by Greg Cox
“Don’t let Freeman Porter make you uncomfortable,” Morrison said, referring to her taciturn shadow. “He’s here strictly for my own protection.” He offered Roberta a stick of spearmint gum, which she politely declined. “Given the insidious forces arrayed against our cause, I can’t afford to take any unnecessary chances.”
“Of course not!” she agreed readily. “The Beast will stop at nothing to stamp out the last flickers of individual liberty.” Righteous indignation, or a reasonable facsimile thereof, added heat to her fervent declaration. “That’s why I contacted you via your Web site, to join your all-important crusade against godless collectivism.”
“So I understand,” Morrison said. “I was impressed by the passionate eloquence of your letter, as well as by your own fledgling efforts in the struggle.” He gave his PC’s monitor a half-turn, so that Roberta could glimpse the screen as well, then quickly keyed a familiar URL into his Web browser.
A headline composed of animated flames appeared at the top of the screen, against a red-white-and-blue background. The Unblinking Eye read the burning block letters, above columns of densely-spaced type. Smaller headlines, over various front-page stories, hyped such startling revelations as FEMA: THE SECRET GOVERNMENT and BAR CODES: MARK OF THE BEAST?
“Your online newsletter is one of the best I’ve seen,” Morrison congratulated her. “You appear to have a first-rate grasp of the fundamental issues at stake in these perilous times.”
“Thanks,” Roberta said. To be honest, she was perversely proud of the Eye, which she had started up a few months back to cement her cover. Although the text was a ridiculous mishmash of urban legends and half-baked conspiracy theories, most of them lifted from other “patriotic” Web sites, she thought she had captured just the right tone of belligerent paranoia. “It’s just so obvious that you can’t trust the so-called ‘legitimate’ news media to tell you what’s really going on in this country. I felt I had to warn people about what our government was up to.”
Morrison nodded approvingly. “It’s not only Washington, D.C., we have to worry about. The Feds are just one tentacle of a greater Beast, a secret New World Order ruled by an elite group of genetic supermen. I know this for a fact, because I’ve stared the enemy in the face—and in the mirror.”
He removed his mirrored sunglasses to look Roberta directly in the eye. Oversize red orbs, like the eyes of a hunting bird, stared into hers, and she abruptly realized that “Hawkeye” was more than just a colorful nickname; it was the unvarnished truth.
“Let me tell you something that few people know, that I share only with my own trusted brothers- and sisters-in-arms. I’m a bit more than human myself, the product of the same unholy conspiracy that give birth to the Beast.” His crimson eyes blinked like a bird’s, complete with separate nictitating membranes. “Among other things, I’ve got a touch of raptor DNA in me, giving me extraordinary eyesight.”
Roberta gasped out loud, feigning surprise. “You?” She stared at him with wide-eyed confusion. “But how—I don’t understand. . . .”
“It’s very simple,” he explained. “To my mind, my duty as an American takes precedence over the dictates of my tainted DNA, therefore I’ve vowed to defend humanity against my own kind.” He brought his fist down hard upon the desktop, rattling the neatly arranged trays of pens and paper. “Someone has to stand up for the common man, and that fight is starting here at Fort Cochise, named after the valiant Apache warrior who fought to preserve his way of life from federal troops.” Deeply felt emotion thickened his voice. “He defied the Beast for eleven years. I intend to win that battle, no matter the cost.”
That’s exactly what scares me, Roberta thought, recalling why she had decided to infiltrate the AEV in the first place. Crazed, right-wing militias, packed with trigger-happy gun nuts and conspiracy theorists, were dangerous enough, but a militia headed by a genetically engineered Übermensch . . . ? That was something she wanted to keep a very close eye on, especially given the rapid growth of Morrison’s private army. She had already tried planting an undercover operative inside the AEV, only to have her agent die in a mysterious “car wreck” several weeks ago. If nothing else, she thought, feeling a pang of guilt over the spy’s death, I owe it to her to make sure the AEV doesn’t claim any more victims.
“Ohmigod,” she exclaimed, giving Morrison the reaction he expected. “I always knew there was a conspiracy at work, eating away at our freedom, but I never guessed how truly diabolical the threat really was!” Roberta figured she deserved an Oscar for her performance. Eat your heart out, Meryl Streep. “You must let me stay and do what I can to help the cause!”
The really ironic thing was, Morrison was right in a way. Genetically engineered supermen were out to take over the world, unbeknownst to ninety-nine percent of the general public. Khan, in particular, would like nothing better than to establish a New World Order with himself on top. Unfortunately, Roberta feared that Morrison’s agenda of violent resistance was primarily driven by acute paranoia and his own inflated sense of manifest destiny. The U.N. and Bill Clinton aren’t the problem, she thought; it’s super-charged loose cannons like Khan and Morrison.
Avian eyes looked her over speculatively. “Let me be straight with you.” Pulling out a drawer beneath his desk, he removed a bulging file folder held shut by thick rubber bands. He dropped the file onto the desktop, where it landed with a muffled thud. “We’ve had you checked out thoroughly; otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”
Roberta recalled all the hours she, Seven, and the Beta 6 had spent painstakingly constructing Bobbie Landers’s phony existence, complete with birth certificate, Social Security number, past addresses, employment history, academic records, magazine subscriptions, deceased ex-husbands, and so on. Guess it all paid off, she thought, although I’m probably never going get off some of those crazier mailing lists!
“Trust me,” she promised mendaciously. Years of undercover missions, as everything from a nun to a trapeze artist, had taught her how to lie convincingly. “I’ve got nothing to hide.”
Morrison sliced through the rubber bands with an eagle-headed silver letter opener and spread open Roberta’s file. He began flipping through the enclosed documents faster than Evelyn Wood, perhaps to demonstrate his superhuman powers of comprehension. “Your résumé checks out,” he observed, “and you seem reasonably fit for a woman your age.”
Ouch! Roberta thought. I’m only forty-five!
“Nevertheless, besides your undeniable commitment, I’m not entirely sure what else you bring to the party.” He looked up from the file’s contents, regarding Roberta with a sympathetic but skeptical expression. “We have a difficult struggle ahead, against the toughest of foes, and I wonder if you’re exactly army material.”
“I see,” Roberta said frostily. She rose from her chair, as if preparing to exit with as much matronly dignity as she could muster. Then, without warning, she jabbed her elbow into the six-pack abs of the hulking bodyguard standing behind her. He doubled over, and she grabbed onto his ears until he shrieked with pain.
She let him suffer for a second, then released his ears, just to give him a chance to retaliate. His leathery face red with rage, he lunged for her with both hands. Roberta was ready for him. One deft jujitsu move later, Porter was flat on his back on top of Morrison’s desk, crushing Roberta’s file beneath his expertly redirected weight. A quick karate chop to the appropriate pressure point effectively ended the uneven skirmish; Roberta stepped back from the desk, wiping her hands of any unpleasantness.
“Well?” she asked Morrison, arching an eyebrow.
The militia leader’s jaw dropped in mid-chew. His startled gaze swung between Roberta and the poleaxed guard and back again. “Lord have mercy!” he exclaimed, then let loose an enormous belly laugh and slapped the desktop in a burst of boisterous enthusiasm.
“Welcome to the AEV, Freewoman Landers!”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
PALAIS DES NATIONS
UNITED NATIONS
GENEVA, SWITZERLAND
AUGUST 29, 1994
“THE SERBIAN PEOPLE HAVE NOTHING TO APOLOGIZE FOR!” VASILY Hunyadi roared defiantly, pounding his fist upon the black marble podium of the Grand Assembly Hall. Over two thousand hostile faces, representing nearly every nation of the world, as well as some eight hundred members of the international press, stared down at him from behind their green leather-covered desks. Seated in alphabetical order, from Albania to Zimbabwe, the gathered delegates seriously outnumbered the one-eyed Romanian dictator, but he was not intimidated by the throng of naysayers, even though he knew that the vast majority of his audience considered him a war criminal. “We have only acted to reclaim our rightful territories, and to ensure the genetic purity of our population.” He had come to Geneva to address this plenary session of the United Nations to demonstrate to all the world that he was not afraid of defying public opinion and international censure in pursuit of a Greater Serbia. Many of his more timorous advisors had counseled against this appearance, fearing for his safety away from his well-defended strongholds in Serbia and Bosnia-Herzegovina, but he trusted that the European headquarters of the U.N. provided a secure enough venue for his bold repudiation of the outside world’s self-righteous charges and accusations. Not even Khan, he had reasoned, would dare to strike at a grand assembly of the United Nations (although, just be to safe, his spies were carefully watching all of Khan’s known operatives in Europe). The only thing I have to fear, Hunyadi mused, is any weakening of my own iron resolve.
Which meant that he feared nothing at all.
“Send your NATO warplanes!” he thundered from the podium, clad in a severe gray suit reminiscent of the Soviet era. His bushy black eyebrows and drooping mustache were animated by the fervor of his delivery. “Drop your smart bombs! Enact your petty economic sanctions!” He visualized himself on CNN, addressing the entire planet. “We shall not be deterred. My stouthearted forces and I will not refrain from driving our enemies from the Balkans by any means necessary!”
There was a momentary delay while the U.N.’s simultaneous interpreters translated his Russian into Arabic, Chinese, English, French, and Spanish, then a cacophony of angry muttering and catcalls greeted his brazenly unapologetic oration. Hunyadi smiled thinly beneath his hirsute upper lip. Let them jabber like the unevolved apes they are, he thought contemptuously, pausing to let the scandalized delegates voice their impotent objections. A superior will always triumphs over the clucking of the weak and foolish.
Above and behind him, mounted on the sloping, bronze-plated wall of the spacious Assembly Hall, the circular emblem of the United Nations lent its imprimatur to the proceedings. Hunyadi was preparing to speak again, to aggressively warn the U.N.’s member nations against any further interference in the affairs of Eastern Europe, when a peculiar odor reached his superhumanly acute nostrils. What is that smell? he wondered irritably, wrinkling his nose in disgust. It stinks like a dead rat.
He appeared to be the first to notice the stench, but, within moments, he saw puzzled delegates and journalists sniffing and looking around in confusion. A hideous possibility entered his mind, sending an icy chill down his spine, and he looked up in dismay at the ventilation grilles meant to provide fresh air to the crowded Assembly Hall. He did not see any noxious vapors entering the chamber via the vents, but that did not mean that there was nothing there.
The first symptoms struck before he had a chance to escape. Hunyadi suddenly experienced trouble breathing, as though a heavy weight had been dropped upon his chest. Mucus streamed from his nose, sliming his bristly mustache. His head started pounding and his single eye burned, tearing up beyond control. He tried to speak, to call for help, but his tongue was numb, his speech slurred. Chills racked his body. His teeth chattered. His throat ached.
Nor was he alone in his distress. Through a watery eye, he saw many members of his audience succumbing to the same unexpected affliction. Distinguished diplomats and their aides panicked and bolted from their desks, coughing and vomiting uncontrollably. Pandemonium broke out amidst the entire august assembly, producing a babel of terrified voices in over a dozen different languages. Stricken delegates fell to the floor, a bloody froth appearing at the corners of their mouth. Too late, Hunyadi recognized the telltale signs of a weapon he himself had considered using on occasion.
Sarin, he realized in horror. Nerve gas!
“The Palais des Nations became the home of the U.N. in Geneva in 1946 and it is now the busiest office of the United Nations outside New York City in America. The room you are currently standing in is known as the Salle des Pas Perdus, and is the main foyer of the Grand Assembly Hall. The elegant decor features fine marble from all around the world, while the floor is made from imported pink marble from Finland.”
The English-speaking tour guide paused to let the group admire the palatial lobby. Claire Raymond, a thirty-five-year-old homemaker from Secaucus, looked around in respectful awe at the high ceiling and looming marble columns, as well as the lofty bay windows looking out on nearby Lake Geneva. Clear, crisp sunlight filtered through the high windows, the better to show off the luster of all the polished stone. In the distance, she could even see the snow-capped peak of Mont Blanc.
It’s a shame Donald and the boys can’t be here, she thought wistfully. Unfortunately, her husband was tied up in an important meeting this afternoon, while their two sons, Tommy and Eddie, had been too busy in school to tag along on their father’s business trip. Claire made a mental note to pick up some nice postcards after the tour was over.
The friendly guide called their attention to a pair of immense bronze doors. “Behind these doors, masterfully decorated in Renaissance style, is the Grand Assembly Hall, where delegates from around the world meet to discuss issues of international importance.” A pair of bored guards in matching blue uniforms stood outside the brass doors, and the guide shrugged his shoulders apologetically. “I’m afraid that, for security reasons, the Hall is not open to the public while the Assembly is in session, but perhaps you’ll be able to come back and see it another day.”
Murmurs of disappointment rose from the rest of the tour group, but Claire couldn’t blame the U.N. for taking no chances, especially given all the trouble in the world today. She had been favorably impressed by the tight security at the Palais; just to enter the building she’d had to go through a metal detector and let a guard inspect the contents of her handbag. A bit time-consuming, to be sure, but better safe than sorry.
Just as the guide was getting ready to lead them on to the next stage of the tour, a horrible caterwauling, like an entire mob of people being tortured, came through the huge double doors leading to the Assembly Hall. Claire heard ear-piercing screams of terror, only slightly muffled by the thick brass gates. Oh my God! she thought, suddenly aware that something dreadful was happening. What’s going on?
The twin guards looked at each other in alarm, but before they could do anything to investigate, the massive doors burst open, spilling forth a flood of well-dressed men and women running for their lives. They pushed and clawed at each other in their headlong rush out of the assembly chamber. Plastic headphones still dangled around some of the delegates’ necks, and their hands were clamped protectively over their mouths and noses.
Thinking fast, Claire threw herself up against a soaring bay window in order to avoid being trampled by the riotous stampede. Her hands clasped over her mouth in extreme fear, her back pressed tightly against the towering sheet of glass, she watched the nightmarish scene unfold before her eyes.
Many of the fleeing people, she noticed, seemed to be suffering from some sort of ghastly sickness or seizure. Foaming at the mouth, or throwing up violently, they collapsed onto the pink granite floor and began twitching spasmodically, unable to help themselves or even avoid being stepped on by the panicked diplomats running behind them, trying desperately to outrun whatever unspeakable evil had attacked the assembly. A white-haired African gentleman,
his face streaked with tears, dropped onto his hands and knees only a few feet away from Claire. He reached toward her piteously, crying out for help in a language she didn’t recognize, and she was shocked to see that the pupils of his eyes had contracted until they were nothing more than tiny dots. Flecks of pinkish foam dribbled from his cracked and bleeding lips. His tongue looked swollen and inflamed.
Tentatively, she eased away from the wall, cautiously extending her arm toward the fallen man. Just as her outstretched fingers came within inches of his, however, a shrieking tide of fear-crazed tourists and U.N. attendees crashed over him, dragging him under. Choking back screams, Claire backed away once more, unable to do anything to keep the elderly stranger from being trampled to death. Yet more terrified people rushed past her, their eyes and noses streaming, their tortured bodies shaking and jerking convulsively.
This is insane! she despaired, battling hysteria. Scared almost out of her wits, she wanted to get away, but feared getting caught, and perhaps seriously injured, in the middle of the frenzied exodus. And what if the maddened horde was contagious? I don’t understand! she thought. What’s causing this?
Her frightened gaze swept the foyer, searching feverishly for some kind of explanation. Through sheer happenstance, she spotted something odd. Across the floor, on the other side of the Salle des Pas Perdus, a man wearing a surgical mask emerged from an inconspicuous side door labeled, in English and French, KEEP OUT! MAINTENANCE PERSONNEL ONLY. Unlike everyone else in sight, including Claire, the masked man, who was dressed in a grease-stained olive jumpsuit, like a janitor or maintenance worker, did not appear shocked or appalled by the bizarre disaster engulfing the U.N. Instead, he looked on coolly while holding on to an innocuous-looking tin lunch box, which he opened in an unhurried and deliberate manner. Carefully keeping clear of the scrambling people, he produced a small hypodermic syringe, like diabetics used, and expertly injected himself in the forearm. Insulin, Claire wondered, or an antidote?