Covenant

by Dean Crawford

  Tyrell nodded. “Your staff there, how are they recruited?”

  Patterson tucked his tie under his collar and began tying the knot.

  “We advertise for volunteers. Why do you ask?”

  Tyrell ignored the question.

  “What background checks do you have in place when recruiting them?”

  “All of our procedures follow recruitment laws,” Patterson replied without elaboration.

  Lopez sensed her moment instinctively when Tyrell let a silence hang in the room.

  “Do you have records of all members of staff?”

  Patterson began fastening his cuff links. “The hospital’s records are very thorough.”

  Tyrell spoke quickly, giving Patterson no room for thought.

  “Where do the funds come from to finance the hospital itself?”

  “From our congregation. We have almost thirty million members across the United States.”

  “It is more blessed to give than to receive,” Tyrell ventured.

  Patterson appeared surprised, and smiled. “It is indeed.”

  There was a long pause when neither Tyrell nor Lopez said anything, simply looked around the sumptuous office.

  “I don’t mean to pry, Officers, but what are these questions referring to?” Patterson asked. “Has a member of my staff committed a crime?”

  “No,” Tyrell said, “a member of your staff has not committed a crime.”

  Another long pause. Patterson appeared bemused. “What then?”

  “There was a patient in your hospital by the name of Daniel Neville,” Tyrell said.

  “There are so many,” Patterson said. “I have no knowledge of individual patients.”

  “You weren’t informed of the circumstances surrounding his death?” Lopez asked in surprise.

  “I’m sorry,” Patterson said, “but the AEA manages dozens of charitable organizations. I was informed that a death had occurred, and that a police officer was present at the scene.”

  “Daniel Neville,” Lopez continued smoothly, “claimed that he was taken to a laboratory where tests were conducted on him and other patients.”

  Patterson’s smile did not slip as he reached out for his jacket.

  “One does not end up in a drug rehabilitation center for no reason. Many of our younger patients have issues facing up to their addiction, and construct fantasies to justify it.”

  “So there were no experiments conducted on institute patients?” Tyrell asked.

  Patterson frowned as he slipped into his jacket.

  “None that I know of.”

  “We need to be certain,” Tyrell said, and let the bombshell drop. “It would help us to understand what happened to the bodies we found yesterday morning.”

  Patterson froze in motion. “Bodies?”

  Lopez produced a series of photographs of the dead men they had discovered and handed them to Patterson. The pastor stared down at the images in his hand as though he were handling poisonous insects.

  “Poor souls,” he said finally.

  “All three of these men were found with high levels of crack cocaine in their blood, indicative of overdose. The problem is that one died from hypothermia induced by a medical procedure, and the drugs were administered after death, not before.”

  Patterson did not look up from the photographs for a moment, leafing through them.

  “What are you suggesting?” he asked, still without looking up.

  “You have carried out experimental procedures into consciousness at the institute, is that correct, Pastor?” Lopez asked.

  Patterson stared at her for a long beat, caught up in the tangle of unexpected questions.

  “Yes, we have a history of such work.”

  “We consider this to be a homicide investigation,” Lopez said. “Daniel Neville provided enough information for us to follow leads connecting his experiences with the fate suffered by these three men, and those leads have led us here.”

  Patterson’s eyes widened. “Here?”

  Tyrell took the photographs from the pastor.

  “We believe that these men died while undergoing a medical procedure administered by one of your staff.”

  “Which one?” Patterson gaped in astonishment.

  Tyrell handed him another printed image. “Do you know this man?”

  The pastor looked down at the image and shook his head.

  “No. He is a member of my staff?”

  “We believe he was,” Lopez said. “His name is Damon Sheviz.”

  “I understand that your alliance has been heavily involved in experiments involving human volunteers,” Tyrell said.

  Patterson slowed his button fastening, leveling a calm gaze at Tyrell.

  “It is my opinion that churches around the world have been too long hoarding their finances and trying to force their followers to believe in the unbelievable, to have faith in emptiness. There can be no knowledge without study.”

  “How are these experiments conducted?” Lopez chimed in.

  “We use non-invasive means,” Patterson said. “Hypnotherapy, meditation, the study of near-death experiences in cardiac-arrest patients,” Patterson replied warily. “Where are you going with this?”

  Tyrell took the plunge.

  “We believe that Damon Sheviz is harvesting live victims to conduct illegal experiments involving the genetic creation of a chimera between a human and an unknown species.”

  Patterson’s eyes flickered.

  “That’s …” he began. “That’s ridiculous. Such procedures do not even exist.”

  “Actually, they do,” Tyrell went on. “We have gathered detailed files on this man, and we have people working on finding out where he is obtaining the equipment necessary to conduct these experiments.”

  “But he wouldn’t be able to do things like that without other staff members knowing about it and stopping him,” Patterson said.

  “I didn’t say that the procedures were conducted here,” Tyrell said, and then decided to take a chance. “We also need to know about Casey Jeffs.”

  Tyrell caught another tremor of apprehension in the pastor’s demeanor.

  “Who is he?” Patterson asked.

  “A janitor who works at the institute. You said that you run checks on your members of staff?”

  “Of course, all members are carefully vetted.”

  “Mr. Jeffs was tried for homicide,” Tyrell pointed out. “Isn’t that something that would have been a cause for concern?”

  Patterson remained rooted to the spot as he spoke.

  “Perhaps, but if Mr. Jeffs is one of our rehabilitated patients, then his employment will be a part of our rehabilitation program.”

  “For sixteen years?” Tyrell inquired.

  “I wouldn’t know how long Mr. Jeffs has been in treatment or employment,” Patterson said quickly.

  “Of course,” Tyrell replied. “We have evidence that Casey Jeffs has received private clinical treatment for most of his life without apparent financial means. Do you know anyone who may be providing this support to him?”

  Patterson stared directly into Tyrell’s eyes. “No, I’m afraid not.”

  Tyrell forced a bright smile onto his face as though nothing untoward had passed between them.

  “Thank you for your time, sir.”

  Tyrell turned and walked to the office door, letting Lopez through first before looking back into the office to where Patterson stood as though stranded.

  “Pastor? Daniel Neville.”

  “Yes?”

  “You said that you did not know him.”

  “That’s right.”

  “You also said that many of your younger patients create fantasies to cover their addictions,” Tyrell said quietly. “I did not tell you that Daniel Neville was young.”

  Patterson’s eyes quivered in their sockets.

  “Most all of our addict patients are young males,” he said. “That is a demographic of substance abuse.”

  T
yrell turned and closed the door behind him.

  “He’s covering something,” Tyrell said as he walked away with Lopez. “The only other route we’ve got is Senator Isaiah Black.”

  Lopez stared at him as though he’d turned blue.

  “You can’t just stroll into a senator’s office, Tyrell. They’ll call District or headquarters to confirm your identity and Powell will string you up by the balls long before we get through the damn door.”

  “Look, if we can get Isaiah Black to give us an angle on Patterson, then we’ve got a lead we can follow. He might have heard or seen something. I can’t just tell Powell that we think Patterson’s covering something up; it isn’t enough to convince Commissioner Devereux to reopen the case.”

  “This one’s cold, Tyrell, maybe we should do what Powell says and let it go until forensics turn in their data.”

  “It ain’t over till it’s over, Lopez. Sometimes you just gotta do what you don’t want to.”

  “That’s right,” Lopez said. “And I’m tellin’ you it’s too far. At least get a subpoena or something?”

  Tyrell stopped, looking down at her for a long moment.

  “Look, just do some digging into this Casey Jeffs and see what you can come up with. The money for his treatment had to come from somewhere. Patterson and Jeffs may be connected and we need to know how.”

  “I’ll do what I can,” Lopez replied disconsolately.

  “You’re losing it for this, aren’t you?”

  “You’ve only just noticed?” Lopez asked. “We’re chasing a pastor around a church while talking about surgeons conducting insane experiments on abductees, trying to turn them into frickin’ angels. The hell you think I’m doing?”

  Tyrell nodded, rubbing his temples again and feeling a slick sheen of sweat lacing his skin with beads of oily liquid.

  “I know it’s crazy, but that’s what the evidence is telling us. You think that by following me everyone else will think you’re nuts too?”

  Lopez sighed and spoke softly in the deserted corridor.

  “Where I come from, there’s a place up on the foothills above the town called Pateon Cemetery. The people who have family members interred there have to pay a tax for the land. Anyone defaults, then the officials dig up the remains and put them on display in the Museo de las Momias, the Museum of the Mummies.” She looked briefly at the floor as she spoke. “Nobody goes there at night because there’s all kinds of bad shit goin’ down. Disembodied voices, things movin’ about on their own, you name it. So no, I don’t think we’re nuts, but Powell sure as hell will and I’m not willing to put my career on the line for this. It just isn’t big enough.”

  Tyrell gave her a long look before speaking.

  “Powell isn’t going to start blowing sunshine up your ass for playing the good girl,” he muttered. “Look where playing by the rules got him.”

  “Yeah, and look where breaking the goddamn rules got you.”

  A deep silence filled the corridor.

  “Cheap shot, Lopez,” Tyrell observed finally.

  “I’ll let you know what comes up on Jeffs.”

  With that, Lopez turned and left him standing in the corridor.

  JERUSALEM

  This has got to be stopped.”

  Ethan sat opposite Bill Griffiths on the veranda of his rented villa overlooking the city, trying to stave off his exhaustion.

  “Why didn’t you tell me before that you were a journalist?” Griffiths asked.

  “It was none of your business,” Ethan replied. “Now it is and I need your help.”

  “I don’t know how to help,” Griffiths said, looking him up and down. “Look at the state of you—you’re dead on your feet. What the hell difference can you make?”

  “You called me, Bill,” Ethan reminded him, “and I’ve just escaped Israeli custody to get here, so tell me what’s happened.”

  Griffiths closed his eyes for a moment before speaking. “One of the guards at what may have been Lucy Morgan’s dig site, a MACE soldier, was killed by a Bedouin yesterday afternoon.” Ethan kept his expression neutral. “Turns out that when the soldier was autopsied, his buddies reported that the Bedouin had claimed he was searching for his son, an Ahmed Khan. The surgeon who autopsied the soldier recognized the name, as he’d autopsied this Ahmed just the day before.”

  “So? He was supposedly found dead in the desert, drugs or drink or something.”

  Griffiths shook his head. “Ahmed Khan worked for the university as a guide for some years. I met him several times. He didn’t take drugs and he didn’t drink.” Griffiths leaned forward on the table. “Point is, Ahmed’s body was poisoned with something like cyanide. It was in his lungs and nearly wiped out the surgeon who autopsied him.”

  Ethan reached into his pocket. From within, he produced a specimen jar with a label stuck to the outside.

  “Lucy Morgan excavated several bones for DNA analysis before returning to the field, and this is one of them. Another is in Chicago’s Field Museum. No matter where you or MACE take those remains, police forces will be able to genetically match it to these bones. There’ll be no place to hide and no way for you to extricate yourself from your involvement in what is now a crime.”

  Griffiths slammed a balled fist down on the table.

  “MACE directed us to that site three days ago! If there’s a crime that’s been committed, then go to them with your accusations!”

  “Israel and the United States won’t see it that way,” Ethan said simply.

  Griffiths shook his head.

  “Why would MACE abduct her? They only needed the remains, not the scientist.”

  “We don’t know, but she’s being held against her will and MACE has no reason to keep her alive. The question is, Bill, what are you going to do about it?”

  Griffiths still refused to look at him and Ethan made full use of his discomfort.

  “Think about it. You’ve told me that you were directed to the remains by MACE. Why the hell would they have found the site and excavated the remains without informing the authorities of what they’d found or Lucy’s absence? It’s your call, Bill. Are you really the sort of guy to profit from death?”

  Griffiths sighed heavily.

  “If I help you, what are you planning to do?”

  Ethan grinned. “Go for a jaunt with some friends.”

  RECHAVIA

  JERUSALEM

  “They’re onto him.”

  The voice was distorted by digital scrambling devices fitted to Byron Stone’s SUV. Bright sunlight from the rising dawn beamed in shafts between buildings outside and flickered through the interior of the vehicle as it cruised through the narrow streets.

  “When?” Stone asked.

  “Half an hour ago, two MPD detectives. They’ve tracked down Sheviz’s connection to the pastor but they’re still fishing around for something usable.”

  “Patterson’s a moron,” Stone spat into the phone, “another fundamentalist who’s climbed so far up God’s ass he can’t see where he’s going anymore. The police will work it all out eventually, and when they do Patterson’s pious little fantasy will collapse.”

  “We need to break the link between DC and Israel before the Bureau gets involved,” the voice cautioned. “If Patterson is investigated, he’ll sing like a canary once they threaten him with a cell and I can’t hold them off forever.”

  Stone considered this for a moment. Kelvin Patterson was one of the most outspoken conservatives in all of America, making the most outrageous statements while hiding behind a thin veneer of compassionate faith. But most all such men fell victims to their own bigotry and hypocrisy: homophobic pastors found to have indulged in gay relationships, anticorruption pastors arrested for embezzlement and fraud, countless others arrested for child molestation and other unspeakable crimes. Robbed of his power and his influence, Kelvin Patterson would become the man he had always been: weak, timid, and afraid.

  “Then we must prepare for the worst,�
� Stone said.

  “Understood,” the voice replied. “What about the detectives?”

  Stone gripped the phone tighter.

  “They must not make a connection between MACE and Sheviz,” he said firmly. “Find a weakness and exploit it. Keep them at bay until tomorrow and all will be done.”

  “I’ll do what I can. What about the boy?”

  “He’s as much of a liability as the pastor,” Stone growled. “Do whatever is required.”

  Stone set the phone down, and looked up to see Spencer Malik watching him expectantly.

  “What’s happening?” the soldier asked.

  Stone settled himself into the plush leather seat, thinking for a moment before replying.

  “Change of plan. It’s time to start clearing up this mess and get on with the business of looking after ourselves.”

  Malik nodded, and the Texan turned his head to watch the sun rising over Jerusalem’s Old City.

  “Are the surgeon and Lucy Morgan still in position?” he asked.

  “They haven’t moved,” Malik confirmed.

  “Good, then we bring this to a close right now. Organize your men and have them conduct a rescue operation. Ensure that Patterson’s imbecilic surgeon suffers an unfortunate accident while you’re there.”

  “I’ll take care of that personally. What’s happening in Washington?”

  “Patterson’s losing control of Senator Black, but I don’t give a damn now we have a chance to close the deal on the Valkyrie drones. What about Warner?”

  “He’s escaped Israel’s custody. We can’t be sure, but my guess is that he’s going to try to rescue Lucy Morgan.”

  “Not if we destroy everything first,” Stone growled. “Let Warner enter the area and then have your men engage him; send Cooper and Flint to lead the defense. I want no trace left. Have the remaining Valkyrie drone launched to cover the operation, then vaporize any evidence.”

  Malik nodded and climbed out as Byron sat back in his seat and ran everything through his mind one more time. As long as Malik could ensure that every loose end was destroyed and every loose tongue permanently silenced, then there was no longer anything to fear.

  A shame, Byron reflected, about Lucy Morgan.