The King of Plagues jl-3

by Jonathan Maberry

  She lifted a shopping bag that was filled with newspapers. “Bahrain Post, Gulf Daily News, Cyprus Mail, Al-Ahram Weekly, Tehran Globe … I could go on and on, Hugo. Want me to get the rest from my office?”

  “Okay, okay, Circe, but we have to look beyond the reportage. Have you established for certain that these crimes are related to the Goddess posts?”

  “I don’t know if it’s even possible to prove that, but look at the timing.” She unfolded a flowchart and spread it over the mountain range of papers. “See? The red line marks the first of the anti-Islam posts and here’s the first of the Protocols of Zion posts. Now look at the blue line. Those are incidents of hate crimes. Look at the spikes.”

  “These are all hate crimes against Muslims?”

  “No. Some are against Jews.”

  “By Muslims?”

  “Not always. Some are from anti-Semitic and anti-Zionist groups composed of Christians and others, but—”

  “So, we’re seeing hate crimes go up, but they’re not all specific to the message of the Goddess?”

  “No, but—”

  “This is supposition, Circe. I can surf the Net and build a case that the widespread popularity of Hello Kitty was responsible for the fall of the Nixon presidency.” When she looked blank, he gave her a Cheshire cat grin. “Hello Kitty hit the U.S. in 1974, same year as Watergate. I bet I could do a flowchart and probably make a good enough case to get a book deal out of it.”

  “How do you know this stuff?”

  He grinned and tapped his head. “I am filled with useless trivia. I’d clean the hell up on Jeopardy! Point is, kiddo, this data is interesting, but it still doesn’t make your case.”

  “That’s the thing, Hugo; with the Net it’s almost impossible to collect hard, verifiable evidence. That’s why groups like the Goddess use it.”

  “Say that’s true, so how do we separate that out and give it more credence than the ten billion other equally well-documented conspiracy theories, lies, exaggerations, wishful thinking, and pure bullshit that comprise the World Wide goddamn Web?”

  Circe sagged. “What are you saying, that we ignore it?”

  Vox looked genuinely surprised. “Hell no! I really think you’re on to something here, kiddo, but we’re talking about making a case to the lunkheads in Washington who have an ironclad record for ignoring good leads and following bad ones.”

  “The DMS is different,” she said.

  “Sure, and if we take this to the DMS and we’re wrong, D.C. will fry us. No one is supposed to bring anything to them unless it’s verified to the highest possible probability, and right now that isn’t how we can label this. Personal belief alone doesn’t cut it.” He took a breath. “In the meantime, what’s your next step?”

  She was momentarily flustered, then steadied herself with a breath. “I created a few e-mail accounts with goddess names and have posted responses phrased to coax a more definitive statement, but most of the posters are clearly not core to this. Unfortunately, I haven’t yet gotten any responses that I can say are clearly from someone in the know.”

  “If someone even is in the know.”

  “If,” she agreed reluctantly. “But I believe that the Goddess is real, and I believe that the group she represents poses a real threat.”

  “I hear you, but until we have facts we can’t build a case for it being a clear and present—and therefore actionable—danger.” He tossed the report onto the desk. “What do you suppose their motive is?”

  “I don’t know. ‘Chaos’ doesn’t seem to be a profitable goal.”

  “I guess not.” He tapped the report with a half-eaten Gummi worm. “You know, ever since you brought this to me I’ve been back and forth with the State Department, the FBI and CIA, and the Israelis. None of them think that this is coming from Israel. I mean, beyond the tension that’s been going on since—oh, I don’t know, Moses parted the fucking Red Sea, there isn’t anyone in Israel who thinks Jews are involved in this at all.”

  She nodded. “The more I read the Goddess’s Net postings the more I’m convinced they are designed to do the reverse of what they’re saying, just like the Protocols. By pretending to support and justify Israeli aggression against Islam, they’re actually trying to frame them as terrorists. The problem is … it might be working. Whether they blew up the mosque or not doesn’t matter as long as the right people think they did.”

  “Which brings us back to the third-party possibility.” He rubbed his eyes. “Keep on this. But maybe you can drop a bug in the ear of that British broad you’re friends with.”

  “Grace Courtland?”

  “Yeah. Get her take on it, but on the down low. Nothing official. If she thinks you have something, then I’ll reach out to Mr. Church. But take it slow, kiddo. One step at a time.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Whitechapel, London

  December 17, 5:25 P.M. GMT

  Director Childe arranged to have me detailed to the Metropolitan Police unit working the neighborhood around the fire scene. When I explained that Ghost was, among other things, a bomb sniffer, that amped up my usefulness.

  No official statement had been given about the three assassins, but rumors within the police department hinted that an American was involved and that the officers might be tied to a terrorist cell responsible for the London Hospital bombing. My name was not mentioned, and yet the constables I worked with treated me with distance and caution. Fair enough, because after what happened outside Barrier I didn’t trust any of them, either.

  Everyone in London was paranoid. Everyone had reason.

  The search team to which I was attached was composed of more than three hundred officers and detectives, and a comprehensive door-to-door search was under way. Everyone was being interviewed.

  First thing I did was visit the fire site. Jerry Spencer was already there when Ghost and I arrived. Jerry was in his fifties, with iron gray hair, an unsmiling face, and intensely dark eyes. His mouth wore a perpetual smile of disapproval and disappointment.

  I held out my hand. “Jerry, great to see you. How was the flight?”

  He eyed me like I was a side dish he hadn’t ordered. “Joe,” he said without inflection. He kept his hands in his pockets. Jerry looked down at my dog and grunted. Jerry didn’t have any pets. I suspect he wasn’t allowed to.

  “Taking it back,” I murmured as I lowered my hand.

  “Heard they tried to make a run at you,” he said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Fuckers.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed. I waited for him to say something else, maybe ask after my health and well-being. He started walking toward a pair of his assistants who were unpacking his gear from several large metal suitcases.

  “Do we have anything yet?” I asked, falling into step beside him.

  Jerry shrugged.

  “And that means—?”

  “It means fuck off until I call you and tell you I got something.”

  “Love you, too, man,” I said, and clicked my tongue for Ghost. We left Jerry to it. Gloomy bastard.

  I JOINED UP with the constables working the door-to-door. They partnered me with a very bright but also very young detective sergeant named Rebekkah Owlstone. She coordinated two dozen teams and together we met with thousands of residents; we asked tens of thousands of questions. We took names, dates, addresses, observations, speculations, rumors, unfounded accusations, political diatribes, opinions, and crackpot theories. What we didn’t get was a solid lead of any kind. We kept at it through the rest of that terrible first day and straight through into the new day that dawned gray and bleak and devoid of promise. We were no further along than we had been the day before.

  I called to check on the shooters, but so far the background checks hadn’t popped up any leads.

  We were chasing phantoms.

  Interlude Eleven

  The State Correctional Institution at Graterford

  Graterford, Pennsylvania

  December
18, 3:26 A.M. EST

  Dr. Stankeviius sat upright behind his desk, his palms placed flat so that he could press against the blotter to keep his fingers from trembling. “You asked to see me, Nicodemus?”

  Nicodemus stood between the towering guards, a man who was a dichotomy in flesh. His small stature and frail bones suggested weakness and vulnerability, and yet his personality and charisma were like a dark tower of steel and cold stone. He dominated the room and he hadn’t yet spoken a single word.

  “Please have a seat,” said the doctor.

  Nicodemus’s lips writhed as he sat and there was the gleam of spittle at the corners of his mouth. “Thank you for taking time from your busy day, Doctor,” he said softly.

  “It is the middle of the night. What is it you wanted to see me about? Was there something you forgot to tell me yesterday?”

  “I have had a dream.”

  “A dream?”

  “Some would call it a vision.” His eyes were half-hidden by the shadows cast by the bony overhang of his brow.

  “What was the nature of this vision?”

  “Revelatory. It is a time of great discovery, Doctor. The Imperial Eye has opened and the Eye sees what the Elders see, and it is well pleased. The Eye can see into the minds of the Elders and what it sees is deemed good.”

  “I—”

  “Plagues will be visited upon the lands of Empire—and upon those who have broken faith with the Sons of Moses.”

  “What does all of this mean?”

  “The voice you hear is mine, but the servant is a vessel through which the Goddess speaks for all to hear. It is the time for all who believe to rise and be counted. False prophets have been heard throughout the land, but paradise does not wait for the bringers of small fire. The true face of the All shines not on those who use the sickle to hew down the wheat staffs that grow in the field of the Goddess. The true face of the All shines upon those who have never strayed from the winding path that leads through the desert.”

  Dr. Stankeviius sighed and leaned back. “Nicodemus, I’m sorry but I’m not in the mood for this. You said that you had important information for me. If you have information regarding the murder of Jesus Santiago, then—”

  Nicodemus suddenly leaned forward. The guards jumped in surprise and almost—almost—made a grab for him, but neither of them seemed capable or willing to lay hands upon the little man. Dr. Stankeviius recoiled from the wild look in Nicodemus’s eyes. His eyes flared wide so that the whites could be seen all around the irises, but those irises seemed to have darkened from a mottled green-brown to a black as dark as midnight. It was a trick of the light, Stankeviius told himself.

  A trick of the light.

  “They are coming,” whispered Nicodemus in a voice that was unrecognizable as his own and barely recognizable as human. It passed through the doctor’s mind like a cold wind.

  The room went still.

  “How will you be judged when the Sons of the Goddess sit on their thrones? When the Elders reclaim what is theirs and the Goddess reaches out her dark and shining hand across the face of this world, will you stand with the wicked and be cast into everlasting perdition? Or … will you stand with the Chosen and be counted as a warrior of heaven?”

  Stankeviius felt his skin crawl. When he exhaled he could see the vapor of his own breath. But that was impossible; the thermostat was permanently set at sixty-eight.

  Nicodemus bent forward another inch so that now his eyes were completely hidden by the shadows of his pale, craggy brow.

  “The Elders have appealed to the Goddess and she has sent her judgment.”

  “Wh-what judgment, Nicodemus?” stammered the doctor, his body suddenly wracked by a shiver. It was so cold in the room that his teeth hurt.

  Nicodemus smiled so that his full lips were stretched thin over wet teeth. “She has sent Ten Plagues, just as the God sent Ten Plagues in His turn. The first was a rain of fire and ash that filled the streets of the new city. Woe to the children of the wicked that they did not listen, that their hearts were hardened as the Pharaoh’s heart was hardened. But the Goddess did not harden the hearts of the wicked. Anyone who says that she did is a liar and blasphemer. The wicked need no help in hardening their own hearts. They are defiant in their iniquity.”

  “What are you talking about? What are these plagues?”

  The guards edged away from him, their hands on the riot sticks hanging from belt loops. Neither of them looked at each other or to Dr. Stankeviius. Each was locked in his own private moment, each caught up in his own damaged reaction to this man.

  Nicodemus sat straight, bringing his face down toward Dr. Stankeviius. He opened his eyes and for a moment—for a terrible single moment—his eyes were completely black. No iris, no sclera.

  “Lo! And behold the rise of the Seven Kings. All shall fall before them!”

  He blinked and his eyes were normal again.

  A trick of the light, Dr. Stankeviius told himself. Just a trick of that damned light.

  Nicodemus sat still and did not say another word.

  After a few minutes Dr. Stankeviius ordered the guards to take Nicodemus back to his cell. When the door was closed and the sounds of their footsteps faded, Dr. Stankeviius rose and tottered toward his bathroom. He stared for a long minute into his own bloodshot and haunted eyes. He sank to his knees as a wave of nausea slammed into him; then he flipped up the lip of the toilet and vomited into it. Again and again until his stomach churned and twisted on nothing.

  Only a trick of the light.

  Except that he was sure that it wasn’t.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Whitechapel, London

  December 18, 7:29 A.M. GMT

  Next morning I caught two chilly hours’ sleep in the back of a police car while Ghost kept watch, and then shambled to a pub for a late breakfast. Eggs, sausage, bacon, toast, and jam. I’m a big believer in the adage of eating breakfast like a king, lunch like a prince, and dinner like a pauper. Except that I tended to eat lunch and dinner like a king, too. That way there were plenty of leftovers for the mouth-on-legs that was Ghost.

  I called Rudy, who was on the plane to America, and I woke him up. You’d never think that a civilized, cultured, and educated medical man like him could curse worse than Amy Winehouse on a bender.

  “You kiss your mother with that mouth?”

  “Where do you think I learned to curse?” he growled.

  I’d met his mother and I could see his point.

  “Why am I awake and talking to you?” he asked after a yawn so loud that I could hear his jaw pop over the cell phone.

  “You hear about what happened yesterday?”

  “Yes,” he said, and that fast I could hear that he’d shifted gears. “Mr. Church said that you weren’t injured. But … how are you feeling?”

  “Paranoid, scared, angry, and frustrated.”

  “I can imagine,” he said. “There’s a lot of that going around these days.”

  “We’re chasing phantoms.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, it’s just the feeling that keeps popping into my head. Trying to fight back against the Seven Kings is like trying to grab shadows. You can never put your hands on them.”

  “If I said, ‘That’s part of the spy game,’ how much of a beating would you give me?”

  I laughed. “Look, I called because I need to bang some ideas off of you before I bring them to Church.”

  “Sure,” he said, and, “As you’re so fond of saying, ‘hit me.’”

  I took a sip of coffee. “Okay, the way in which it was set up, the multiple bombs in key spots, suggests inside knowledge, and we’re probably looking at someone in authority. Barrier estimates that the bombs had to be big, hundreds of kilos of C4 or something like it. The blast didn’t have the signature of TNT, so we can probably rule out materials hijacked from a mining or demolition company. This is military grade, and that’s very hard to come by.”

  “That’s two points,” R
udy observed. “The first being the access to the building and the probable authority to allow for materials to be brought in, or to cover up the fact that they’ve already been brought in. The second point being that the bombers had access to significant amounts of military-grade materials.”

  “Right. But on the first point, that suggests more than one person.”

  “Why?”

  “Unless this was done in increments over time, it would take several people and some equipment to get all those explosives into the building. Hand trucks at least. And the materials would have to have been hidden, so maybe file cabinets filled with them. Or laundry hampers.”

  “File cabinets or hampers that no one cared to look in between the time they were brought in and the time the bombs went off,” Rudy said. “That’s not actually very hard for the right person to manage.”

  “Who would have that authority?”

  “The hospital administrator and the first tier of assistants, of course. But to move objects in carts or hand trucks you have the head of physical plant, the senior janitorial staff, and the head of housekeeping. It’s actually a longer list of people than you might think.”

  “That’s what I was thinking. So we’re probably looking at a minimum of two people working to bring the materials in under the radar of day-today operations.”

  “Or on the radar.”

  “Why?”

  Rudy thought about it. “I’ve worked in enough hospitals to know that when new resources are brought in they’re often distributed to appropriate departments but not immediately assigned to individual staff. There’s always a paperwork lag. It wouldn’t be unusual at all for new cabinets to be brought in and put in corners or disused offices or closets until they were assigned to the staff. And … another snag could be that they were brought in, but the keys hadn’t yet arrived or someone had accidentally sent the wrong keys. That’s a typical hospital snafu. At Mount Sinai we once had six brand-new cardiac crash carts sent, but the manufacturer had forgotten to ship the wheels. They sat in closets for almost two weeks before they were assigned to floors.”