the abbey.”
Jason nodded. “I’ll stay a few days and wrap things up.”
They clasped hands.
“Thanks, Jason. You’re a brick.” Adrian watched as Jason clipped the Conway pen into his shirt pocket, then laid his cell phone on the kitchen table, next to an unfashionable black accordion file.
Adrian’s gaze fell down onto James De Vere’s crest.
“Mother’s papers,” Jason mumbled. “Found them in the safe. I was going through them. You know she always preferred paper to the I- and X-pads.”
He could feel his face turning red. He had always been a lousy liar, and he knew it. So did Adrian.
Adrian studied him, then lazily opened the black file. He picked up the grubby envelope containing the wad of blue paper from Professor Hamish Mackenzie.
His cell phone purred.
“Yes, I’m leaving now.”
Adrian removed the letter, scanned the bank account numbers, then flipped through the grimy blue-lined pages.
“It’s garbage, Adrian. Not worth the paper it’s written on. Some senile old professor’s ramblings.”
“It was in the safe?”
“Addressed to Father.”
Adrian studied the hurried, untidy cursive scrawl.
I have followed the genetic clone’s rise intently since that day in 1998.
In December of that year, he graduated with five A-levels from Gordonstoun.
In 2002 he received his B.A. (Hons) in Philosophy, Politics, and Economics from Oxford.
In 2005, after two years at Princeton, he spent a year specializing in Arab studies in Georgetown.
From 2006 to 2010, he served as a director in the family business. Asset management.
He became chancellor of the exchequer in 2010.
In 2012 he became British prime minister.
Slowly Adrian turned the last page. Jason watched as Adrian read.
This is the secret I have held for over three decades.
His father was James, his mother Lilian.
The clone incubated in the Jesuit laboratory all those decades ago is none other than the present prime minister of the United Kingdom.
Adrian De Vere.
Adrian stared for a long moment at Hamish Mackenzie’s scrawled signature, then finally looked back up at Jason. His gaze was inscrutable as ever. Finally, he spoke.
“You were going to show me this drivel?”
“Not worth the paper it’s written on . . . ” Jason found himself lying a second time.
“You don’t mind if I take it with me?”
“I’ve got no use for it.” Jason shrugged. “Do what- ever you want, pal. It’s that or the fireplace. Didn’t think you’d give it a second thought. It was stashed with a pile of marriage certificates, death certificates. You know Mother; she kept everything. Even our kindergarten reports.”
“James De Vere and his Illuminus friends,” Adrian murmured. “Conspiracy theorists to the last.” He smiled slightly. “Jason.” He embraced his elder brother affectionately. “You’re a good man.”
He picked up the black file, strode down the hallway, opened the door, and walked out without a backward glance. The door shut behind him.
Jason watched Adrian walk through the gate and get into the black limousine purring outside. He walked back into the hallway—straight into Maxim.
“Your coat, Master Jason.”
Maxim held out Jason’s overcoat. Jason looked at him strangely but took the coat.
“And your gloves, Master Jason. Inclement weather is predicted.”
A huge clap of thunder sounded overhead. Maxim raised his eyebrows.
“Forgive me, Master Jason, but I took the liberty of parking Madam Lilian’s new Bentley outside.” His brows knitted. “May I strongly suggest that you abandon your phone.”
Jason looked at the valet even more strangely, then handed him the glass cell phone. Maxim gave a satisfied smile, then dismantled it and laid it on the hall console table.
“The Bentley is secure. I swept it.”
Jason frowned. “You swept it?”
“For bugs, Master Jason,” Maxim declared. “I have in my possession my own portable X-ray machine for checking the insides of objects and walls, a time-domain reflectometer, frequency scanner, nonlinear junction detector. I conduct regular magnetic anomaly inspections: thermal imaging, X-ray, radiographic, and fluoroscope inspections.”
Sleet bucketed down as they walked toward the Bentley. Maxim opened the car door for Jason.
“By the way, Master Jason, I took the liberty of duplicating Master James De Vere’s files before Master Adrian arrived. You will find them on the backseat, on a memory stick.”
“Damn it, Maxim.” Jason glared at his old servant, then settled back into the plush gray leather seat. The door closed automatically. He picked up the memory stick and tucked it in his wallet, then took the envelope from his pocket and tore it open.
He studied the contents. One passport in the name of Alexander Monaghan. A safe-deposit box key. A ticket for the 8:25 a.m. Aer Lingus flight from Heathrow to Dublin.
Jason slipped the passport and key into his pocket, and the ticket inside his wallet.
Maxim got into the front seat and attached a neon orange curfew pass, courtesy of Adrian De Vere, to the windshield.
“Maximus Basil Pinkerton, did you know Nick was alive?” Jason growled. Maxim stared straight ahead.
“On second thought, don’t answer that,” Jason sighed.
“May I inquire as to our destination, Master Jason?”
“I don’t know what the hell’s going on,” Jason growled, “but I have the distinct feeling you already know exactly where I’m going.”
Maxim twirled his mustache and smiled broadly. He placed both his enormous hands firmly on the steering wheel.
“Start,” he commanded. The Bentley’s voice-activated ignition system roared to life.