"Death Valley has been good for you, Sol," Hawken grunted, nodding with what appeared to be genuine admiration. "Maybe I should get a home here myself. Right now I'm about ready to retire."
Soloman didn't reply. Drops of water fell from the slowly heating glass of Scotch held in his hand as Hawken continued to palaver about the medicinal benefits of living in Death Valley. And while the general talked he began to stroll casually about the room, apparently relaxing. But Soloman knew what Ben was truly doing; he was trying to get a feel for whatever kind of life it was that he lived in the desert.
There was little to see.
Spartan to the extreme, the humble stucco desert house was filled with cheap, impersonal furniture that revealed little or nothing about the man who inhabited it. There was a large wooden table and four sturdy chairs in a clean, practical kitchen that had few modern conveniences. The walls were bare and off-white, and there was no phone, no television or radio or communication equipment of any kind.
A large oak desk commanded a significant section of the room, seeming to be the heart of everything, as if the house had been expressly designed to accommodate it.
Then, behind, were deep rows of books, their spines imprinted with archaic Latin and Greek and a host of modern languages. Placed with obvious care on the shelves, the volumes were surrounded by other books, newer and in better condition, with everything carefully positioned for easy access. And there were entire sets of reference manuals, twenty and thirty volumes apiece, all organized with care. And last, there were heavy manuals on art and literature, plus references on intelligence work. Clearly, it was the library of a scholar, or the repository of a man searching for something.
Staring at a photograph of a young girl, a child ten years old with laughing eyes and an angelic face framed by chestnut hair, Hawken became morose. His voice was reminiscent. "You know, that was probably the best picture you or Marilyn ever took of Lisa."
Soloman frowned, silent. He stared down at the Scotch and his silence seemed to solidify, as if the frown would last forever, or had. After a long moment he took a heavy swallow.
Tilting his head to notice the somber action, Hawken cleared his throat. He turned to the books. "Anyway," he said, a little louder, "I see you've continued your studies."
"Keeps me busy," Soloman answered, frowning into his glass.
"Yeah, I'll bet it does. So what are you studying now? Philosophy? Archeology?"
"Philo."
"Hmm?"
"Philo. I'm studying Philo."
Hawken nodded, appreciating it in silence.
Soloman sighed. "Philo was an ancient Jewish philosopher, Ben. I'm comparing his logic of rhetoric to Aristotle's. And the Hebrew-Greek context is a fascinating study in case you want to get into it."
"That's ... that's good, Sol. It's good that you're keeping busy." He waited at that, tensing. "But, tell me, have you finished with the Latin? Do you, uh, understand it pretty well?"
Soloman couldn't tell if the question meant anything or not. He hesitated a moment. "Latin is a lifelong endeavor, Ben. I'll be studying it a few more years before I'm even proficient."
Hawken turned from the window to study Soloman's unexpressive face. Then the general took another sip. A big one, like he needed it.
"But you understand Latin, right?" he asked. "I mean, if somebody dog-cussed me in Latin you could tell me what they said?"
Soloman smiled faintly. "Ben, I don't think anybody's going to be dog-cussing you in Latin whether you deserve it or not. Which I'm sure you would." He stared without friendship. "Why don't you just tell me why you're here?"
A wave of genuine fear floated beneath General Benjamin Hawken's face as he gathered himself. "We've got a situation, Sol. A situation that's ... out of hand."
In military jargon, that meant that the security of the nation was in immediate peril and nobody at the Pentagon or the White House or even Langley had the faintest idea of what to do about it. And although Soloman had worked with Hawken three years in a secret program that utilized the best field operatives from Marine Force Recon and Army Special Forces to hunt rogue intelligence agents, he had never heard Hawken use the words.
Soloman, a marine lieutenant colonel at the time, had been second in command under Ben, an army general. But the blacked-out program had been far more counterintelligence than military, so rank or branch had been essentially insignificant.
For a moment Soloman was still, his lips tight. Then, relaxing, he walked slowly to the front window. He took a small sip from his glass and lowered it in a dead-cold hand, inspecting the Loach and the contingent of Delta commandos.
"I'm retired, Ben."
Hawken grunted, and with peripheral vision Soloman saw him glance down at his glass. He opened his eyes to find it surprisingly empty before he walked to the cabinet, pouring himself another. He muttered hollowly, "Yeah, Sol. I figured you'd say that."
Soloman shifted, feeling something stir. He knew that this might be what he had sought in the long years of loneliness and that he didn't want, truly, to walk away from it, even as another part of him rose against it.
"It's probably best, anyway," Hawken grunted, frowning into his drink. "I mean, after what they did to Marilyn ... and Lisa."
Soloman turned and his face sharpened around the dark glasses. He stood unmoving, his eyes hidden. Something within him—his essence— suddenly hardened, intensified. His stillness was now frightening.
Hawken sensed the change and quickly raised a hand. "I know, Sol, I know. And any of us would have done the same thing. That is, if we could have. And I don't blame you for it. I never did. Never will. And, believe me, between the two of us, I even admired you for it."
"Is that why you didn't defend me at the hearing, Ben? Because you admired me?"
Hawken's face registered shock, disbelief. "Nobody could have defended you, Sol! You crossed too many lines! Big time! And the heat that came down was too much for any of us to stand! They couldn't let you go public but they couldn't let you walk away untouched, either. Your promise of silence and resignation was the only reason those goons in Washington didn't sanction you! And that's the truth! It was best for everybody if you and the military just parted ways!"
Not responding, Soloman swirled the melting ice and Scotch. He gazed down, as if he wasn't sure what he saw in it.
"Tell me about your situation, Ben."
Hawken hesitated. "All right," he began tiredly, "I'll brief you. But, first, let me tell you that we've got almost two thousand men on this and I'm not sure we can't handle it ourselves. But certain people are ... alarmed. And they're ready to bring an ending to this thing by any means necessary."
Soloman laughed. "By any means necessary? You must be getting dramatic in your old age, Ben. We've been in hot zones all over the world and I've never heard you say that."
There was a stoic pause before the barrel-chested general set his drink on the desk, crossing arms over his chest. His crew-cut black hair, heavily colored with gray, framed a commanding demeanor.
"Listen, Sol, something has happened. It's a hot situation and I'd just like you to look at some evidence. 'Cause we've got a rogue agent loose and, believe me, he's dangerous. More dangerous than anybody you've ever seen. More dangerous than anybody any of us have ever seen. And I don't have the foggiest where to start looking. So I need you to come in and study something and tell me what you think. That's all. Just take a look at something and tell me what you think."
Soloman smiled. "It always amuses me, Ben, that you can seem to say so much and so little at the same time. What are the orders?"
"The operation orders are to find this guy pronto and we've got people working on it full-tilt boogie." Hawken nodded. "We've got four wings of fully armed AH-64s and six platoons of Pathfinders tracking him. We've also mobilized the 101st out of Bragg and they've air-dropped into an area southeast of Albuquerque, 'cause we know this guy is moving north. There's ten Force Recon platoons in the woods and we've
activated SEAL Team One. And, so far, we've passed it off as a training exercise, but the truth is that we're hunting this guy with our best people."
"Any engagement so far?"
"Yeah," Ben frowned. "Two platoons of the Eagles stumbled over him. We loaded their dead bodies in a slick."
Soloman stared. "That's impossible."
"No," Ben shook his head. "It's possible, and it happened. That's why we're not using civilian police. I don't want the guilt and complications of a lot of dead cops."
Soloman knew from commanding a Marine Corps Force Recon team, fast-attack super-grunts skilled in covert warfare, that no man could be that good. And the 101st, the Screaming Eagles, were the pride of the United States Army, the best infantrymen in the world. But Hawken communicated with his tone alone that that was, indeed, the case. After a moment Soloman asked, "Where did this guy escape from, Ben?"
"From White Sands."
"The missile range?"
"No. From an underground facility where they—" The general abruptly halted, raising his hands. "Look, Sol, I can't tell you any more right now. Not unless you want to get into it. But this guy is moving north fast and we need to anticipate where he's going so we can triangulate on him and take him out. Big time. With a howitzer."
Soloman was openly curious. After a moment he set his glass on a table. "All right, Ben, I'll take a look at what you've got. I might be able to help you and I might not. I'm not making any promises."
"Good, Sol. That's good enough."
"Let me change into some yoots and boots and we'll get airborne in the Loach." He moved from the room, walking smoothly until Hawken called to him: "Hey, Sol."
Soloman turned, motionless.
"Look, this is just between the two of us." Hawken's eyes were hesitant, a shade of fear. "But tell me the truth, 'cause we've known each other almost fifteen years, right? Why did you come out here? I mean, why'd you choose to live in the middle of nowhere?" He shook his head. "Sol, there ain't nothing out here but death."
Stoic, Soloman revealed nothing.
"Death isn't so bad, Ben," he said, glancing at the picture of his dead child before he focused again on the general. "I guess it all depends on what you've got to live for."
*
CHAPTER 2
It was incredible.
Absolutely incredible.
Soloman watched the videotape for the third time in the underground bunker at White Sands, the Air Force base buried deep in the south of New Mexico. Concentrating to remember every detail, he saw the man—a man well above six feet tall and weighing perhaps two hundred and fifty pounds—sit violently upright on an autopsy table.
The man tore his wrist free from a steel manacle to snatch the scientist by the neck. Then he killed him with a flick of his wrist before effortlessly shattering steel brackets holding his other arm and legs. Fearless and with amazing calm, he rose and walked to a vault.
Soloman was stunned to hear his own voice so subdued: "What's this man's name, Ben?"
Ben expelled a thick cloud of cigar smoke. "His name was Roth Tiberius Cain."
"Was?"
"Just watch it again."
Soloman looked at the screen to see Cain standing before the vault. Then Cain reached out to brutally rip away the steel cover plate from the control box before rewiring it with superhuman efficiency. Seconds later the vault slid open and he emerged naked into the corridor, bold and challenging in the fluorescent light.
His head was bald and his entire body was massively muscular with a deep chest, broad shoulders, and tremendously heavy arms and legs. It was a body gained from decades of dedicated weightlifting and enhanced with a dozen synthetic stimulants and steroids. Yet despite his incredible bulk he moved with a catlike step, inhumanly poised.
He walked purposefully down the hall, and here the camera angle switched to a Special Forces platoon. Over thirty heavily armed soldiers charged around a corner to come almost face-to-face with the giant before they leaped back, firing frantically.
Cain roared as he was hit, taking over a dozen rounds into his chest, arms, and legs, and then his face twisted in rage before he charged, moving too quickly to follow.
"We've slowed down this part of the video." Hawken's breathing was a bit heavy. He reached out to hit a small button and then the figures were moving in slow motion. The conflict was deeply reflected, like fire, in Soloman's black glasses as he leaned forward, watching intently as the first soldier died.
Enraged by his wounds, Cain shouted something—Soloman couldn't be sure what it was—and fell upon the point man. His right hand struck like an ax to viciously split the ballistic vest, and Cain roared as he ripped the man's spine out of his chest. Hawken shook his head as he viciously blew out a haze of cigar smoke.
Soloman spoke. "What did they do to this man, Ben?"
"It's too complicated to explain," Hawken grunted. "I couldn't explain it to you even if I wanted to. It's ... scientific. Just keep watching."
In the next second Cain spun, still moving fast though his movements were being replayed in slow motion. He laid hands on a rifle, firing. And from that moment it was a pure and simple point-blank shootout with the surviving Special Forces members.
Cain moved so quickly that the others seemed not to be moving at all, killing and killing before he dropped the empty clip and tore another magazine from a massacred soldier, receiving even more wounds in his back and chest. He moved forward as he reloaded with the wholesale carnage continuing. And then it was over, dead men Uttering the corridor with walls painted in blood.Remorseless, Cain contemptuously hurled the rifle aside.
Walked away.
Cameras automatically followed him as he made a violent path through the laboratory, randomly encountering soldiers and killing them all with masterful skill, almost without effort. He was forced on two more occasions to defeat vaults and then he reached the last barrier to freedom: a thick cage of steel bars like those used in maximum-security prisons.
Covered in the blood that ran from countless bullet wounds that were healing even as they watched, Cain flung another rifle aside and reached up to grasp the bars with hands of frightening size and power. With a violent twist he shattered the lock.
Sliding the door open, he leaped forward and entered an elevator, rising to the surface of the facility. Seconds passed and the cameras picked him up as he exited the elevator, coming into the lobby. Through a holocaust of rifle fire he ran quickly across the long entrance, finally leaping through a plate-glass window to descend twenty feet to the cement lot where he landed lightly as a deer, continuing with amazing agility and strength.
Despite his wounds, Cain covered a quarter mile in less than thirty seconds to vanish into the woods. Exterior cameras followed him until he was lost to the dark.
Expelling a gloomy cloud of cigar smoke, Hawken leaned forward and lifted a trembling hand, shutting off the video. He turned grimly to Soloman. Said nothing.
Soloman folded his hands in front of his face, elbows on the table. He tried to concentrate on what he had seen, tried to believe it. But it was beyond belief; it was impossible. From a distance he heard Hawken speaking, carefully separating each word.
"Well, Sol, what do you think?"
Soloman was expressionless. "Have your people done crypto-analysis on what Cain said?"
"Yeah."
"Let's hear it."
Hawken hit a button and the screen was once again alive. "We had a naval guy, a submarine tech, do the sonic. He had to filter out the rifle fire and the rest in order to isolate the words."
With an intentness that separated him from where he was, Soloman heard the sound of rifle fire diminishing degree by degree until the singularly terrifying image of Cain was on the screen. The deep voice was lordly and volcanic.
Killing with demoniacal purity, he lowered his head like a lion as he shouted, "Di liberatus!" Then as he tore the soldier's spine from his chest he surged through the rest of them, thundering in rage, "Adver
sarius devicit leonem de tribu juda!"
Soloman's eyes narrowed.
Killing . . . killing . . .
Unstoppable.
Hawken spoke. "We haven't translated it yet, Sol. I didn't think it was an appropriate security measure. But I think I caught some things in it. Because I wasn't born yesterday. It's Latin, I think. And I thought that maybe you could tell me what it means."
"You're right, Ben. It's Latin. When Cain killed the first soldier he said, 'I will be free.'"
'"I will be free'?" Hawken stared. "That's what he said?"
"Yeah. 'I will be free.'"
"Well ... what the hell does that mean, Sol? I mean, Cain couldn't speak Latin when he died. He was a dangerous guy, even a brilliant guy. He was probably even insane. And he spoke German and French and Spanish. But he couldn't speak Latin."
"Get me everything you have on Cain," Soloman said, his face hardening. "I want his 201. What was he? CI-2?"
"CI-1. The best killer the CIA had."
"I want his psychological profile. And get me everything you have on this experiment. Then I want to talk to the scientist who headed this thing up. Send some people to bring him in. I don't care what he's doing. And secure me billeting at the base with video equipment where I can work undisturbed. I want the floor cleared. Assign a couple of Delta commandos to work rotating eight-hour, two-man shifts for detail."
"You've got it." Hawken turned in his chair. "Are you going to take this thing on, Sol?"
"Maybe. But right now I need to get some chow and think it over. I'm too tired to make a decision." Soloman walked toward the door and as he reached it he heard Hawken call, "Hey, Sol, wait ... wait a second. You're not telling me everything."
Soloman turned, expressionless.
"Cain said something else, didn't he? Something you're not telling me?" Hawken trembled slightly. "Come on, buddy, don't hold out on me. What else was there?"
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