A Pale Horse

by Wendy Alec

  Chessler’s eyes glowed with a strange luminosity.

  “Its powers were staggering, Jason. We only scratched the surface before its disappearance. I have looked into my own future. As did your father, James De Vere.”

  “My father used this technology?”

  Chessler nodded. “In the 1960s, it was passed from elite to elite, to preserve our own families. It foretold the future probablility of Nine-eleven in the early 1990s, the rise of militants in the nineties. And seven years ago, it predicted a ninety-nine percent probability of an evacuation of the human race. An unprecedented evacuation—of the Christians. Then it disappeared.”

  “You don’t actually believe this!” Jason stared skeptically at Chessler.

  “Oh, but I’m afraid that I, along with the majority of the economic and political leaders of the Western world, do, my boy. When this occurs the ensuing situation will be untenable.”

  Jason rolled his eyes. “Well, then, the extremely unlikely event of their disappearance should suit your purposes, right?” He took a slurp of coffee. “No more resistance.”

  Chessler squirmed in his chair. “Not entirely. In the unlikely event that the transportation of two billion Christians occurs, it could throw the entire ten kingdoms into chaos.”

  He lowered his voice. “It could start a world revolution against the one-world government—make the greatest case for Christianity since the resurrection.”

  Jason stared skeptically at his uncle. “If over a billion people got transported into the ether, with credible witnesses on hand, it would be the biggest news coup in the world.”

  “Precisely. Then you understand the situation, Jason —which is that we have no option.” He shrugged his shoulders.

  Jason frowned. “What do you mean, you have ‘no option’?”

  “We intend to execute a false-flag operation.”

  Jason’s grin evaporated. This man was serious.

  “An event that will have all the appearance of a weaponized bioterror attack in North America, China, Russia. A pandemic.

  “Of course, dear boy, it won’t be real.” Chessler looked disarmingly into Jason’s eyes “But it has to give every appearance of a pandemic: martial law, quarantine centers, mandatory vaccination . . . ”

  “You’re talking about body bags flown in at night . . . ” Jason’s jaw set. “Making it look like billions of people have died of ebola, smallpox, or whatever.”

  “Precisely. You always got to the crux of a problem, Jason. Your mother’s acumen. If the Rapture occurs, no one will ever know. VOX will communicate the event to the masses. Exclusive coverage. Media blackout except for VOX networks.”

  Jason looked into his coffee and stirred it distractedly. “You’re talking about a cover-up of immeasurable proportions.”

  “Correct again. The Rapture never occurred. Millions of Christians died with the rest of the population—a tragic bioterror event that we, the powers that be, shall blame on China.”

  Jason looked Chessler straight in the eye. “I’m a newsman, Uncle Xavier, not a politician.”

  He rose to his feet.

  “Apart from a faint, deeply submerged but still smoldering belief in liberty, fraternity, and plain old down-to-earth decency, I can assure you as a newsman and as their friend that if Jontil Purvis and Polly Mitchell ever disappear into some etheric third dimension, transported to heaven or wherever it is they think they’re going, I will make it my personal mission to see that the entire Western and Eastern media world disseminates the information within the hour.”

  Chessler looked at him with an inscrutable expression. “I have your answer, then.”

  Jason undid his tie and pulled it from around his neck. “Yep,” he said, rolling the tie into a neat cylinder. “You have my answer.”

  Chessler stood up and gave Jason a relaxed smile. “I’ll see you at your mother’s funeral tomorrow, dear boy.”

  * * *

  Chessler watched Jason walk through the elegant London hotel and out through the revolving door into New Piccadilly.

  Closing his eyes in agony, Chessler undid his cufflink and stared down at the warlock’s mark on his wrist. The glowing brand smoldered on his skin, then disappeared. He rubbed his wrist gently.

  “As I thought,” he murmured. “Jason De Vere is fast becoming a liability.” He turned to Sinclair. “Adrian De Vere signs the share transfer from his mother’s holding stock tonight. Into his name.”

  Sinclair nodded. “The takeover will be completed in ten days exactly. You and Adrian De Vere will have the controlling interest in VOX.”

  “Jason De Vere will regret the day he ever crossed us.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  The De Vere Mansion, Belgrave Square, London

  The mansion drawing room was shoulder to shoulder with the who’s who of British and American society, gathered for Lilian’s funeral wake. Jason sighed. An hour had flown by, and he had tried every trick in the proverbial book to get a sample of Adrian’s DNA.

  Any moment now, Adrian would be making his farewells. Jason edged his way across the room to where Adrian was engrossed in conversation with the British foreign minister.

  “Cigar, pal? In the library?”

  Adrian studied him for a moment. “No thanks, Jas.” He looked at Jason steadily. “Not in the mood.”

  Damn. The cigar butt was now out of the question. In the past two hours, Adrian had refused his usual mineral water, tea, coffee, and now the cigar.

  It was almost as though he were aware of Jason’s intention. Jason had only one more trick up his sleeve. Ah! There was a footman, sounding the gong. Four other footmen, led by Maxim, entered carrying champagne and mimosas.

  The gathering hushed as one. Jason raised his hands.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, on the occasion of Mother’s passing . . . ” He picked up a glass of champagne from Maxim’s tray. “A toast to a great lady.” He nodded in the direction of Adrian, who was now chatting with Lily, and smiled.

  Maxim made a beeline for Adrian.

  Adrian looked across at Jason, then back to the glasses of champagne on the silver tray.

  “A toast, pal,” Jason urged. “A toast to our mother, Lilian De Vere.”

  “To Granny,” Lily whispered as Julia took two glasses from Maxim’s tray and handed one to her.

  “Master Adrian.” Maxim held out a glass. “Your favorite: mimosa with Mumm’s.”

  Adrian looked down at Maxim’s outstretched white-gloved hand and reluctantly took the glass from him. “A toast to Mother,” he said.

  Everyone raised their glass. Jason downed the entire glass of champagne, his eyes never leaving Adrian’s glass.

  Slowly Adrian took a sip of his mimosa.

  Jason nodded to the footman, and the gong sounded for a second time. Jason picked up a second glass of champagne and held it high.

  “And a toast to my departed brother, Nicholas De Vere,” he declared. “May God rest his soul. A toast to Nicholas, Adrian. What do you say?”

  “He’s drunk,” Kurt Guber whispered to Adrian. “Probably had a bottle of whisky before the funeral.”

  Adrian continued to gaze steadily at Jason. He held up his glass, and once again everyone followed suit. Polly walked over and stood next to Lily.

  Adrian loosened his collar with his free hand. “A toast to my youngest brother, Nicholas De Vere.”

  Adrian took one more sip, and Jason downed the second glass of champagne as quickly as the first.

  Guber strode over from the door and whispered into Adrian’s ear. Adrian nodded and turned to Julia.

  “My regrets, my beautiful Julia, but something urgent has arisen. I have to leave immediately. Chastenay will arrange Lily’s travel plans.” He kissed Lily on her forehead. “Looking forward to seeing you, my darling.”

  He held out his champagne glass to Julia.

  “Here, don’t let a good mimosa go to waste, Jules. I know you love it!”

  Julia had just reached out h
er hand to take Adrian’s glass when Maxim snatched it away with his gloved hand, placed it on the silver tray, and disappeared out of the drawing room.

  Adrian frowned, then strode toward the doors and stopped directly beside Jason. “Be careful, Jason,” he murmured. “You’re out of your league.”

  “My, my, little brother,” Jason replied as Adrian walked out of the drawing room. “Curiouser and curiouser.”

  * * *

  Maxim hurried through the kitchen to the enormous pantry, where Alex was waiting, both hands in plastic gloves.

  He looked down questioningly at the silver tray. Maxim handed him a glass from the far right-hand side. Alex gingerly placed it in a sterile plastic bag, which he then tucked inside a container in his rucksack.

  “Thanks, Maxim.” He grinned. “Off to forensics.”

  Maxim smiled in satisfaction as he removed his white gloves.

  Alex hesitated, then pulled a plain white envelope from his satchel. The name “Jason” was written on it in Nick’s hasty scrawl. Alex passed it to Maxim.

  “For Jason. From Nick. Eyes only.”

  Maxim nodded and watched Alex take off like a shot out the back gate.

  “Well done, Maxim, old boy.”

  Jason stood, sober as a judge, in the kitchen doorway.

  “Master Jason!” Maxim declared. “I think we’ve got it!”

  * * *

  Jason tossed and turned restlessly. He pulled the sheets over his head, then, with a sigh, reached over for his X-pad.

  Three a.m. Sitting up, he groggily rubbed his eyes and stared at the white envelope that now lay open on the bedside table.

  He flung off the sheets in frustration and pulled out the yellowed paper for the fifth time that night. It was inconceivable, yet there it was in black and white.

  He studied the document again. Dated 1981. The signature in green ink was unmistakable: the bold, hard lines of his grandfather’s scrawl. Julius De Vere. Witnessed by Piers Aspinall, former chairman of MI-6.

  It was a death warrant. He flipped through each page. There at the bottom was the same scrawl in green ink at the bottom of each page, only this time Julius De Vere had merely initialed his name. Acquiescing to his own grandchildren’s extermination.

  By the powers that be, whoever they were.

  Jason studied the two paragraphs. One grandchild to be executed at the exchange of the clone. He presumed that was to be the real Adrian De Vere. Executed one day after his birth.

  Any surviving grandsons to be exterminated after the clone turns forty. That meant Nicholas . . . and himself.

  Jason frowned. Adrian had turned forty the day before Nick’s car accident and ‘death.’

  He assumed that he had been allotted more time because of his usefulness at VOX.

  His clean cell phone was flashing blue.

  “Weaver?” he said, and listened.

  “You’re a hundred percent certain?”

  Jason sighed, then clicked off the cell phone.

  There was no getting away from it. Adrian’s DNA matched Hamish Mackenzie’s sample of the clone’s DNA precisely. Not one discrepancy. It appeared that Adrian De Vere was a clone.

  And a nonhuman one at that.

  Jason tossed again. Damn. When he thought back on how he had helped engineer Adrian’s rise to fame . . . VOX had showcased the charismatic young politician to the British public, paving the way for his two-year stint as Conservative prime minister before his meteoric rise in Europe.

  Jason had been Adrian’s kingmaker.

  He fumbled in the dark for the holographic television control and flicked through BBC 24 NEWS, CNN, and Russian TV, then stopped on VOX’s Biography channel. There was Adrian with Melissa, his deceased wife.

  Jason sat bolt upright in bed and turned up the volume.

  “A sad private moment for the European president as he pays respects to his beloved wife of four years, who died in childbirth, and his only son, Gabriel De Vere, who was stillborn.”

  Jason watched as the scene changed to Adrian visiting the Vane Templar estate in the Scottish Highlands, where Melissa, her father, Lord Vane Templar, and Gabriel De Vere were buried on an island in the center of an ornamental lake. Adrian was wiping a tear from his cheek.

  Jason’s jaw tightened. He glanced at his watch. It was only ten p.m. in New York.

  He dialed his long-suffering personal assistant of over twenty years, Jontil Purvis. The phone purred three times, and a crisp voice answered.

  “Good Evening, Mr. De Vere.”

  “Purvis, I need you to track down the death certificates for my brother’s wife, Melissa, and the baby.”

  Pause.

  “Yes, the baby Gabriel, who died stillborn. It’s urgent.”

  “Jason” The soft Southern voice echoed in his ear. “It’s after ten p.m. here in New York.”

  Jason grinned. “That’s never stopped you before, Purvis.

  “No, sir, but it may very well stop the General Register Office in Southport, Merseyside. With all due respect, sir, everyone in England—apart from yourself, of course—is fast asleep.”

  Jason grunted. “First thing, then, Purvis.”

  “May I inquire, sir, is that U.S. opening time or UK?”

  “UK, Purvis,” he growled. “I need it now.”

  He clicked off the phone and returned to the Biography channel. Thank God for Jontil Purvis. How long ago was it that Melissa and the baby died? It was around the time he and Julia divorced—about four years ago. Adrian had taken it badly, very badly.

  Jason frowned. Or had he? And who, or what, was the baby Gabriel? Had Melissa discovered Adrian’s secret? He remembered her being very sick all through the pregnancy. Not just sick—Julia had been convinced that she was on a high dose of sedatives. Melissa had become a shadow of her formerly vibrant self.

  He shook his head. He needed to let everything settle. VOX was in a tenuous position.

  Jason had to get back to the USA. He would fly back to New York in the afternoon. He needed space. He needed to clear his head, let everything settle. Stabilizing VOX and his media investments in the current U.S. financial upheaval was his big priority—that and the yearly board meeting next week in Babylon. Everything else could wait.

  He flicked off the remote and lay back on his pillow. Moments later, he fell into restless dreams of Nick and Adrian when they were boys, and of Dolly the sheep, death certificates, and clones.

  And Julia. Always Julia.

  Chapter Twenty

  Tower of Winds

  The First Heaven

  Jether walked in silence with Xacheriel through the lush gardens of the Tower of Winds. Stopping, he held a silver drinking vessel under the fountain.

  “Ah! Harebell and jasmine. The delicacies of Earth pale in comparison to the sights and aromas of heaven.”

  Xacheriel sipped from his goblet.

  Jether looked at Xacheriel. “Except for sushi, of course.”

  He gestured to Charsoc’s carpetbag.

  “We can well do without Charsoc’s baggage for the moment.”

  Xacheriel placed the vermilion carpetbag gingerly on a silver table. “The past five decades since he passed through the Portal of Shinar have weakened him considerably. He no longer has the ability to traverse time. He requests a meeting with you.”

  Xacheriel plunged his enormous hands into the depths of his voluminous robes. “My revered Jether, a sealed missive from Charsoc the Dark.”

  Jether tore open the missive. A black plume of smoke arose. He shook his head. “Charsoc and his magician’s tricks.”

  With a sigh, he walked over to the very edge of the Tower of Winds, studying the words intently. Then he refolded the missive, placed it in one of his deep pockets, and stared out toward the Rubied Door.

  Xacheriel walked toward him, and together they stood in silence. Finally, Xacheriel spoke. “You read his missive, my esteemed friend.”

  Jether nodded.

  “It concerns the Neph
ilim?”

  Jether removed the missive from the inner pocket of his long, flowing robes and read aloud:

  “‘Undoubtedly, it has now come to your attention that we, the Fallen, are now in possession of a unique and treasured cargo. The Nephilim. Tut, tut, Jether, how lax your operatives have become! To cheer you up, I extend my invitation . . . ”

  “An invitation?”

  “You could call it that,” Jether said grimly. “An invitation for cocktails. Only Charsoc would have the audacity to invite me onto planet Earth for cocktails.”

  He pointed to the top right-hand corner. “The Right Honorable Baron Kester von Slagel.”

  Jether tried to hide his smile, without success. “The Right Honorable Baron . . . He does so enjoy giving himself airs and graces. Two millennia pass, and his vanity is as unappeasable as ever.”

  Xacheriel raised his bushy eyebrows. “You should see his rings. On each finger. The jewels literally seem to grow every time I see him.” He glowered. “And what sort of a name is ‘Kester von Slagel,’ anyway?” he muttered darkly. “It has the ring of an East End kindergarten criminal faction.”

  Jether cleared his throat and held the invitation high. “‘The Right Honorable Baron Kester von Slagel invites Professor Lawrence St. Cartier for cocktails on the terrace at the King David Hotel in Jerusalem, at sunset.’” Jether shook his head wearily.

  “He then goes on to state, ‘I, of course, being the more sophisticated of us, would have preferred Rome or Milan for shopping, but bearing in mind the current frailty of your elderly earthly form, I have settled for Jerusalem.’ As though he traveled anywhere without his heart pills, portable blood pressure cuff, and nasal spray,” Jether muttered.

  A pity I was not invited,” said Xacheriel. “I would have liked to give him a piece of my mind.”

  Jether’s expression shifted instantly from mirth to dead earnest. “Xacheriel, you are to go immediately to Alexandria to await Jason De Vere’s arrival. I should be there to greet him. But this tête-à-tête is no garden party. It will be between Charsoc and me. He brings communication from his master.”