A Pale Horse

by Wendy Alec

  Jether thought deeply for a moment, then turned to Xacheriel again.

  “Until then, Maheel will continue his investigations at the Vatican, and you will continue your responsibilities as Maxim, the De Vere family’s valet. I, of course, will return to Alexandria as Professor Lawrence St. Cartier.”

  “I must say, it is most frustrating,” Xacheriel grumbled, “for a scientist to be pressing clothes. And I had rather considered myself to be more a sort of scientific James Bond—more like Q, I should think.”

  Jether shook his head. “As a matter of fact, it has come to my attention, while serving as Professor Lawrence St. Cartier, that one Maximus Basil Pinkerton, on his days off, has rather fallen in love with earthly cinema.”

  Jether stopped, suddenly deep in thought.

  “Xacheriel, your duties as Maxim are to be extended. We will put you on loan to Adrian De Vere. His valet shall have a short vacation. It is the only way we can be certain of his diabolical plans. We have to have firsthand intelligence. Adrian De Vere knows you as his mother’s valet, assisting Jason when he is at the Belgravia house. It will be a natural progression, now that Lilian De Vere is dead, that her valet attend Adrian.”

  Xacheriel’s eyes lit up with excitement. Then he frowned. “What about Charsoc? He knows me in my earthly guise as Maxim.”

  “Your placement would, of course, be at a time when Charsoc the Dark is away from Normandy and at the Vatican.” Jether’s eyes twinkled.

  “But first you return to Alexandria. And I . . . ” He picked up the carpetbag. “ . . . shall meet with Charsoc in Jerusalem. Cocktails with me, he requests. Well, cocktails he shall have. I shall return his monstrosity of a carpetbag to him myself.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  The Terrace, King David Hotel, Jerusalem

  The intense crimson sunset over the walls of Jerusalem was deepening. Jether sat in the balmy Jerusalem dusk, at a terrace table set for two, tapping his fingers. Waiting. He frowned. A loud commotion filtered through from the hotel lobby. It was coming nearer.

  Six muscular black-suited minders, with shaven heads, earpieces, and holstered firearms, evicted the bewildered diners from their tables, then positioned themselves intimidatingly across the now nearly empty terrace. The cloying perfume of mandragora suddenly filled the dusk.

  Jether sighed. Charsoc the Dark had arrived.

  A tall, bony but nonetheless commanding form strode through the doors of the restaurant, followed by his dramatic personal entourage consisting of four immaculately coiffed personal aides.

  “Greetings, Professor.” The deep baritone voice coming from behind Jether was unmistakable.

  “Forgive me if I stay seated,” he muttered. “I seem to have forgotten my manners.”

  “Tut, tut, Jether.” Charsoc snatched his hat back from a bewildered, trembling waiter.

  “No one,” an aide declared theatrically as Charsoc painstakingly dusted off the fedora. “No one touches the baron’s hat!”

  The terrified waiter beat a hasty retreat through the terrace door.

  Charsoc smiled, looking extremely pleased with himself. He nodded in approval to his adoring sycophants, who swarmed around him, patting his hair in place and adjusting the crucifix at his throat.

  He yawned in boredom. “My coat . . . ”

  Two aides eased Charsoc out of his heavy houndstooth coat as Jether looked on in irritation.

  Charsoc held out his silver cane.

  “Careful with the cane, boy!” He gave the terrified aide a thunderous look. “It’s an antique.” He smiled widely at Jether. “As is my friend here.”

  Jether rolled his eyes. He nodded in the direction of the black-suited minders. “Do they know you’re immortal and don’t need protecting, or haven’t you told them yet?”

  Charsoc glared at Jether and lowered his voice. “It creates the right impression.” He made a sign to one of the bodyguards, who walked toward them. “He needs to pat you down.”

  Jether gave Charsoc a steely look. Charsoc hesitated, then motioned to the bodyguard to back off.

  “He’s clean,” he snapped.

  “What do you think I intend to do? Blow myself to shreds and take you with me?”

  “One can never be too careful with one’s personal safety. Or . . . ” Charsoc studied the waiter hovering around their table. “ . . . one’s personal hygiene.”

  Charsoc slowly removed his white kid gloves, finger by finger, then took a small plastic bottle from his inner pocket and squeezed two drops onto each bony hand.

  “Antibacterial hand gel.”

  He rubbed both hands together briskly, then handed the waiter a crisp piece of paper. Jether noted his distinctive copperplate handwriting on it.

  “Make up that cocktail, boy,” Charsoc commanded in military fashion.

  The waiter scuttled off like a startled rabbit.

  “At least this antique can translate into an ethereal body at will.” Jether smiled back at Charsoc. “Unlike yourself.”

  Charsoc glared darkly at Jether. “There is no need to remind me of my dire fate.” He glowered. “Trapped in this infernal mortal body for eternity. I am well aware.”

  Charsoc removed a luridly ornate pillbox from his pocket and opened it, took out three small round blue pills, and swallowed them with a gulp and a grimace.

  “Heart pills?” Jether asked languidly.

  Charsoc shook his head, distaste on his face. “Blood pressure,” he muttered. “It rockets whenever I set my foot upon this parched tract of dust.”

  “Ah, yes.” Jether smiled in satisfaction. “Israel. In fact, Charsoc, wasn’t it right over there”—he pointed in the direction of Mount Moriah—“that we both had the privilege of attending the greatest defeat of your and your master’s illustrious career?”

  He paused for a breath.

  “So far, that is.”

  Charsoc sat tight-lipped and unsmiling. “We were deceived,” he hissed. “No one, even for one second, guessed that He was Yehovah incarnate.”

  “A rather major oversight, wouldn’t you agree?” Jether chuckled and sipped at his mint tea. “I would have loved to be a fly on the wall when you and your master took my Master down in chains to Hades. What happened, Charsoc? I have it on good account the entire territory of hell and the grave started to shake and crumble and has never been the same since. I also have it on good account that your master was in chains, whimpering in terror and watching through a cage as Christos led the righteous dead away.”

  “The Nazarene!” Charsoc spat the words, his face contorting into a mask of sheer hatred. “Yes,” he hissed. “We were defeated in Jerusalem. But it is also here in Jerusalem that we shall taste our finest victory.”

  The balding restaurant manager walked over to their table, followed by the flustered young waiter.

  “Ah!” He bowed. “Esteemed Professor, I did not realize it was you.” Bowing again, he plucked the now crumpled piece of paper from the waiter’s hand.

  “It will be no problem to make the cocktail.” He bowed yet again. “For such a revered customer, I talk to the chef myself.”

  “How kind of you,” said Jether, “but it is not for me but for my acquaintance.”

  The manager bowed again and leaned over to whisper in Jether’s ear. “Esteemed Professor . . . ” He placed the piece of paper in front of Jether’s nose. “It is just this I do not fully understand.” He pointed to the name of the cocktail.

  Jether placed his monocle in his left eye and stared down at the precise copperplate writing.

  “The bloody waters of ancient Babylon,” he read aloud.

  The manager shook his head and raised his hands in despair.

  “What are you trying to do, Charsoc?” Jether looked up at Charsoc. “Start a third intifada?”

  “It’s the name of the cocktail,” Charsoc admitted sheepishly. “I found it on the Internet. It took my mind back to our tête–à-tête on the Tigris over a millennium ago. I thought it would be most
appropriate.”

  Jether tore off the offending script, crumpled it, and placed it in the ashtray.

  The manager wiped the sweat from his brow and bowed again, this time in relief.

  “Truth be told, Charsoc, diplomacy was never your strong suit.”

  The manager smiled again, hovering.

  Charsoc tapped him gingerly on the shoulder with his right index finger, which was heavily weighted with a huge, gleaming aquamarine.

  “And add some pineapple juice, boy,” he commanded, “and a splash of sweet-and-sour. Shake it. Strain into a martini glass, and then swirl grenadine on top.”

  Jether nodded to the manager, then studied Charsoc more closely. He frowned.

  Charsoc was dressed in a voluminous multicolored striped robe, the cut vaguely resembling that of a Greek Orthodox priest’s cassock. An enormous glistening golden crucifix hung from his neck, and he wore a clerical collar.

  Jether rolled his eyes. “What, exactly, is your designation, Charsoc? Baron, social shopper, or priest?”

  A smile broke out on Charsoc’s face. “Ah!” he murmured, staring out over Jerusalem at dusk. “I do still miss our repartee, Jether. There’s no one I can compare you to in that department. I’ll give you that.”

  Jether took a sip of mint tea. “Touching.”

  “Actually . . . ” Charsoc leaned closer to Jether and lowered his voice. “I’m leaning more these days to remaining a man of the cloth.”

  “Oh, yes, that’s right. What was it? Grand Inquisitor of the World Council of Churches.”

  Charsoc nodded. “Rather a grand title, I thought. I rather liked it. Although, for a short while, I intend to turn my vast talents to genetic engineering.”

  He smiled mysteriously.

  “First, my carpetbag.”

  With a sigh, Jether bent down and lifted the enormous bag onto the table.

  Charsoc preened. “It’s made from oriental rugs—ancient Persian.” He unclasped the carpetbag and, placing his hand inside, brought out several objects. “Nothing has been tampered with, I presume.

  “Turkish delight.” He smiled. “Nasal spray . . . antihistamine. Eh, blood pressure cuff . . . travel candle, sewing kit, deep heat . . . Ah!” He sighed in satisfaction. “My slippers. Actually, Jether . . . ” He removed a pair of gold and crimson Persian slippers with whorls at the toes. Two large gold tassels hung at each toe.

  Seeing the grim set of Jether’s face, Charsoc raised his hands. “Let me delay the reason for my visit no longer.” He held out his hand to one of his minders, who passed him a folded missive with Lucifer’s seal of Perdition on it. Charsoc held it out to Jether.

  “From my master,” he said curtly. “His answer to Yehovah’s ultimatum in accordance with the legal requirements of the Supreme Councils of the First Heaven. He requests that you read it in front of me in my capacity as his royal envoy.”

  Jether slowly took it from him and unfolded the ancient parchment. He studied the exquisite copperplate italic lettering and sighed. After reading silently, he finally looked up at Charsoc. “He declares war.”

  “A formal declaration of war. In legal conformity with Eternal Law.”

  “So he disregards Yehovah’s ultimatum and continues with his ill-founded schemes to mutate the genetic code of the Race of Men. He would mutate the Race of Men’s gene pool as he did in the days of Noah and the great flood.”

  Jether slowly refolded the missive. “He writes that he would storm Yehovah’s throne. I shall relay the contents of his missive to Yehovah and the High Councils of Justice.”

  “I shall not waste words, then,” Charsoc replied. “We failed the first time. We will not fail a second.”

  “You speak of the Nephilim,” Jether said softly.

  The waiter returned with two cocktails, both a pale Mediterranean blue in color.

  “Thank you, boy,” Charsoc boomed.

  Jether lowered his voice. “He’s not a boy, Charsoc. And to address the waiter at the King David as though you’d just arrived back from Kenya in the fifties is not endearing.”

  Charsoc stirred his cocktail slowly, ignoring Jether’s comment.

  “Yours”—he jabbed rather violently with a toothpick at Jether’s cocktail—“is what they call nonalcoholic.”

  Charsoc sipped delicately at his cocktail. “Yes, Jether. I speak of our hallowed undertaking, as the Fallen, to mutate the Race of Man’s DNA. Our first attempts at intercourse between the fallen angelic and the daughters of men were well rewarded. Giants were born.” He made a dramatic gesture that was only enhanced by his voluminous robes.

  “The Titans,” he declared dramatically. “The demigods, the giants of old.”

  “The Nephilim,” Jether whispered.

  “We mutated the Race of Men’s genetic code. Everything was going according to plan until He interfered! He decided to annihilate our new Nephilim creation.”

  “The great flood.”

  “But this time, Jether, we will surpass ourselves.”

  “You violate Eternal Law,” Jether said. “The Race of Men reproduce according to their kind. Your master’s intention to mix angelic and human DNA violates the divine codicils.”

  “Oh, no.” Charsoc downed his cocktail in one easy gulp and wiped his mouth delicately on a linen napkin. “We are way past tinkering, Jether. The Race of Men as you know it is swiftly about to come to an end.”

  He threw the napkin down onto the table with a flourish. “Oh,” he said offhandedly, “there is an addendum. My master would relay to Yehovah that we the Fallen welcome the forthcoming evacuation of the Nazrene’s subjects. They have greatly obstructed our progress in the realm of men. We are glad of their removal from the earth.” Charsoc swung around. “Their removal ensures His removal.”

  He studied Jether intently.

  “Or does it? No matter, but be under no illusions, Jether. At the time of the great war between my master and Michael, we, the Fallen, shall drive out each and every one of the Nazarene’s followers from the First Heaven. We shall rid it of every last trace of the Race of Men.” A strange smiled flickered on Charsoc’s lips.

  Jether was silent.

  “I see we understand each other,” said Charsoc. He stood. “I shall take my leave.”

  “Don’t you find it difficult to walk with such heavy jewels weighing you down?” Jether asked.

  “You have been warned,” hissed Charsoc.

  Jether looked out beyond the walls of Jerusalem, into the falling dusk. “The Lake of Fire awaits you, Charsoc, and you will be its captive for all eternity, as will your master.”

  Charsoc took one step, then hesitated. “And what of you, Jether? Will you visit me in moments of secret sentiment, when your conscience calls to you? Will you stand on the edge of that burning chasm and weep for me?”

  “I shed my tears for you, Charsoc, the day you fell from the First Heaven to your doom. There are no tears. Only for the Race of Men do I weep.”

  Charsoc rose, and instantly his six bodyguards encircled him.

  “You will pay dearly, Jether. I shall see to that. Not one brick of your monastery in Alexandria will be left in its place.”

  He turned dramatically on his heel, almost knocking the manager to the floor. And grabbing his coat, hat, and cane from his aides, he stormed through the terrace doors, through the King David’s lobby, and out the revolving door.

  Jether stood quietly in the upper lobby and watched Charsoc ram his fedora onto his domed head, fling his coat over his shoulders in fury, and disappear into the backseat of a gleaming black limousine. Jether watched until the limousine became a speck disappearing past the new Waldorf Astoria Hotel.

  He took a deep breath and walked straight through the wall of the King David’s outer stairwell. In the same instant, he reappeared in the monastery gardens in Alexandria, beside Liam Mercer.

  “Get me Dylan Weaver.”

  * * *

  Mont St. Michel, Normandy

  “Operation Pale Ho
rse, Mr. President, sir.”

  Adrian looked at the holographic map of North America. The blood red arrows covered the entire Bible Belt and Midwest, from Texas eastward and up to Virginia, and from Kansas to Ohio.

  Adrian smiled faintly.

  “I looked, and there before me was a pale horse! Its rider was named Death, and Hades was following close behind him. They were given power over a fourth of the earth,” he murmured.

  “You have excelled yourself, Guber.”

  Guber saluted. “Dolphin submarines with cruise missiles carrying nuclear warheads filled with weaponized Yersinia pestis will launch at multiple cities in the ten-kingdom axis within the hour.”

  “The black death,” Adrian murmured. “It will spread like wildfire. Uncontrollable.”

  He tapped his fingers slowly on his desk, then looked up at Guber.

  “We keep New York, Normandy, China, Israel, and Saudi Arabia clean. We cut all communications, switch on the elite’s emergency communication channels. Activate the Blacklist.

  “Russia and North America will be brought to their knees by Monday night. Martial law will be initiated throughout the ten-kingdom bloc.”

  Guber nodded.

  “The United States? Report on the deployment.”

  “Military equipment, half-tracks, tanks, and missile launchers are being deployed from the Mexican border. Trainloads of UN and Russian military equipment. Russian artillery, trucks, and missile launchers stored at Biloxi, Mississippi, Fort Polk, Louisiana, and Fort Dix, New Jersey, are being transported to all major cities and internment camps within the next seven days.”

  “The equipment and military personnel underground in the mountain range areas? Texas?”

  “Being deployed as we speak. Over three million foreign troops will be on standby in U.S. military bases. Prince Yuro Tatekawa and the generals await you.”

  Adrian followed Guber inside the library.

  A Japanese general stepped forward and saluted.

  “The Boxcars?”

  “Shipments of the guillotines, manufactured in China and Japan, are unloading on the docks of San Diego, Long Beach, and other West Coast ports of entry, Your Excellency. Over one hundred thousand boxcars with guillotines have been transported from Montana and Georgia to military internment camps across the USA. Forty million plastic coffins, courtesy of Homeland Security.