He was also quick to helpfully add that the most pressing crisis at the moment would be if Vector’s director keeled over from sheer exhaustion. He had happily described all the side effects that exhaustion had on the human mind. How it inhibited proper decision-making, resulted in a plethora of avoidable errors, especially in military missions where squad and unit leaders suffered from inadequate sleep. Plus—the cherry on top, Morris had claimed—was that Kasim was crankier when he hadn’t slept.
With a mouth like that, the guy never would have made it in the army. Morris was lucky he’d taken his computer acumen to the NSA first.
As Kasim pulled the covers up, Divya turned over toward him.
“You’re home,” she said, eyes still closed.
“I am.”
“What time is it?”
“Three.”
Moonlight traced over her features, glowing against her jet-black hair. “Three in the morning?”
“You didn’t think you slept in until the afternoon, did you?”
“I don’t know.” She nestled against him and draped an arm across his chest.
He closed his eyes, relishing the warmth of her skin against his.
Most nights he returned home, Divya was either working late in her downtown Frederick law office or else already asleep. They barely had time to talk. And when his mind was preoccupied with stopping an international crisis, these fleeting moments shared with Divya when they could fall into the gentle rhythms of normal life together felt like a distant dream.
He missed them.
The gentle touch. Their conversations. A glass of wine shared after dinner. Time that might otherwise be taken for granted.
He turned to his side and extended an arm around her, pulling her tighter against him.
Gone were the days they would spend hiking in the mountains of western Maryland. The afternoons talking about science, life, and travel while gallivanting around the nearby vineyards. Even just a few years ago, they had been sure to spend at least one night a week eating at one of the restaurants lining the bucolic river flowing through Frederick.
Those days had been swallowed by his position at Vector and her increasingly demanding role as partner at the firm. Kasim hoped that by sacrificing the best parts of his life, he could make the world safe for other people to live theirs. That was cold comfort when he came home to a dark, quiet house or when he heard the increasingly chilly silence on the other end of the phone as he broke yet another promise to his wife.
His let his eyes close, his mind filled with melancholic thoughts as he drifted into a world of dreams. The rest of the world faded away.
Until the phone rang.
“Promise you won’t be mad,” Morris said as Kasim walked back into Vector headquarters, less than two hours after the analyst had all but kicked him out.
“Not as long as you’ve got a good reason,” Kasim said, yawning.
He sat in one of the chairs at the conference room in their operations center. Morris was beside him, can of energy drink in hand. Dark bags hung under his deep brown eyes. He looked as tired as Kasim felt.
Doctors Freya Weber and John Park had joined them. Park was an MD/PhD from Harvard with the demeanor of a family physician that belied his nearly twenty years of experience fighting potential disease outbreaks and bioweapons all around the world.
Kasim took a sip from a cup of coffee. This one was advertised as twice the caffeine as normal coffee. Twice as much still wasn’t good enough. He considered asking Morris for one of those green cans of battery acid.
“Let’s not waste any time,” he said instead. “Go.”
Weber turned to the analyst. “Morris, can you load the map?”
A map of the Middle East appeared on the touch-screen table. Red dots marred Syria, Iraq, Lebanon, Israel, and more as if the whole region had a bad case of smallpox. “Each of these represents an incident.”
Kasim tapped on one of the red dots. A video started to play. Three men in an Israeli restaurant tossed over tables and attacked other patrons. Another tap in Iraq showed a cell phone video of two men in a catatonic state merely standing in the middle of a busy marketplace. Crowds milled around them though they stood like statues. A few people shot them curious glances. Then a small bomb exploded at a nearby café. Chaos and panic erupted across the crowd. Clouds of brown dust everywhere.
But when it cleared, those three men remained standing.
“We don’t know for certain that all these incidents are connected,” Morris said, adjusting his glasses. “But I used a natural language processing algorithm to help compile every report of people acting, for lack of a better word, really effing weird. Any time there was an incident of unexplained violence or that whole catatonic thing, I logged it.”
“That’s a pretty wide net to cast,” Kasim said.
“We agree,” Weber said. “We spent the night cataloguing the events and narrowed it down to these. There were plenty more reports that we couldn’t get video for too. We tossed them if we couldn’t categorically confirm that the victims reacted like the ones in the videos.”
“We also excluded all incidents where tox reports or contextual evidence led us to believe drugs or other known substances were involved,” Park said. “Like you said, it’s still a pretty wide net, but we started to see a pattern.”
“Oh?” Kasim adjusted his reading glasses.
Weber dragged a finger across the touch-screen table. This time, the red dots disappeared. A date in the corner of the map popped up.
“That’s over a month ago,” Kasim said. “Right about when Ballard disappeared.”
“Exactly,” Morris explained. “This shows us the geographic spread of these events over time.”
He tapped on the screen, and the date advanced, day by day. At first, just a couple red dots appeared around Damascus. Then they slowly spread to other smaller cities and towns around the area. A nexus of dots popped up around Baghdad. More rippled through the Gaza Strip.
“It’s almost like the spread of a disease focused around these city centers,” Weber said.
“You think that’s what it is?” Kasim asked.
“Truthfully, we don’t know,” Park said. “But the way these cases cropped up are, in our opinion, either the result of a spreading disease or someone is making it look like that.”
“Let’s play out both scenarios,” Kasim said. “If it is a disease, what do you think we’re looking at?”
“Normally, I would say a virus that effects the nervous system given the symptoms,” Park said.
“Not something like sarin or another nerve agent?” Morris tried.
“We keep going back to that possibility,” Weber said, “but we’ve seen too many of these videos where just a handful of victims walk into a market then suddenly go crazy. If this was a weapon released over the crowd, we’d expect damn near everyone to be affected by it.”
Park held up a finger. “Plus, we haven’t seen anything in the tox reports to indicate nerve agents or chemical weapons.”
“Even Cruz’s blood workup came back clean,” Weber said.
Kasim considered their first mission, tracking down a previously unknown bioweapon originating from Russia. “This wouldn’t be the first time we don’t have the lab assays for a novel weapon.”
“That’s true,” Park said, his expression sour. “It’s also possible that whatever the agent is, it might be fast acting and quick to degrade. After all, according to Cruz and Wolfe, the symptoms disappeared pretty quickly too.”
“For Cruz’s sake, I hope you’re right,” Kasim said. “If there are long-lasting medical issues, we’ll need to recall her.”
“She wouldn’t like that,” Morris said.
Park nodded before continuing. “More than likely, these people are inflicted with the mystery agent shortly before they’re let loose. But the one thing we can’t quite explain is how quickly the victims are affected. They all seem to react in sync.”
“It’s ve
ry strange.” Weber’s German accent came out more strongly as she explained her concerns. “Every patient should be different. They have different metabolisms. Different body weight. Different immune systems. So many variables that should alter the timing and effects of a disease or chemical agent. Yet somehow, all these people react nearly identically at the exact same time.”
Park traced his finger over the table. All the images they’d captured of various victims popped up in a mosaic of faces. “I can’t think of a disease that can do that on its own.”
Morris leaned across the table, eyes narrowed. “I’m no PhD like you two, but can I say something?”
“I would, in fact, welcome it,” Weber said, inviting him to speak with a wave of her hand.
Morris arched his dark eyebrows. “To me, this looks like werewolves.”
“We’re talking reality, not science fiction,” Kasim said. He didn’t come here in the middle of the night for jokes.
“I’m being serious, man,” Morris said. “Think about it. The myth of the werewolf goes like this. You get infected from a bite or whatever. But nothing happens, right? Not until the full moon. Then everyone, everywhere who has the virus or gene or whatever turns into a werewolf at once.” He snapped his fingers. “Full wolf in an instant.”
Weber shot Morris a skeptical look. Kasim could tell she was on the same page as him. Maybe Morris should lay off the energy drinks. Those things were probably rotting his mind.
But Park nodded in agreement like he was actually on board with the idea. “You may have a point. Perhaps everyone we see in these videos is already infected, and the videos we’ve seen, what Cruz experienced, are what happens when some kind of external signal sets this mystery agent off.”
“See, I know what I’m talking about.” Morris breathed on his glasses then wiped them clean with his shirt like he was trying to be dramatic. “When I was a kid, my mom bought my brother and me a pair of cheap remote-controlled monster trucks. Mine was this gnarly beast, all black and green with skulls on the side. His was some unholy six-wheeled thing with huge silver exhaust pipes. Problem was, they both operated on the same frequency. So when he used his controls, mine would move in sync with his.”
“You’re suggesting someone is controlling all these people with a remote,” Kasim said. It sounded insane. Like an idea he wouldn’t even consider if he’d had more than three hours of sleep.
Park massaged his scruff-covered chin. “Maybe the people are infected by an inactive virus or bacteria lurking in their nervous system. Then a biomolecule of some sort is released near them. The biomolecule is the moon in the werewolf analogy. It could be totally harmless to people who aren’t infected. But those who are, well, they go full werewolf.”
“This moon biomolecule could set off a cascade of hormones and neurotransmitters responsible for the behaviors we’ve witnessed,” Weber said.
“You really buy this now too?” Kasim asked.
“It’s a hypothesis. One maybe we can test.”
“Exactly,” Morris said. “After all, that Jaber character was going on about some Solomon’s Ring nonsense. The ring is supposed to control demons, you know? I think we can all agree what we saw in these videos sure as hell looked like people possessed by demons. Maybe the ring is this biomolecule or whatever that’s triggering people.”
“Maybe,” Kasim said. “But I think we’re dealing with too many metaphors. You’re all smart. Let’s stick to the facts and science.”
The other three were silent for a moment, soaking in these new ideas. They seemed utterly convinced they were on to something.
“Look, I think we’ve all had a long couple of days,” Kasim said. “This might make sense to us now, but our brains aren’t operating at a hundred percent. It’s like one of those good ideas you have when you’ve had too many glasses of wine.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Weber said. The scientist was a teetotaler, refusing to imbibe anything that might affect her natural brain processing power.
“Weber, Park, go take a break while you can,” Kasim said. “Morris, in the meantime, I want you to pull as many medical records as you can find on the victims. Keep an eye on any developments over the next couple of days to see if their symptoms appear again.” He thought of Cruz, who might still very well be suffering from whatever had set her off in Amman. “I want to know what the long-term effects of this mystery agent are.”
“The ring of Solomon,” Morris said, nodding.
“We can call it that for now, if that’s what makes you happy,” Kasim said. “I really don’t care what we name the agent. What I need to know is who the hell controls it—and how Ballard’s disappearance fits into the picture.”
-14-
Karak, Jordan
Balagh rented a room at a grungy hotel off the King’s Highway for a mere thirty dinar. He left his duffel bag there and followed the winding streets through a maze of buildings up the side of a wind-blasted mountain.
Everything was covered in a fine layer of sand. Just like Balagh.
Cars and trucks scraped through the streets. Maybe it was Balagh’s eyes playing tricks on him, but none of those vehicles looked like they should fit between the claustrophobic mess of buildings. The stink of diesel followed him as he ascended toward crumbling golden walls encircling an old fortress at the top of the mountain.
Al-Karak Castle.
That was his destination.
Or at least, according to the GPS device he’d bought back near Wadi Musa, it corresponded to the GPS coordinates he had uncovered in his notebook while sitting in the back of the Bedouins’ truck. He wasn’t sure how this castle fit in with King Solomon or the demons mentioned in his journal. But he hoped he would find out soon. The note he’d revealed said he had left something for himself there.
Once he passed through the castle gates, he hiked a dusty path by a three-story tower. The GPS device guided him to a labyrinthine set of corridors underground. Winds howled through holes in the ceiling, blowing in showers of sand and dirt.
He felt as though eyes were peering at him from every creeping shadow. As if the spirits of all those who had been slaughtered here centuries ago haunted the place.
While he worried the GPS reading might be thrown off by the thick stone walls, it seemed he was drawing closer to his destination. He ducked through a doorway into the Mamluk keep, a dungeon constructed under the rule of a Mamluk sultan.
A single beam of light speared through a hole in the ceiling.
Balagh’s eyes adjusted, allowing him to see the piles of scree against the walls. His GPS guided him south, into the shadows.
One eye on the screen, he walked through the dark slowly. His foot suddenly touched pure nothingness, and he recoiled, barely preventing himself from tumbling forward.
He paused, letting his heart settle, and peered down into a pit.
Should have brought a flashlight.
Maybe he could turn back, go into town, and get one. But the longer he delayed, the longer he spent out in public like this, the more he worried someone would find him.
The creeping sensation he got walking through this castle only seemed to be getting worse. Once he left, he didn’t want to return.
If he squinted, he could just make out the bottom of the pit. It was nearly twenty feet deep, no more than three feet wide.
Maybe this was where prisoners had been dumped and left to rot.
But whatever he wanted, the thing that his past self had left for him to find, was down there too.
He gently lowered himself over the edge. The rocky walls gave him plenty of footholds. By pressing against either side with his shoulders, he could stabilize himself.
Easier than I thought.
Slowly, he descended.
He heard a crunch from somewhere else in the dungeon. Like boots over gravel.
He paused, holding his breath. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled, coldness seeping through his veins.
But except for his puls
e pounding past his eardrums, the dungeon was silent again.
Get ahold of yourself, he thought. Just find whatever you left here and leave.
He toed one of the rocks, testing it. Only a couple more yards down.
Then the rock gave way. Silt and pebbles fell. His fingers grasped for purchase. But his nails desperately scraped against the rock uselessly. Gravity tugged him down. His body smacked against the wall, barely slowing him. Then the ground met him with a heavy crash.
His legs buckled. Momentum sent his head smashing against the wall. Pain thundered through his skull. Nausea welled up in his stomach, and he felt dizzy.
He braced himself against the wall as he fought to recover. The dizziness and shock began to subside. His joints hurt, but as he slowly stood to test his limbs, nothing gave way. No sharp pains from a broken bone.
He massaged his pounding head, and his fingers came away wet, sticky with blood. Worst case, maybe he had a concussion.
As he leaned against the wall, trying to regain his composure, he thought he heard the sound of boots again.
Probably a tourist delving into the dungeons. Last thing he wanted was for them to notice him down here and either send help or call in the police. He didn’t need anyone else asking him questions.
He pressed his back against the cool stone.
There was no more noise except for the rustle of wind over the sand.
Maybe he was just imagining things.
Either way, it was best not to spend too long down here.
He crouched and probed around the pit. In one corner, he felt a small pile of stones. They might have fallen down here decades ago or they might be covering whatever clue or treasure he was supposed to be looking for.
Perhaps the ring of Solomon itself.
He almost laughed. The power to control demons. That might be useful right now. Maybe they could carry him out of this pit.
Carefully he removed the stones. Sweat was trickling down his back by the time he felt something hard.
Demon Mind (Vector Book 2) Page 12