by Greg Cox
With April gone, the guards backed off a little. Hoyt called upstairs, then put down the phone. “All right. You can go up now. Jordan is expecting you.”
To Tom’s slight annoyance, Galloway accompanied them as they took the elevator to the top floor. He would have liked to confer privately with Diana on the way up, but apparently that wasn’t going to happen. Oh well, the elevator’s probably bugged anyway.
They found Collier in Dennis Ryland’s old digs. A large executive desk dominated the corner office. Magazine covers bearing Jordan’s visage were framed upon the walls, along with the book jacket from his New York Times bestselling manifesto. Twenty-foot-high picture windows offered a breathtaking view of Elliott Bay and Harbor Island beyond. Along with a handful of aides and bodyguards, Jordan was busy overseeing holographic 3-D blueprints of Seattle. Shimmering translucent structures rose and fell across the surface of a high-tech conference table, no doubt devised by some nameless technological wizard whose brainpower had been boosted by promicin. He looked up from the laser-generated models as Galloway escorted the agents into the office.
“Ah. Tom. Diana,” he said cordially. He stood a head taller than either of the two agents. “Good to see you again.”
Tom was disappointed not to find Kyle present. Then again, perhaps that was just as well. This wasn’t a social call.
“Thank you for seeing us,” Diana said. “Hope we’re not disturbing you.”
“Not at all,” Collier insisted. A sweeping gesture called their attention to the virtual cityscape before him. “Come see what we’re doing here.” He beckoned them over. “It’s a comprehensive plan for rebuilding Seattle. Structures destroyed during the rioting are to be replaced by cold-fusion power plants, addiction treatment centers, vertical farms and gardens, and other revolutionary civic projects made possible by the singular abilities of the city’s promicin-positive population.” He smiled proudly. “We’re even upgrading the Monorail.”
“Looks ambitious,” Tom conceded. As much as he hated to admit it, Collier and his Movement had been in the forefront of the recovery efforts over the last few months. He looked more closely at Jordan’s vision for the city. “Is that a new courthouse down by Pioneer Square?”
“Good eye.” Collier nodded. “State of the art.”
“But whose courts?” Diana challenged. “The state’s or yours?”
Since taking over Seattle, Collier has established his own shadow judicial system, in which positives who were found guilty of abusing their abilities were stripped of their powers by Jordan himself. Diana’s acerbic tone made it clear that she disapproved of Collier running his own private kangaroo courts.
“In time, there will be no difference,” Collier stated confidently. “For now, however, the 4400 can hardly expect fair treatment in the regular courts, which means that we have to police ourselves. I assure you, this is a responsibility I take very seriously.” The ability to erase other positives’ gifts was Collier’s own unique talent. “I wish every individual with an ability could be trusted to use it responsibly, and in the best interests of the Movement, but, alas, that’s not always the case. Some new converts prove unworthy of their precious gifts.”
“Like my sister?” Diana asked.
Collier took a deep breath as he braced himself for the inevitable topic of April. “Ah yes. I heard there was some unpleasantness downstairs. My apologies if that was awkward for you, but I’m afraid that, no offense, your sister’s loyalties and associations are suspect. She is indeed banned from the premises.” His tone edged toward threatening. “In fact, you should inform her that I will personally rid her of her ability if she gets anywhere near me or otherwise attempts to use her gift to undermine the Movement.”
“Why is that?” Tom demanded. “What have you got to hide?”
Collier was unapologetic in his attitude. “Surely you, as a government agent, appreciate the importance of discretion and confidentiality. Loose lips sink ships, and all that. These are dangerous times, and I’m not going to let April Skouris—or anyone else—endanger our security.”
Tom wondered how Jordan had learned about April’s ability in the first place. That was supposed to be classified information, too. Was there a leak at NTAC or Homeland Security?
Something to think about, he thought.
“Now then,” Collier said, changing the subject. “What brings you here today? Official NTAC business, I assume.”
“That’s right.” Tom gave Jordan the bare bones of their investigation, mentioning Danny’s missing body, and Grayson & Son’s apparent involvement, but leaving out Dennis Ryland’s accusations regarding Collier’s alleged plans to weaponize promicin. “You know anything about this?”
Collier shook his head. “I wish I could help you. Your nephew is revered as a martyr to the Movement by my people. It’s shocking that someone would desecrate his memory in this fashion. I can’t imagine anyone here having anything to do with it.”
“So you’re denying any connection to Bernard Grayson?” Diana asked.
Collier shrugged. “The name sounds vaguely familiar, but the Movement has been growing by leaps and bounds since the Great Leap Forward. I’m afraid that an encyclopedic knowledge of everyone who supports our cause is not among my gifts.” He smiled wryly. “More’s the pity.”
Tom pressed harder. “So you’d have no interest in trying to replicate the airborne version of promicin that Danny emitted?” He let a touch of sarcasm creep into his voice. “Even though that would bring about your glorious new world a little faster?”
Collier appeared unruffled by the accusation. “I don’t deny that I want everyone in the world to take promicin. But I’ve never forced the shot on anyone … as you know from personal experience, Tom.”
True enough, he thought. Jordan had certainly had more than one opportunity to inject Tom against his will, but had always refrained from doing so, despite the prophecy claiming that it was vitally important that Tom take the shot at some point. But was Collier’s restraint due to his ethical standards, or just out of deference to Kyle’s importance to the Movement? Tom was inclined to suspect the latter.
“Fifty/fifty wasn’t exactly voluntary,” Diana pointed out. “None of those people chose to take promicin.”
“But that was not my doing.” He washed his hands of any responsibility for the disaster. “That was simply a monumental twist of Fate. An act of God, if you will.”
Tom doubted that Heaven had anything to do with killing nine thousand innocent people, and shattering the lives of countless more. “I don’t think God stole Danny’s body.”
“Indeed,” Collier said. “And I hope you find whoever is responsible. I give you my sincere promise to look into this matter.”
Tom didn’t find that terribly reassuring.
Collier glanced at his watch. “Is that all?” he asked impatiently. “At the risk of being rude, I have a very busy schedule today.” He tapped a control on the drafting table and the holographic city evaporated. “Transforming the world is a full-time job.”
“I’ll bet,” Diana said dryly.
Jordan scowled. “Give my regards to your daughter.” He moved to escort them to the door.
“Not so fast,” Tom said. He locked eyes with Collier. “You and I have something else to discuss. Alone.”
He rubbed his finger behind his ear.
Collier got the message. “Very well.” He turned to his people. “Agent Baldwin and I need the room.”
His guards hesitated, clearly reluctant to leave their leader alone with Tom. “Sir?”
“It’s all right,” Collier assured them. “I have nothing to fear from Agent Baldwin.” He eyed Tom warily. “Do I, Tom?”
“I saved your life a while back, didn’t I?”
With the help of Isabelle Tyler, Tom had rescued Collier from the Marked during fifty/fifty. If not for the agent, Jordan himself would be one of the Marked now. And sabotaging the very Movement he had devoted his life to.
Diana shot Tom a puzzled look. He hadn’t discussed this with her in advance. “Tom?”
“Just give me a couple of minutes, Diana.”
Looking a tad uneasy, she left the office as well. Jordan waited until the door clicked shut behind her before settling down into an executive chair behind Dennis Ryland’s old desk. His fingers were steepled before him as he assumed a contemplative pose. “Well? What’s on your mind, Tom?”
The cautious agent worried for a moment about hidden cameras or mikes, then decided that Collier wouldn’t want any record of this discussion, either. “You know what this is about. The assassination of that cardinal in Rome.” His blood pressure rose as he remembered reading on the Internet about Calabria’s fiery demise. “Damnit, Jordan. You were supposed to cure that man, not kill him!”
It wasn’t easy, but it was possible to free the Marked from the invaders who had taken over their minds. Tom was living proof of that. A lethal dose of radioactive polonium, injected directly into his spine, had burned out the nanites infesting his brain. Then Shawn had used his healing ability to ensure that Tom survived the ordeal. The experience had nearly killed Tom, but, when it was over, he had been himself again. The cure had worked.
Just like it had with Collier.
“First off,” Jordan began, “you’re leaping to the assumption that I had something to do with the late Emanuel Calabria’s unfortunate accident.” He held up a hand to forestall Tom’s indignant rejoinder. “It may well be that Cardinal Calabria was on the wrong scooter at the wrong time.”
Tom slammed his fist down on the desktop. A crystal paperweight, in the shape of a glowing ball of light, rattled. “Cut the plausible-deniability bull, Jordan. You and I both know you had the man murdered.”
“We know nothing of the sort,” Collier insisted calmly. He sounded as though he had been anticipating this conversation for days. “I defy you to find any link between my Movement and the events in Rome. Check my schedule. I haven’t left Seattle since the outbreak.”
“Screw your alibi,” Tom said. “Eyewitnesses placed Richard Tyler at the scene. It’s obvious you got him to do your dirty work.”
“Is it?” Collier leaned back into his chair. “Richard and I have rarely seen eye to eye. He’s his own man, Tom. You know that.” He adjusted the paperweight on his desk. “Can I help it if he chose to rid us of this meddlesome priest?”
The coy literary reference did not amuse Tom. “And what about the innocent man whose mind and body was hijacked by the Marked? Didn’t he deserve a chance to get his life back? Like you and I did?”
“In an ideal world, of course.” A somber expression came over Collier’s face. “But consider the practical realities here. The ‘cure’ you speak of is difficult, painful, and time-consuming. It requires illegal quantities of highly radioactive materials and the active participation of Shawn Farrell. Given how powerful the Marked are, and how zealously they protect themselves, capturing a Marked for ‘treatment’ is not always going to be possible. Imagine trying to smuggle a kidnapped cardinal or presidential advisor back into Seattle to be cured. Richard may have simply decided that it’s easier just to eliminate them … or so I assume. It’s tragic, but the threat posed by the Marked is too great to take any unnecessary risks. Hypothetically speaking.” He looked Tom squarely in the eyes. “Knowing Richard, I’m sure he’ll attempt to cure the Marked—when possible.”
Tom refused to let Collier put this all on Tyler. “Are you even going to try to save these people?”
“Need I remind you,” Jordan said irritably, “who provided me with the names of the Marked in the first place?” His patience for this debate was clearly wearing thin. Tom wondered if his conscience was troubling him. “You asked me to take care of this because you couldn’t get to these people. And that’s exactly what I’m doing … my way.”
“That’s not good enough,” Tom argued.
“I’m afraid that’s not your call anymore.” He rose and gestured at the door. “Have a nice day, Tom.”
NINE
THE LAST TIME all the Marked had met in the flesh had been in Tunis in 2005. Then there had been ten of them. Now there were only six left.
The meeting was not going well.
“Don’t you get it? It’s over. We lost.”
General Julian Roff sat at an oak round table with his fellow conspirators. Five stars glittered on the epaulets of his uniform. Gray hairs infiltrated his temples. An African-American with a deep bass voice, he had a bellicose expression that dared anyone to disagree.
“That’s a very defeatist attitude, Julian,” Song Yu chided him. A middle-aged Chinese woman with severe features, and the highest-ranking female in the Politburo, she had recently led the campaign to have all Olympic athletes thoroughly screened for promicin. Her lacquered black hair was done up in a bun. She shook her head in disappointment. “What would your colleagues in the Pentagon say?”
She was a long way from Beijing. Located high in the Hollywood Hills, Wyngate Castle was a misplaced medieval fortress that had been painstakingly transplanted to California by an eccentric silent movie star back in the Roaring Twenties. Heavy oak beams traversed the high ceiling of the grandiose parlor where the surviving Marked had secretly convened. Hand-carved wooden paneling adorned the thick stone walls. A Persian carpet added a touch of color to the floor. A sweeping staircase led to a wooden balcony overlooking the chamber. A roaring fire burned in the imposing stone hearth. A crystal chandelier hung above the round table. A ponderous oak door ensured their privacy. There were no windows.
“Don’t get cute with me, Song,” the general retorted. By convention, the Marked addressed each other by the names of their current identities. It was simpler that way. “Face facts. Fifty/fifty was a game changer. Jordan Collier is more powerful and influential than ever. The so-called war on promicin is a joke. And we’re dropping like flies.”
Sheik Nasir al-Ghamdi frowned at the depressing litany. The wealthy Saudi billionaire was the Marked’s chief financier now that Drew Imroth was out of the picture. A checkered head cloth framed his handsome Arabic features. The youngest of the Marked, his new body was only twenty-nine years old. Safe from the abstemious eyes of his countrymen, he treated himself to a snifter of expensive cognac. “So what do you propose we do, General?”
“Protect ourselves!” Roff barked. “Look at what happened to Calabria, and Rebecca Parrish, and Matthew Ross. Obviously, our covers have all been blown. We need to discard our present identities and set up shop in new bodies, pronto. Then maybe we can live out the rest of our lives in relative safety and comfort.”
Wesley Burke, senior White House advisor, glared scornfully at the general. His silvery mane and ruddy features were familiar to regular viewers of CNN and the Sunday morning talk shows. A flag pin held fast to the lapel of his tailored three-piece suit. “Every Marked for himself, is that what you’re saying?”
“Damn right,” Roff asserted. “The promicin genie is out of the bottle for good now, and there’s no putting it back in. The future we swore to preserve is not going to happen. It’s as simple as that.”
“Coward,” Song Yu accused him. She made no effort to conceal her contempt. “Did you really think we were going to defeat our enemies without any risk to ourselves? I can’t believe that you pass yourself off as a military leader. Why not just throw yourself on your sword while you’re at it?”
“Hold on,” Kenpo Norbo objected. The famed Tibetan lama was believed by his followers to be the twelfth reincarnation of a legendary Buddhist guru. Saffron robes draped his lean, ascetic figure. “Perhaps Julian has a point. I have no desire to end up like our deceased cohorts. And I don’t wish to spend every hour of every day looking over my shoulder.” He nervously fingered a string of prayer beads. “A new life of wealth and luxury, without any death threats, has its appeal.”
Burke snorted
in derision. “Admit it, you’re just tired of living like a damn monk.”
“What if I am?” Kenpo plucked at his robes. “I didn’t mind putting up with this ridiculous persona when I thought I was helping our cause. But why bother now?” He threw up his hands. “What’s the point?”
Nasir sneered at the lama’s self-pity. “We’ve all made sacrifices. Left our homes and loved ones in order to ensure the existence of the civilization we cherish. What about our friends and families in the future? Are you willing to violate the trust they placed in us?”
“Those people aren’t even born yet!” Roff blustered. “And now they probably never will be.” Spittle sprayed from his lips. “You’re all clinging to a plan that failed. Let it go!”
“Traitor!” Song Yu hissed at him. “You’ve been corrupted by this decadent era.”
“Fanatic,” he shot back. He shoved away from the table. “Get yourself killed if you want to, but leave me out of it.”
“That goes for me as well.” Kenpo flung the prayer beads onto the table. “This tulku is ready to be reborn again. Maybe as a fabulously sexy rock star this time.”
Song Yu’s eyes burned with rage. She looked like she was ready to lunge across the table at both turncoats. She drew a sharpened ivory hairpin from her bun. “You filthy, weak-willed—!”
A deafening gong drowned out her final epithet. All eyes turned to see their host, celebrated film and TV producer George Sterling, standing by the fireplace. He let go of a knotted silk bell cord. His deeply tanned face was Botoxed smooth. Wavy blond hair plugs replaced the unconvincing toupee he had sported since the late nineties. A graying beard carpeted his chin. A pair of tinted designer glasses were perched on his nose. He was dressed casually in a polo shirt and chinos. His new hit show, Promise City Heat, about impossibly attractive NTAC agents taking America back from promicin-crazed terrorists, was currently number one in the ratings everywhere but Seattle.
“That’s enough, everyone,” he said patiently. “Let’s chill out a little. Fighting amongst ourselves like this is just what Jordan Collier, and our enemies in the future, want.” He rejoined his colleagues at the table, taking his seat between Song Yu and Nasir. He laid a soothing hand on the irate woman’s arm. His firm but conciliatory tone was the same one he’d used to talk Russell Crowe out of bolting the Day of the Triffids remake. “Look, Julian, Kenpo, I hear what you’re saying. Nobody’s denying that we’ve taken some tough knocks lately. The tragic loss of our comrades has affected us all deeply. But I’m sure, if they were with us here today, they wouldn’t want us giving up hope.”