Church said, “The Veep is operating in a narrow window here. We need to stall him until the President regains power. I can stall the Attorney General.”
I almost laughed. “This is really about MindReader, isn’t it?”
“Probably.”
MindReader was a computer system that Church had either designed or commissioned—I still didn’t know which—but it could bypass any security, intrude into any hard drive as long as there was some kind of link, WIFI or hardline, and get out again without leaving a footprint. As far as I knew, there was nothing else like it in the world, and I think we can all be thankful for that; and it was MindReader that kept the DMS one step ahead of a lot of terrorist networks. My friend Maj. Grace Courtland had confided her suspicions to me that it was MindReader that gave Church the clout he needed to keep the President and other government officials off his back. Freedom of movement kept the DMS efficient because it negated the red tape that had slowed Homeland down to a bureaucratic crawl.
MindReader was a very dangerous tool for a lot of reasons, and we all hoped that Church had the kind of clarity of vision and integrity of purpose to use it for only the right reasons. If the VP took control of it, we’d be cooked. Plus, Church didn’t trust the MindReader system in anyone else’s hands. He had almost no faith in the nobler elements of the political mind. Good call.
“Major Courtland says that three unmarked Humvees are parked outside the Warehouse,” he said.
“What’s the Veep’s game plan?”
“I don’t know. Even as Acting President I can’t see him risking force to stop us. That gives us a little elbow room.”
“So why’s he want me? I can’t access MindReader without you personally logging me in.”
“He doesn’t know that. There are NSA teams zeroing four other DMS field offices and team leaders. They’re going for a sweep. But whatever they’re doing has to be bloodless, which is probably why Agent Andrews gave you a few minutes with Ms. Ryan.”
“Maybe, but he called for backup. Two other cars just rolled in. Lots of Indians, only one cowboy.”
“Can you get away?”
“Depends on how I’m allowed to go about it.”
“Don’t get taken, Captain, or you’ll disappear into the system. It’ll take six months to find you and you’ll be no good to me when we do.”
“Feeling the love,” I said, but he ignored me.
“This is fragile,” Church cautioned. “Anyone pulls a trigger and they’ll use it to take the DMS apart.”
“I may have to dent some of these boys.”
“I can live with that.” He disconnected.
As I pocketed my phone I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. My ten minutes were up. Andrews and his Goon Squad were closing in.
These guys shouldn’t have come out here. Not here.
“Okay,” I said to myself, “let’s dance.”
Chapter Three
The Deck, southwest of Gila Bend, Arizona
Saturday, August 28, 8:07 A.M.
Time Remaining on the Extinction Clock: 99 hours, 53 minutes
It’s refreshing to be insane. Just as it’s liberating to be aware of it.
Cyrus Jakoby had known that freedom and satisfaction for many years. It was a tool that he used every bit as much as if it was a weapon. In his view it was in no way a limitation. Not when one is aware of the shape and scope of one’s personal madness, and Cyrus knew every inch and ounce of his own.
“Are you comfortable, Mr. Cyrus?”
His aide and companion of many years, Otto Wirths, was a stick figure in white livery, with mud-colored eyes and a knife scar that bisected his mouth and left nostril. Otto was an evil-looking man with a thick German accent and a body like a stick bug. He was the only one allowed to still call Cyrus by his real name—or, at least, the name that had become real to both of them.
“Quite comfortable, Otto,” Cyrus murmured. “Thank you.”
Cyrus settled back against a wall of decorative pillows, each with a different mythological animal embroidered in brilliantly colored thread. The newly laid luncheon tray sat astride his lap glittering with cut glass and polished silver. Cyrus never ate breakfast—he thought eggs were obscene in every form—and was never out of bed before one o’clock. The entire work, leisure, and sleep schedule here at the Deck reflected this, and it pleased Cyrus that he could shift the whole pattern of life according to his view of time.
While Cyrus adjusted himself in bed, Otto crossed the room and laid fresh flowers under a large oil painting of a rhesus monkey that they had long ago named Gretel. There was a giclée print of the painting in every room of the facility, and in every room of the Hive—their secret production factory in Costa Rica. Cyrus virtually worshiped that animal and frequently said that he owed more to it than to any single human being he had ever known. It was because of that animal that their campaign against blacks and homosexuals had yielded virtually incalculable success and a death toll that had surpassed World War II. Otto fully agreed, though he personally thought the hanging of prints was a bit excessive.
On the table below the portrait was a large Lucite box arranged under lights that presented it with the same reverence as the painting. A swarm of mayflies flitted about in the box. Tubes fed temperature-controlled air into the container. The tiny insects were the first true success that Cyrus and Otto had pioneered. That team at the Institute for Stem Cell Research in Edinburgh was still dining out on having found the so-called immortality master gene in mouse DNA, though they hadn’t a clue as to how to exploit its potential. Otto and Cyrus—along with a team of colleagues who were, sadly, all dead now—had cracked that puzzle forty years ago. And they’d found it in the humble mayfly.
“What’s on the schedule today?”
Otto shook out an Irish linen napkin with a deft flick and tucked it into the vee of Cyrus’s buttoned pajama top. “Against your recommendation Mr. Sunderland allowed the Twins to persuade him to try and capture the MindReader computer system. Apparently they feel they’ve outgrown Pangaea.”
“Capture it? Nonsense . . . it won’t work,” Cyrus said with a dismissive wave of the hand.
“Of course not.”
“Sunderland should know better.”
“He does know better,” murmured Otto. “But he’s greedy and greed makes even smart people do stupid things. I imagine, though, that he has a scapegoat in place in the event that it fails. Which it probably will. It won’t land on him and it won’t land on us.”
“It could hurt the Twins.”
Otto smiled. “You bred them to be resourceful.”
“Mm. What else do we have?”
“We’ve successfully launched test runs in Nigeria, Zimbabwe, Benin, and Kenya; and on the domestic front, the Louisiana test should be yielding measurable results soon.”
“Not too soon,” Cyrus said. “We don’t want the CDC involved—”
Otto tut-tutted him. “They’ll be out of action long before this comes onto their radar. Not that they’d be able to do much once our Russian friends crash their system.”
“Russians,” Cyrus sniffed. “I don’t know why you have such affection for those blockheads.”
“Affection?” Otto smiled. “Not the word I’d choose, Mr. Cyrus . . . but you have to admit that they’re enthusiastic.”
“A little too enthusiastic, if you ask me. You used to be capable of such subtlety, Otto. Using the Red Mafia is . . . I don’t know.” He waved a hand. “It’s cliché. And it’s not ‘us.’ ”
“It’s affordable and if the assets are taken out then so what? We lose no friends. And who would ever think that we, of all people, would rely on ex-Spetsnaz thugs? No matter how heavy-handed the Russians get, no one will look in our direction. Not in time, anyway.”
Cyrus made a sulky face. “I wish we had some of the Berserkers. That was the one thing I have to admit that the Twins did that was a step ahead of us.”
“Maybe. My sources say that they’re having so
me behavioral issues with the Berserkers.” Otto looked at his watch. “The North Korean buyers are waiting to leave and wish to say good-bye.”
Cyrus shook his head. “No, that’s boring. Send one of my doubles. Send Milo; he has good manners.”
Otto tidied the cutlery. “You shot Milo two weeks ago.”
“Did I? Why?”
“It was a Tuesday.”
“Oh yes.”
Cyrus believed that Tuesday was the dullest and least useful day of the week and he tried to liven the low spot of each week with a little spice.
“Shame about Milo,” Cyrus said, accepting a cup of tea. “He was good.”
“That he was. But that’s water under the bridge, Mr. Cyrus,” murmured Otto. “We’ll send Kimball.”
“Are you sure I haven’t killed him yet?”
“Not so far.”
Cyrus shot him a look, but Otto gave his master a small wink. No smile, though.
“Maybe I should kill you next Tuesday.”
“Mm, when you’re done threatening me I’ll go find a broom cupboard to hide in.”
“What else do we have today?”
“The latest batch of New Men has been shipped to the Hive. Carteret and his lot are conditioning them. We have orders for sixty females and two hundred males. We can fill those orders with the current batch; however, if we get the heavier requests you’re expecting then we’ll have to up production by twenty percent.”
“Do it. Speaking of the New Men—did that idiot van der Meer try to haggle on the per-unit price?”
“He tried.”
“And—?”
“This isn’t a buyer’s market.”
Cyrus nodded, pleased. He already had the money earmarked for a new research line. Something he’d been thinking about during those long hours in his sensory dep tank. He always did his best thinking in there—a place where he felt connected to the whole of the universe, a place where he could unlock every chamber in his infinite mind.
He lifted the heavy lid of the serving dish and studied the meal. Four slices of white breast meat were fanned out like playing cards in a thick cream sauce. He didn’t recognize the grain of the meat, though the accompanying vegetables were from a more familiar group of exotics—fingerling potatoes, whole crowns of dwarf broccoli, and a spill of hybridized spinach-carrots. Otto took the lid from him.
“Something new?” Cyrus asked.
“Something old, actually.”
“Oh?”
“Breast of dodo in a white wine cream sauce.”
Cyrus applauded like a happy child. “Delightful!” He reached for a fork, then paused. “Have you tried it?”
“Of course.”
“And . . . ?”
“It doesn’t taste like chicken.”
Cyrus laughed.
Otto pursed his lips. “It’s a bit more gamey. A bit like bald eagle, though less chewy.”
Cyrus picked up his knife and fork.
“And, not to spoil your appetite, sir,” said Otto, “but I wanted to remind you that the Twins are on their way for their regular visit. Almost certainly to discuss the Berserker issue.” Cyrus began to protest, but Otto held up a calming hand. “Don’t worry; we’ve taken the usual precautions. They’ll see and hear exactly what they expect to see and hear.”
Cyrus cut a slice of the dodo meat and chewed it thoughtfully. Otto waited with practiced patience.
“I want them thermal-scanned during any conversation.”
“We’re already on that. The chair sensors in the private garden have all been checked. With the new vapor density scanners the doctor thinks we can expect a seventy to seventy-three percent confidence in the readings. If they lie, we’ll probably know it.”
“They’re smart, those two,” warned Cyrus.
“They would have to be,” said Otto, then smiled. “And no, sir, that’s not as obsequious as it sounds. I actually have a lot of respect for the Twins.”
“As far as it goes,” corrected Cyrus.
“As far as it goes,” agree Otto.
“My young gods . . .” Cyrus looked into the middle distance for a long moment, a half smile playing across his lips. He blinked his eyes clear and cut a look at Otto. “What about the SAMs?”
“One Sixteen and One Forty-four are coming along nicely. They’ll be getting their fourth round of psych evaluations today, and if we like the results we can process them into the Family. Ninety-five is getting high marks in surgical classes, and he seems to have a taste for it. A family trait. Most of the rest are coming along.”
“Make sure they’re out of sight. I don’t want Hecate or Paris to see them.”
Otto nodded. “As I said, they’ll see only what we want them to see. The only child the Twins have seen—or ever will see—is Eighty-two, and he’s still at the Hive.”
Cyrus paused. “And . . . what about Eighty-two?” When Otto didn’t immediately respond, Cyrus said, “I still have hopes for that one. I feel more . . . kinship with him than any of the others.”
“I know, but you’ve seen his psych evals, Mr. Cyrus. You know what the doctors have been saying about him.”
“What? That he can’t be trusted? That he’s warped? I goddamn well don’t believe it,” snapped Cyrus with a sudden viciousness. “The doctors are wrong in their conclusions!”
His valet crossed his arms and leaned against the footboard. “They would be the third set of doctors to come up with exactly the same set of erroneous conclusions. How likely do you think that is?”
Cyrus turned his head and glared across the room at the dozens of floral arrangements that lined one wall. His chest rose and fell and several times he began to speak, but each time he left his thoughts unspoken. This was an old argument, something he and Otto had been wrangling over for nearly three years. Cyrus’s rage over the findings about Eighty-two had been towering, destructive. All six of the previous doctors had been executed. Cyrus had done it with his own hands, garroting each of them with cello strings he’d ripped from Eighty-two’s instrument.
“Have them run the tests again,” he said quietly, and in a tone that left no opening for discussions. “Have them run every single fucking test again.”
“I’ve already ordered it,” said Otto. “I sent a new team of specialists to the Hive and they’ll run everything. As many times as it takes.”
Cyrus turned to look at him and then turned away again.
“Oh, and this should make you happy,” Otto said with a deft shift of gears. “That new Indian fellow, Bannerjee . . . he was able to solve the gas erosion problem with the jellyfish sensors. We’ll pump a dozen of them into the Twins’ jet while it’s being refueled.”
Cyrus smiled and turned back. He cut a piece of meat and resumed his lunch. “Give Bannerjee a bonus. No . . . hold off on that until we’re sure we can track the Twins to wherever the hell they hide from me. If we can find the Dragon Factory, then Bannerjee gets double his pay as a bonus on top of his contract.”
“Very generous, sir.”
“And tell him that he can own the patent on whatever laminate he cooked up for the sensor, though I would appreciate fifteen percent as a tithe.”
“ ‘Tithe’?”
“Oh, call it what you want. Kickback, whatever.”
“I’m sure Dr. Bannerjee would be delighted to give you twenty percent,” said Otto.
“You’ve become greedy in your old age, Otto.”
The German bowed. “I learned at the feet of a great master of the art.”
Cyrus laughed until he choked and then laughed some more once he’d coughed up the unchewed piece of broccoli. Otto turned on the TV, adjusted the channel to a split screen of BBC World News and CNN, with a continuous crawl at the bottom of stock prices on the technologies and biotech markets. He tidied the pillows around Cyrus, straightened the flowers in the twenty-seven vases scattered around the room, and made sure to check that the bedside pistol was unloaded. No sense taking chances.
Ch
apter Four
The White House
Saturday, August 28, 8:07 A.M.
Time Remaining on Extinction Clock: 99 hours, 53 minutes
“Mr. Vice President,” said the aide, “all teams have reported in. Everyone’s in position.”
“All of them?”
“Yes, sir, and the teams assigned to solo pickups have already moved in; the main teams are at the gates of each facility. I issued the go order.”
William Collins, Vice President and Acting President of the United States, nodded and sat back in his chair. He used his palms—the callused steelworker’s hands so often remarked upon in his press—to vigorously rub his face until his cheeks glowed. He let out a sharp sigh and clapped his hands together. The aide flinched.
“How soon before we know anything?”
“The Agents In Charge will call in on an individual basis once they’ve secured their objectives. Every situation is different and I’ve impressed upon them the need for delicacy, the need to get this done right rather than fast.”
The Vice President shot him a hard look. “Fast is pretty goddamned essential, don’t you think?”
The aide was immediately conciliatory. “Of course, sir, but it has to be done right. To the letter of the law.”
“Yeah, yeah . . . okay. Keep me apprised.” He sat back in his chair and waited until the aide left; then the Vice President turned to the other man in the room, an old crocodile in a five-thousand-dollar suit. The man’s face was fat, wrinkled, and flushed with hypertension, but his expression was calm, his eyes calculating and amused.
“Christ, this had better work, J.P.,” muttered the Vice President.
Jonas Paul Sunderland, the senior senator for Texas and one of the most vocal advocates of biotech development, smiled. “It’ll work, Bill. Don’t get your nuts in a knot.” He rattled the ice in his Scotch and took a pull. “We have good people well placed.”
“I have a lot at stake here, J.P.”
Sunderland gave him a bland smile. “We all do. But even if this tanks, you’ll come out looking like Joe Patriot and I won’t even be in the picture. This is well planned and you have the law on your side . . . which is nice. We’re actually the good guys here.”
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