A Pale Horse

by Wendy Alec

  “One-o-four Cheyne Walk, Chelsea.” The Bentley’s autopilot program illuminated the dashboard. “To Madam Julia,” Maxim said.

  * * *

  Adrian reclined in the backseat of the limousine. He looked up from the black file, then casually pressed the intercom.

  “Mr. President, sir,” Chastenay answered in his clipped English accent.

  “Check if a call from Jontil Purvis was placed to my brother’s handheld between eleven and eleven fifteen this evening.”

  “Yes, Your Excellency.” Chastenay entered “Jason De Vere” into the holographic visual database built into the dashboard of the limousine.

  Adrian returned to his reading. He looked up once more.

  “My instructions. Concerning my mother’s body.”

  Chastenay nodded. “The body goes directly to the Chapel of Rest. No autopsy. Our people are dealing with it.”

  Adrian nodded.

  Chastenay looked up from the database. “Only one call registered to Jason De Vere’s cellular phone the entire evening. From your handheld, Your Excellency. Your location. Chelsea Hospital. At precisely twenty-two fifteen this evening. No calls received on the house phone. Again, only your call.”

  Adrian frowned. “Surveillance on my brother.”

  “Already in hand, Your Excellency.”

  Adrian pressed a remote, and the glass divider slid up. He handed Chastenay the black file.

  “The three law firms mentioned in these papers—each holds a duplicate of this file. Deal with them in the normal fashion. And very discreetly.”

  “Of course, Your Excellency.

  Adrian stared out at the stylish interactive glass advertising panes of West London.

  “One more thing: Aveline. Aveline Biological Institute.”

  “Ivanovich owes us a favor,” Chastenay said.

  Adrian nodded. “Very good. No loose ends.”

  “Of course, Your Excellency. Arson is his speciality. By the time we reach Babylon all instructions shall be executed.”

  Adrian leaned back in the plush seat, deep in thought.

  The intercom buzzed.

  “Kurt Guber on satellite phone for you, Mr. President.”

  Guber’s precise German tones resonated through the limousine. “The transport arrived at Mont St. Michel at o-three-hundred hours. The cargo is now safely housed in biocontainment three. Level Subzero.”

  “Job well done, Guber.”

  Adrian settled back in his seat, a satisfied smile on his face. Everything was going precisely as planned. He glanced down at his watch. In less then twenty-one days, the entire human race would be under his total control.

  He was about to commit the ultimate crime. He was about to execute genetic Armageddon on an unsuspecting world.

  Operation Pale Horse was under way.

  Chapter Four

  Cheyne Walk, New Chelsea, London

  One a.m.

  The weather had deteriorated into what was fast becoming a virtual blizzard.

  Jason struggled against the gale-force winds and blinding snow, through Julia’s gate, and up the icy path.

  He looked up. Julia’s bedroom light was still blazing.

  Jason picked up the brass lion’s head and knocked loudly on the freshly painted door of Julia’s recently refurbished white flat-fronted Georgian house.

  Julia’s light clicked off.

  Jason paced impatiently up and down the small paved path, then knocked again. Loudly.

  Lights clicked on in a window of the adjoining house. A disheveled blonde glared out at him. Jason lifted his hand in apology, then bent his head to the mail slot.

  “Julia!” he hissed. “I know you’re in there. It’s a blizzard out here.”

  He looked back up toward the blonde, who had now been joined by a young man. They both stared suspiciously down at him through the driving snow.

  “Open the door, damn it!”

  A military van drew up outside, and a soldier with a submachine gun got out. Jason watched as Maxim displayed the special pass. The soldier nodded, saluted Jason, and headed back into the van, which roared off down the road.

  Jason rolled his eyes. He had never thought he would see the day. Curfews and military patrols in London.

  “Julia!” he shouted through the mail slot. “Julia, do you want me arrested?”

  There was a long silence, then the sound of keys jangling and a lock turning. The front door slowly opened.

  Julia stood barefoot, her duck-egg blue chenille dressing gown wrapped tightly around her. The blustery winds blew her blond hair and gown violently. She pushed her hair back from her face and stared up at Jason in sheer disbelief.

  The wind blew Christmas cards from the hall side table onto the carpet.

  “You’re letting the cold air in,” she snapped.

  Jason, now drenched as well as frozen, pushed unceremoniously past Julia’s petite frame and into the hallway and slammed the door. He pulled off his leather gloves and fiddled with his watch.

  “Look, Julia, I know I haven’t been in touch,” he said, wiping the snow off his face.

  “Not been in touch,” Julia muttered, rapidly regaining her composure. “Three and a half years and not a word, and now you have the audacity . . . ” She stared at him in disbelief. “And God knows, Jason, only you would do it—you have the audacity to pitch up on my doorstep at one in the morning, during the worst snowstorm in living memory.”

  She frowned.

  “How did you get past the curfew?” she added sus- piciously.

  She strode toward the kitchen and flicked on the touch-sensitive display glass. “Don’t bother to answer that.”

  The lights switched on.

  “Three and a half years, Jason.” Her mouth was a thin line. “Not so much as a text message, let alone a phone call.”

  He followed her into the kitchen.

  “You took the note from Nick I gave you the day after his funeral, and just disappeared.”

  She tapped the kitchen display pane, and immediately the electric kettle started to heat up. She turned, seething.

  “For three whole years. You and Lily are together one weekend out of four. But me? Not even a phone call.”

  “Look, Julia . . . ” Jason threw his hands up in frustration. “I should have known. What possessed me to think you’d be rational?”

  He strode back down the hall.

  “Rational—you want me to be rational!” she hissed.

  Jason turned. “Fine. I’ll be rational,” he snapped. “Mother’s dead. A heart attack.”

  Julia stared at him. Stunned into silence.

  “Earlier this evening.” He glared at her.

  Julia put her hand on his arm in shock. Jason stared down at the large diamond on her left ring finger and stiffened involuntarily.

  Callum Vickers. Julia’s British neurosurgeon fiancé. The wedding was six months away.

  “I . . . I’m sorry, Jason . . . I didn’t know,” she said softly.

  He looked up into Julia’s bewildered hazel gaze. He still loved her. He always would.

  Lily had been living in New York for the past two years. He took her out to dinner every Sunday night when he was home. They debated and chatted, were vocal about every subject under the sun. But Lily knew not to violate Jason’s unspoken rule. Any mention of Julia was verboten. And Jason deliberately never asked.

  He was out of his mind. He should never have come. He’d go to Wimpole Street himself.

  He gingerly removed Julia’s hand from his arm, retraced his steps, and opened the front door. He hesitated, then strode toward the Bentley in the driving rain.

  Julia ran after him in her slippers, slipping on the snow that was now rapidly turning to sleet. She stood in front of the gate, the wind lashing her face, snow mingling with her tears. The wind died down to an icy breeze.

  She waved feebly to Maxim, who extricated his huge feet from the Bentley, put up a large multicolored golfing umbrella, and handed it
to her.

  Julia took it and smiled weakly.

  “Thank you, Maxim.”

  The lights went on next door. Jason glared up at the nosy blonde, then sighed.

  “Look, Jason, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize Lilian was . . . oh, hell, listen, I was a jerk.”

  Jason grudgingly looked down into her honey brown eyes.

  “Truce?” She smiled up at him. “Still Earl Grey with Darjeeling?”

  She ran over to Maxim’s car window.

  “Maxim?”

  The Bentley window rolled down.

  “Come in for tea?”

  Maxim shook his head, pointing to a thermos flask on the passenger seat. He started unwrapping a bacon sandwich. “My emergency rations,” he declared. “I shall have to decline your generous offer, Madam Julia.”

  Julia leaned over and kissed his blushing cheek. “Lovely to see you, Maxim.”

  Jason followed Julia up the path to the house and through the hallway to the kitchen. He sat down heavily in one of the white leather kitchen chairs.

  “Where’s Callum?”

  “Hamburg,” she replied. “Neuro conference. He comes back Sunday. On Tuesday I fly out to New York. Exclusive interview.”

  Jason grunted. “Staying at the Gramercy apartment?”

  Julia nodded. She handed him the the cup of tea.

  “I didn’t come just because of Mother.” Jason sipped the tea, then set it down. “I need to talk to you, Julia,” he said quietly.

  “About Lily?”

  He shook his head. “About Nick.”

  Julia’s expression softened. “You’ve got to forgive yourself, Jason,” she said.

  She gently laid her free hand on his arm.

  “It’s been over three years since he died. You’ve got to move on.”

  “Look . . . ” Jason closed his eyes. “There’s no easy way to say this, so I’ll just spit it out.” He hesitated. “Nick’s alive.”

  Julia sighed. “Yes, of course he’s alive, Jason. He’ll always be alive in our hearts.”

  “No. I mean he’s alive. I saw him tonight . . . at the house.”

  The bone china teacup slipped out of Julia’s hand, smashing into smithereens on the kitchen floor.

  “That’s below the belt, Jason De Vere.” Julia knelt down and began picking up the broken pieces with trembling hands. “Even for you.” She looked up at him, seething.

  “Nick’s dead.”

  “Nick is alive, Julia.” Jason looked at her, unwavering. “Did you actually see his body at the funeral?”

  Julia rose from the floor, still staring straight at Jason. “What do you mean, alive?” she whispered.

  “Alive. I saw him. Flesh and blood. Forty-five minutes ago.”

  “You . . . you actually saw him?”

  Jason nodded. “Here in London, at the mansion.”

  “You actually saw him.” Julia put the broken china in the dustbin and sat shakily at the table. “I don’t believe it.”

  “Believe it.” Jason shrugged. “It’s true.”

  “I can’t believe it.” She pushed her hair off her forehead, bewildered.

  “God, Jason, we had a funeral for him.”

  Jason raised his hands. “That’s what I told him.” He rolled his eyes in frustration.

  “What did he say?”

  “Not much.” Jason shrugged. “Normal cryptic Nick. I fly to Dublin . . . ” He glanced down at his watch. “ . . . in a few hours to meet with him. He said he’d explain everything. You have to keep it secret, Julia.”

  She frowned. “Why? Why doesn’t he want anyone to know he’s alive?”

  Jason looked at her intently, then sighed. “I don’t know. He’s going to tell me everything once I’m in Ireland.” She opened her mouth. Jason placed his finger gently on her lips. He shook his head and sighed. “He must have good reason, Julia. We have to trust you.”

  “We,” Julia snapped. “You didn’t speak to him for over eight years when he was alive, and suddenly it’s ‘we.’” She glared.

  “Look, I don’t expect you to understand,” Jason said in exasperation. “I’m not sure I understand. Nick gave me this. And something else . . . for you.”

  He held out the silver and teal pen.

  Julia stared down at the Gothic-style engraving on the cap and barrel, then reached out and took it from him. Her eyes softened.

  “Oh, it’s beautiful,” she whispered. “Oh, Nicky.”

  Jason rolled his eyes in irritation. “It’s a camera, Jules,” he said. “Not a present. A very sophisticated camera.”

  “Oh,” Julia muttered weakly.

  “Nick said he needs you to photograph two documents. At the Redgrave Medical Library on Wimpole Street. Today. There are two sets of papers filed in its archive. Medical records.”

  He handed her the memory stick Nick had given him.

  “Those are the codes for the records. You have to photograph them using the pen.” He took the pen back from Julia and clicked the button. “Nick said whatever you film will be instantaneously transmitted back to Ireland.”

  “Ireland?” she repeated.

  Jason shrugged. “Julia, I told you, Nick was cryptic. You just have to click the pen. I can’t believe I’m actually doing this. Listen, as soon as you’ve photographed the documents, get out of there—your job’s done.”

  He handed her a card.

  “Nick said you’d need this. It’s a security clearance. I’ll see you at Mother’s funeral.”

  Jason strode to the door and turned back to face her. He nodded at the ring.

  “I’m glad you’re happy, Jules,” he said awkwardly. “With Callum, I mean.”

  And then he was gone, leaving Julia staring after him in the now softly falling snow.

  Chapter Five

  Sofitel Elite Hotel, Terminal 6, Heathrow Airport, London

  Jason looked at his watch. It was four thirty a.m. He was exhausted. He stared around the Sofitel Hotel’s deserted lobby.

  He removed the safe-deposit tag from his wallet and walked up to the blonde, foreign duty clerk behind the reception desk. He pushed the tag over the counter, then his new forged passport.

  He watched as the young woman scanned his photo, then pushed the passport under the reader.

  It illuminated blue. She pushed the passport back over the counter. He ran his fingers through his hair. He couldn’t believe he was doing this.

  She smiled up at him.

  “Good to have you back, Mr. Monaghan.”

  He breathed a sigh of relief.

  The clerk nodded to the concierge, who beckoned Jason back to the newly manufactured state-of-the-art security center behind the reception area. He took Jason’s security pass and held it up to a scanner. It reactivated. The number 787 appeared in flashing cobalt blue, and a steel door slid open. The concierge nodded and stayed outside the door.

  Jason walked into the security center, past hundreds of silver boxes flashing yellow. He scanned the numbers, then walked over to 787 and slid the key into the lock.

  The box slid open, and a slim steel drawer slid out. Jason stared down at the glass handheld phone. He picked it up and tapped the screen.

  One Aer Lingus boarding pass. Flight 204. Heathrow to Dublin. Terminal 6.

  He frowned. There was a second passport, also in the name of Alexander Monaghan.

  He studied the screen and instantly recognized the blue top-security clearance insignia reserved for top-level diplomats from Babylon. He raised his eyebrows. Nick had his contacts, all right.

  He picked up an old set of car keys, then slowly tucked the new phone in his inside pocket, unzipped his briefcase, put the car keys into the pocket, and walked out.

  “Thank you, Mr. Monaghan, sir.” The clerk pushed a digital passkey over the counter. “The key to your suite, sir. The usual.”

  Jason was about to pass when he realized how desperate he was for a shower and a shave. He also realized that under the regulations of the curfew,
Heathrow’s terminals did not open until six a.m. He took the suite keys and disappeared into the elevator.

  An hour and forty-five minutes later, he arrived back down in the lobby. He held out his ticket to the concierge, who nodded in the direction of the white and silver personal rapid-transport courtesy podcars to the newly built Terminal 6, directly outside the hotel’s glass and stainless steel revolving doors.

  When was the last time he’d had to board a commercial jet? He scowled. It must be over fifteen years ago. His own plush personal Gulfstream 7 was at that very moment parked at the largest of the newly opened Thames Estuary airports in London. Nick’s precautions had better be worth the inconvenience.

  He tore the second envelope open as he walked toward the podcar. Two breakfast vouchers for Gordon Ramsay Plane Food, Terminal 6. He suddenly realized that he was ravenous.

  Ten minutes later, he was standing at security in front of the iris scanner.

  “Thank you, Mr. Monaghan.”

  Jason grinned. How had his little brother organized that one? Jason De Vere’s irises were now the property of one Alexander Monaghan.

  He walked through the body scanner, into the recently opened Terminal 6. He’d read that it was erected on an area bigger than London’s Hyde Park. He stood staring up at the massive white steel “trees,” then scanned the shopping arena: Tiffany’s, Harrods—no wonder Julia had learned to love flying.

  He caught sight of the restaurant, then checked his watch. The sign outside Gordon Ramsay’s said it opened at six thirty a.m. Damn. Five minutes to go. He vaguely remembered the hotheaded London chef from Hell’s Kitchen, back in 2012. When he was younger, much younger, and still caught some TV. He yawned.

  A smartly dressed server escorted him to a cream-colored booth. He picked up the menu and stared idly through the glass panes, then back to the menu.

  Classic Breakfast. Coffee.

  He looked down. He couldn’t wipe the smile off his face.

  Nick De Vere was alive and well.

  And living in Ireland.

  * * *

  Welbeck Street

  London W1

  It was nine a.m. precisely. The rain and sleet had stopped. Julia parked her silver VW Beetle on Welbeck Street, pressed the remote locking mechanism, and walked around the corner to Wimpole Street.