The assassin listened patiently as Kevin explained his entire evening. The spy moved to the couch, and Kyle leaned against the wall. When Anderson mentioned the part about them heading for a plane, Kyle muttered, “I’ll have to kill them–”
“Too late.”
Elsen reflected a shadow of a smile and there was a light chuckle emanating from somewhere within his throat. “You killed them all?”
“Not yet.” He looked at his watch. “Now.” Kevin elaborated, then mentioned the Masada program. “By the way, how much did Omega owe you for whacking my informant?”
“Thirty.”
Kevin reached into his back pocket—slowly, he didn’t want Kyle to shoot him out of reflex—and tossed him a bundle of cash. “Think of it as them paying you from beyond the grave.”
Kyle’s fingers tightened on thin air, obviously imagining Kevin’s throat. “I do not take charity, Mr. Anderson.”
The spy chuckled. “You think I don’t know that? They paid all of us ten grand, remember? I had a bundle, as did the guard and the two lab techs. So, I give you twenty, keep twenty, and we’re all happy. It’s not my money, they won’t need any, and they owe you. Just call me your bill collector.” Kevin smiled.
Kyle hated it when the spy smiled. He eyed the money carefully and conspicuously moved on. “Why didn’t you let them kill us?”
Kevin looked at him. “From other people, I expect that, but you? Do you really need me to answer that?”
Kyle smiled. He didn’t, not really. But he liked hearing the spy tell him anyway: Anderson still had a hope of getting out of this Hell, and he wanted to, badly. The rest of San Francisco had gotten what they wanted, and all they deserved—a world of no responsibilities, where they could follow whatever hedonistic desire they wanted. They wanted the Wasteland, they got it, and they would, appropriately, go out with a whimper. Kevin was different—Elsen suspected he would go out with a bang.
“I don’t assume,” he answered.
“I have two goals. Getting back to the Coast, but more importantly, getting there with my soul relatively intact.”
Elsen believed Kevin's casual honesty—with him, the spy’s secrecy was guaranteed by the assassin’s indifference. Kevin saw San Francisco as the enemy, as though it were a group of devils vying for his soul. Even Kyle thought he was holding up admirably; he’d had several Exiled on his hit list in the past, and they died relatively easy. Kevin was as sharp as he had been when he’d first arrived, possibly sharper.
“Besides, I have a debt of honor to pay to my people,” Kevin continued. “They’re not defenseless without me, and there are the Children … ”
Elsen nodded. “I know. They think I also serve their Saint Jack…” The assassin paused for a moment then looked away, almost uncomfortable. He turned back to Anderson. “What do you know of history before the Last Day?”
Kevin didn’t react for a moment. Elsen didn’t like asking anyone for help, and didn’t like to rely on anyone for information offhand.
“So-so,” the spy answered at last. “Anything specific?”
“The Children worship a saint named Jack Kevorkian. Their medals have him standing before a set of gates.”
Kevin paused a moment, then he chuckled softly. “That actually makes sense. Kevorkian was a doctor in the late Twentieth century who performed ‘physician assisted suicides’ on patients who were ‘suffering.’ He only 'put them out of their pain.' Fah!” he spat. “They called him an ‘angel of mercy,’ quotes intended. I only heard about him in an ethics course. It’s disturbing to hear, but at least the image fits.” He sighed. “Well, if at some point you want any help eradicating them, give me a call. If I wanted to have a pet, it wouldn’t be a peeve, I’m more of a dog person myself, but the Children…”
That brought a slight smile to Elsen’s face, but he made sure to turn away before Kevin saw it.
“Any word on that moron who tried to kill you?” Kevin asked.
Elsen looked back. “He’s taken care of.” He chuckled in a manner Kevin could only define as evil.
“Should I ask how many pieces he’s in?”
“One.”
Kevin shrugged. “Look at it this way: at least they’re getting dumber. My family back east had several cops in it, and they had a very, very thick ‘thank God they’re stupid’ folder. You now know why.”
Elsen nodded. “By the way, Wellering offered you a job. Why didn’t you take it?”
Kevin leaned back. “I take care of Chinatown, but if I disappeared tomorrow, they’d cope. If I took a permanent position… Even a woman as brilliant as Kaye Wellering has been seduced by the power of her position, and she’s taken up the responsibility of caring for her hackers. If I took on a permanent position, I’d become a fixture. In short, it may be better to reign in Hell than to serve in Heaven, but those who reign in Hell are furthest from the exit.”
The spy smiled. “Ah well, it’s a shame that no one will get my transmission. Kaye got it to those who must know on the East Coast. Pity no one else will ever know what happened.”
*
Amanda Esmeralda Rohaz slipped into her father's office. She had gotten no reports of anything deadly turning up in San Francisco, and according to the Mercenaries’ tracking systems, the plane for the Omega Corporation had gone down in the Midwest Wastelands, everyone reported as dead. Obviously, someone hadn't used the autopilot. Maybe there had been turbulence.
Or maybe Kevin killed all of them. Served them right. They could have killed Dad.
Mandy slipped off her helmet, holsters, body armor and boots, and fell down, face first, on the couch in her father's office. She had spent some time following Kevin to understand how he was getting along in San Francisco, and before she could ponder what she had seen that evening, she promptly fell asleep...
Until her father slammed the door open and said, “Mandy, you are going to Bethlehem—apparently, your dear Anderson has created another maelstrom.”
Chapter 29: A Voice Crying out in the Wilderness
July 1st, 2093, Bethlehem
Eli Allon walked along the marble plaza of the Vatican and sighed. He had a pretty good idea why he was here. He was sent because he was different, but he was requested because of some small hell in San Francisco, which bore a great resemblance to any conception of Hell that he’d ever heard of.
Last month, an open transmission was made from a section of North America formerly a part of the United States of America. It was intercepted by various and sundry people, including several who started tearing their hair out at their first thought that the sender was still alive. A man named Kevin Anderson had released the transmission, and a small portion of Hell, in addition. Among other people to have intercepted this message was the Vatican Intelligence Service. These intercepts were forwarded directly from the embassy in Washington D.C. and sent on to Bethlehem.
Eli reached the steps of St. Peter’s Basilica and turned to look back behind him. In the center of St. Peter’s Square was a tall obelisk. He knew why it had originally been placed in the square. It was supposed to be where St. Peter, the first Pope, had been crucified. However, the obelisk was no longer at that location—it had been over a hundred miles west of where it now stood. The obelisk was in the square because it had been in the same relative position when it was in Italy.
But now it was in Bethlehem, and the natural human instinct to preserve what had been had become greatly enhanced by the destruction. The Vatican had been recreated in exacting detail. To start with, all of the treasures of the Vatican vault had been moved to Bethlehem several years before the nuclear attack that vaporized the 100-acre country. The archivists still held onto documents from the divorce petition of Henry VIII of England in the 16th century, among other tons of miscellanea.
Eli smiled at the view beyond the Vatican walls. What once, thirty years ago, had been an exclusively urban setting now consisted of green fields, thanks to extensive terraforming as well as the recreation of the Vatica
n in Israeli territory.
He turned and went to the Vatican offices, circling around St. Peter’s. He went past the Sistine Chapel, which was mostly original, and to the offices of the Vatican. The latter building was shaped more like a decorative marble breadbox, in his opinion, but that was just how he saw it, he supposed. He walked past the Swiss guards, and nearly found himself chuckling. They still wore the odd-looking costumes out of a Gilbert and Sullivan operetta, designed by Michelangelo himself, in gold and burgundy colors with tall halberds by their sides. They would never have a need to use them, but ceremony was, after all, ceremony.
Eli Allon took the elevator to the fourth floor, and strode past the Pope’s offices to those of the office of Vatican Intelligence, and its leader, Auxiliary Bishop Samuel “Flechette” Pritchett, OP. He was nicknamed for his ability to make someone feel his displeasure as though they had been worked over with a flechette pistol.
Ironically, Bishop Pritchett was a small man with a thin black beard and a thin, black-clad body. His hair wasn’t especially immaculate, and everyone Eli associated with in his work suspected that it was being dyed constantly, but not one of them could prove it.
“Eli, please, sit…” Pritchett said, speaking softly. “I have recently come to understand that there is a transmission come from San Francisco.”
He nodded. “Anderson.”
“Remember how you said that we shouldn’t get involved in the matter of Anderson and the Intelligence Committee?”
The Israeli nodded. “Letting him kill off the Senators worked for us so much better than filing complaints about their intelligence leaks. How many of our people had been lost due to them?”
“Too many, Eli, far too many,” the Bishop told him. “However, as far as the contact from Anderson goes, it apparently says something about the Omega Corporation being up to no particular good. However, did you notice something odd about it?”
Eli knew exactly where this was heading. “No I didn’t, your Eminence.”
“There was no mention of anyone from Israel, my dear man. How do you account for this?”
“The Knesset’s been rather busy and—”
“Oh?” Bishop Pritchett said. “Really? It is? Well, I am so sorry, Eli. I did not know I was inconveniencing you. Three years ago, when I mentioned that priests were slaughtering one another in San Francisco, with others being tortured to death by drug dealers—sorry, Brokers—and other miscellaneous miscreants, you said there was nothing more important than dealing with the situation, and you would send men into the city to come to their aid.”
The Bishop shifted in his seat, eyes hardening slightly. “But, as you say, you’ve been busy, so something more pressing must have come up since then. I find it funny, though, you have never mentioned such a thing to me, or otherwise I would have endeavored to help our dear friends in the Knesset. Tell me what I can do to be of service, Eli.” His voice had hardened as he spoke, causing Eli to become somewhat nervous. He had no desire to upset the Bishop.
Eli would have had a much easier time replying if Pritchett hadn’t been so soft spoken and kind about the whole situation. His tone never varied from being perfectly understanding and his volume never rose at all. Finally, Eli spoke. “I am sorry, your Eminence, but we do not have enough men available to send to the city.”
“Oh? Then I’m sure you must have a few women who would be able to go,” Bishop Pritchett answered. “From what I understand, your female members of Sayaret have even better kill rates than some of the men of your Special Forces. Dear me, I would like to see these ladies walking the streets of San Francisco at night in order to vanquish multiple assailants. They could neutralize half the problems of the city within the week.”
Eli tried not to roll his eyes. “Sam, no one wants to go.”
Bishop Pritchett blinked, and then stroked his beard thoughtfully. “So you have a mutiny within your ranks? That your entire military has refused to accept orders to go to San Francisco? I am most surprised, even more surprised that you kept so many people arrested for so long.”
“We haven’t arrested anyone, your Eminence. To go to San Francisco, sir… well… it’s… more of a volunteer mission than it is an order.”
The bishop arched a brow. “Oh. Is it?”
Eli had never before encountered someone who could drop the temperature of room ten degrees with two words. “Sam, you know the Israeli government can’t make anyone go into what is essentially a combat zone when we have no military interests there.”
Pritchett dropped the hand to his desk. “It’s funny, Eli, I seem to recall the rest of the planet saying the same thing about Israel since 1948, but perhaps my memory is wrong. Then again, I also saw the invitation sent for the Vatican to be brought to Israel, and it said ‘Your enemies are our enemies, your friends are our friends,’ but perhaps I misread it.”
“Oh, come on, Sam,” Eli protested, “You and I both know this is impossible. In the grand scheme of things, San Francisco is nothing! A sinkhole!”
The head of Vatican intelligence leaned forward, his pale blue eyes blazing. “You gave me your word, Eli,” he said, his voice still at a conversational volume, but his tone was solid. “I heard you say that only Israel had the ability and the ‘luxury’ of being able to do anything.”
“Sam,” Eli replied gently. He was no longer Eli Allon, but a representative of Israel. “…the Vatican, Catholicism itself, would no longer exist if Israel hadn't been kind enough to take you in—”
“Bull, Eli,” Pritchett interrupted flatly. “The Vatican could have been nuked with the entire hierarchy still in it and the Catholic Church would have still lurched on the next day. The bishops would elect a new candidate to the papacy, and then that Pope creates Cardinals and extra bishops, and they could all move into a hotel in Dublin… You can’t wipe out the Catholic Church. We’re like cockroaches—you can’t kill us, and no one wants us. We could have moved the Vatican to any of the other places in Israel we already owned; we didn’t need a land grant from you. Besides, you yourself once noted that we were given Bethlehem and Jerusalem, since we are a neutral party and Islam couldn't complain, so don’t say we’re here purely because of your benevolence. You couldn’t give me a straight and simple ‘no’ for an answer when we asked about San Francisco the first time?”
Pritchett voice began to soften as he continued. “But we… I…let you drag it out forever, and now the situation has escalated. Anderson’s transmission made mention of a program designed to take us and the rest of the world to oblivion if San Francisco is destroyed. This has gone far enough. We will be sending in our own people.”
Eli waited a moment before his jaw dropped. “You are going to send priests in to San Francisco? Are you insane? What madman would you send to that deathtrap?”
“I’m so glad you asked.”
The office door opened, and Eli glanced to his right. The doorway was filled with a huge priest. He wasn’t tall, just massive. He couldn’t have been more than 5’10” tall, and perhaps not even that, but his limbs appeared to have been borrowed from someone four inches taller, with big, beefy hands that could likely crush a large fruit with almost no effort at all.
He didn’t seem to possess any discernible skin tone, his complexion somewhere around olive—a tone that left it questionable whether or not he was of African or European descent. His eyes were very slightly almond shaped, meaning they were from either Asiatic or merely Russian Tartar descent, and those eyes were positioned over cheekbones that bulged like boulders. His hair was short and red, just beginning to go slightly silver, with eyes that were gray and piercing, studying Allon as though he were a man soon to be hurled up against a wall and locked away.
Looking at this man, Eli could only think of one phrase he had heard from, of all people, Pritchett: The Irish cop gene. “And who are you supposed to be?” he asked. “Conan?”
“Msgr. Patrick Isaac Patel,” the priest answered, giving a slight nod, “I’m the lunatic you wer
e asking about.”
Eli raised a brow. “A real PIP, are you?” He glanced over the man’s massive limbs once more. “Well, he’s big enough. How crazy are you, Father Conan?”
Bishop Pritchett gave a little cough. “You see, Eli, Jack—er, Msgr. Patel—is the founder of a new missionary society called the Holy Order of St. Patrick. He already has hundreds of men that are ready to go in to San Francisco, and hundreds more already being trained in missionary practices and the ways of the Order.”
“Does that include heavy weaponry and assassination techniques?” Eli asked. “I get the sense that’s what’s required to survive in San Francisco.”
Msgr. Patel’s gray eyes lit up like twin full moons. “That is what you’re going to help us with, Eli. Krav Maga,” he elaborated. “It translates as ‘close combat,’ but really means ‘throw the kitchen sink at them.’ I want my men trained, and you’re going to arrange it. When they're ready, you'll help us get into the city. We’ll take it from there. That’s all we need, and all I'm asking for.”
Eli felt slowed for a moment. Krav Maga was dirty street fighting. There was only rule: win. Everyone who had a belt in Krav Maga was taught to use anything as a weapon, and to use it with enough force to disable or, if it was necessary, to kill. It stole from every martial style. Some people even believed it had been the main martial art used by the Assassin’s Guild before they had been wiped out—only they had made their own additions to the style.
Bishop Pritchett spoke, adding to his thought. “You see, Eli, Church teaching holds that no man in Holy Orders is allowed to shed blood—no killing. We have had methods approved in medieval times to get the job done, but those methods are, that is to say—”
“Medieval?” Allon suggested.
The Bishop nodded. “Just so. Such as quarterstaffs, used by the monks of old.”
Codename: Winterborn (The Last Survivors Book 1) Page 32