“Demon.”
“Uh-huh.”
Burnett slammed the desktop with the flat of his hand. “This fucking project is leaking worse than a machine-gunned hippo! Jesus H. fucking Christ—does everybody know about it?”
“It looks like only a small number of people are involved.”
“That was hyperbole, you fucking idiot.”
“Yes sir, I suspected as much. In any case, none of our people the Feebies talked to have any involvement in Project H, so they came away empty.”
“But they know something—and I want to know what they know and when they knew it. Get on their phone records, too—every phone they have access to.”
“Right. Do you want eyes and ears on them, as well?”
Burnett drummed his fingers some more. “No—it’s too risky. These are professionals, if I can use that term in reference to the FBI. They might tumble to the surveillance, which could give us a bigger problem than we’ve got already. What are their names, anyway?”
“Fenton and O’Donnell. They work out of Behavioral Science at Quantico. A black guy and a chick, apparently.”
“How very Affirmative Action—old man Hoover must be turning over in his grave. All right, get their personnel files from Justice, while you’re at it.”
“That might take some time.”
“Then why are you still sitting there wasting it? Get moving.”
Neale allowed himself a brief mental of image of what Burnett would look like with his spine broken in three places, then stood up. “Yes, sir. I’m on it.”
Any faint hopes for an apology that Neale might have entertained were dashed when Burnett said, “Maybe whoever spilled the beans to the two Feebies didn’t do it by phone. Every visitor to Quantico is logged in, right?”
“Should be. It’s SOP for all federal agencies.”
“Get the log covering the past week. Look for anomalies. I want names. If this cancer can be contained, it can be excised. Surgically.”
It took Neale a few moments to understand what his boss what getting at. “That list of names is going to include Howard Stark, sir. We can’t just hit a U.S. Senator. The resulting uproar...” Neale made a gesture that said the rest of the sentence was self-evident.
“Maybe you’re right—maybe,” Burnett said. “But, on the other hand, FBI agents get killed in action all the time, don’t they?”
Chapter Thirty-Two
SITTING ONCE AGAIN in the CIA’s cleanest of clean rooms, Burnett said, “So, we’re on schedule to launch at the end of this month?”
“If everything stays on schedule, yes we are,” Dr. Hans Westin said. “Of course, ‘if’ is a dangerous word. One might say, for example, ‘If it had not been for that iceberg, the Titanic would have had an uneventful maiden voyage’.”
“Don’t play word games with me, Doctor. “Will you be ready to go on the thirty-first, or not?”
The man had no understanding of the complexities of science. None. With his fingers mentally crossed, Destin said, “Yes. Yes—we shall be ready.”
“And you haven’t scheduled it for Halloween out of some fanciful belief in tradition—or even superstition?”
“Not at all. As I’ve told you, the mathematical calculations show that the energy waves we need to tap into will be very strong on that date. It may even be, centuries ago, that the math was the basis for the superstition.”
“I don’t follow you.” Burnett, clearly, was not a man who enjoyed being made to feel in any way mentally inadequate.
“What I mean is,” Destin said hurriedly, “is that those who first designated that date as All Hallows Eve may have been unconsciously influenced by the same cosmic forces that we will ourselves take advantage of.”
“You’re saying that people unconsciously realized it was an evil day and built the Halloween myth around it?”
“Scientists don’t deal in words like evil, Mister Burnett, but I’d say you have grasped the concept. The celebration, if that is the proper word, began with the ancient Druids, who made blood sacrifices to placate their gods that time of year. The ancient Romans, who may or may not have known of the Druidic myths, called the occasion Parentalia, the feast of the dead—although they celebrated it in mid-winter. Quite independently, the Celts began celebrating the feast of Samhain, during which they—”
“All right, Doctor. This lecture is fascinating, but I’d say you’ve made your point. You didn’t just pick Halloween for a giggle.”
“I have never been known to do anything for a ‘giggle,’ Mister Burnett,” Westin said stiffly.
“No, I suppose not. So, you’re sure that launching the project on Halloween gives us the best chance of success.”
“That is correct. There is another time, at the end of April, which is also propitious, although not quite as—”
“We are not waiting until Walpurgis Night to make this happen, Doctor Westin. Allowed to continue their present rate of advance, the Caliphate might well be in control of the whole Middle East by then, and at that point even an army of demons might not be enough to roll them back.”
“And, in such an instance, I expect the amount of bloodshed involved would increase exponentially.”
“That too, or course. All right, Doctor, I’m counting on you. We launch on Halloween—come Hell or high water.”
Westin wasn’t sure whether a smile was appropriate. Burnett might be indulging in some mild humor, but if so it would be the first that the scientist had ever seen from him. No, an expression of amusement was too risky.
Maintaining his usual serious demeanor, Westin said “I shall try my very best to have all in readiness by that date.”
The look Burnett gave him was enough to freeze Westin’s blood, and the scientist was cold blooded to begin with.
“No, Doctor Westin—you will not ‘try.’ You will ‘do.’ There are interlopers who are nibbling like rats at the edges of Project H. Like rats, they will be exterminated—but they may be more of them to come. Even the President has heard a whisper, although he will soon be assured that his suspicions are groundless.”
“I understand that, but there are factors beyond our—”
“If this project does not launch on the thirty-first, Doctor, then it may ultimately fail. Our country cannot afford failure, and I will not permit it.”
Destin was offering reassurances as Burnett reached inside his suit jacket. He came out with a spiral notebook, which he knew would amuse Clyde Neale if he saw it. But, as Neale had once said, some information could not be entrusted to the digital world. Besides, he thought the notebook would make an effective prop in the drama that was about to begin.
He opened the notebook and began to flip through its pages with exaggerated slowness. Westin had stopped talking now and was watching with puzzlement and some degree of apprehension. He soon learned that the apprehension was justified.
“Ah, here it is.” Burnett stopped turning pages. “You’re married for twenty-seven years, wife’s name Louise, two children—Martin, 24, residing in St. Louis, and Martha, 19, currently a sophomore at MIT. Is that information accurate? No need to answer, Doctor—I already know that it is.”
“Why—why are you telling…”
“Quiet—I’m not finished. You were married once before, I believe. Wife Mary Ann, deceased. Two adult children—Sandra and Mary Beth, both married. Sandra has given you three grandchildren and Mary Beth only one, possibly because she’s miscarried twice since little Carl was born. I’ve seen their pictures. Cute kids—if you like that sort of thing.”
“Mister Burnett, please.”
“Be patient, I’m almost finished. You have two brothers, I see. Richard lives in Boston with a wife and your two adorable nieces. David’s in Atlanta, twice divorced, no issue from either marriage.”
Burnett flipped the notebook closed and put it away, but Destin didn’t speak. He just sat with an expression of quiet horror on his thin face.
“I can see you grasp the subtext
of my little monologue, Doctor. I knew you were a smart man. I’ve just named fourteen people, toward whom even a cold fish like yourself probably has some degree of affection. Is that correct?”
Westin just nodded.
“Very well, then. If Project H does not launch on schedule on the thirty-first—or if it should launch, but fail to produce the desired results, then all fourteen of those people will die—some of them quite horribly. I think I’ll save the most gruesome deaths for the grandchildren. That makes a certain amount of sense, don’t you agree?”
Doctor Hans Westin was an articulate man, and a brilliant one, but for the first time in his adult life he was speechless, struck dumb by the insanity of what he had just heard. And he believed it. This madman was capable of doing, or rather ordering done, exactly what he had threatened.
“It may occur to you,” Burnett went on, “once you’ve calmed down a bit, to contact your relatives and warn them. To suggest that they take immediate and long vacations, perhaps. If you attempt something so foolish, I’ll know. And then I’ll kill two of the people on that list, just to show you the folly of trying to fuck with me.” Burnett leaned forward and spoke very deliberately. “No one fucks with me, Doctor. No one. And most especially not you.”
Burnett stood up. “I’d say ‘Have a nice day,’ but even I’m not that hypocritical. Let me wish you a productive day, instead—followed by many others over the next three weeks.”
After Burnett left, Doctor Hans Westin sat there, in the cleanest of clean rooms, staring at the door as if hoping Burnett would reappear and say, “Just kidding.” The warden gets that call from the governor, and the execution—of an innocent man, of course—is stopped at the last minute. That kind of thing is always happening in the movies, but Westin suspected it was rare in real life. There would be no phone calls for him. After a while he stopped wasting time with foolish fantasies, turned on his computer, and went back to work.
Chapter Thirty-Three
THEY FINISHED READING Michael Pacilio’s personnel file at 11:34 that night. Apart from a half-hour devoted to eating a room service meal, and a few bathroom breaks, Morris and Libby had worked straight through from when they’d returned to their hotel suite a bit before 5:00 am. Libby would read a page, then pass it to Morris who would read, then lay it on the coffee table face down so as to keep the pages in order.
By prior agreement, they had not discussed the file while perusing it, deciding that ‘read first, talk later’ was the most efficient way of dealing with the 344-page document. They had not spoken of it during their brief dinner, either. Instead, they’d found some dumb TV sitcom to watch while they ate, thinking that it might help lighten their mood—a hope that was unrealized.
So, apart from muttered exclamations like “Fuck,” “Holy Shit” and, “Oh, My Goddess,” they had read in silence. And now they were done.
“Well,” Morris said, “do you want to begin, or shall I?”
Libby shook her head slowly. “Those poor people.”
“The scientists in the lab, you mean?”
“Them, along with all the other innocent souls that this... creature slaughtered for its own amusement.”
“Along with the two people it possessed—the scientist... what was his name?”
“Barbour,” Libby said. “Peter Barbour.”
“Yeah, him, along with the state cop it jumped into after Barbour died in that car crash. It was the cop’s body it used to go back to the lab in the hope of running the machinery again to let all of its infernal buddies come on over to play.”
“Which was the same thing those fools tried to do last year after burning down all those churches. Goddess above, when will people learn?”
“Well the first one wasn’t people, strictly speaking.”
“No—that was the demon. Asmodeus, right?”
“Asmodeus,” Morris said, nodding. ‘Lord of lechery, prince of corruption.’”
“Sounds like you were quoting something there. Or someone.”
“Fella I used to know—Sebastian. William Sebastian. He was in the same line of work as we are, more or less. Said he tangled with Asmodeus once and got away with his skin and soul, intact—but just barely.”
“When was this?” Libby asked.
“Back in the Seventies, I think he said.”
“So Asmodeus comes back for a return engagement in ’02. After having a fine old time murdering, raping, torturing, and mutilating—not necessarily in that order—he decides it would be fun to use the same... what would you call it? A machine?”
“Yeah, I suppose. A machine, a device, a mechanism, a device, a contraption—”
“Stop showing off, Quincey, I already know you got 790 on the SAT verbals.”
“Well, call it whatever you want. It’s still a gateway to Hell.”
“And Asmodeus wanted to start it up again, so that all the legions of Hell could be set loose upon the earth. He almost made it, too.”
“Except the Pacilio guy stopped him. It’s a pity, for a number of reasons, that he’s dead. I’d like to shake his hand.”
“Maybe you’ll get to, one day. In the meantime, there’s the device itself. The report says it was destroyed—disassembled, crushed, it pieces scattered in the wind. Or words to that effect.”
“It’s not the device that worries me—it’s the plans. The notebooks of this guy, uh—”
“Let me look.” Libby ruffled through the papers stacked on the coffee table. “Here—Richard Clayborn.”
“Yeah, him. The report says his notebooks went missing.”
Libby looked at another page. “Yes, they call them ‘the subject of an ongoing investigation.’ I think that Washingtonese for, ‘We don’t know where the fuck they are.’ But if they turned up later, it would still be in the report, wouldn’t it? As an addendum, or something?”
“If they were found while the Office of Scientific Integrity was still in existence, yeah, I’d think the report would say so.”
“So, either the notebooks were never found, or...”
“Or they turned up later, in the hands of someone who kept the discovery to himself, for reasons yet unknown.”
“Maybe it was another, less benign government agency,” Libby said. “And they kept the fact to themselves for reasons we now know all too well.”
“Hmm. It would explain a lot, wouldn’t it?”
“But not everything, unfortunately. Like, who exactly in the CIA has them now, and whether they’ve been able to recreate the technology used in 2002. Also, just when exactly the shit is supposed to hit the fan. We don’t know that, either.”
“No, we don’t.” Morris massaged the bridge of his nose with a thumb and forefinger. “Halloween is what—three weeks away?”
“Just about. That would be a good time to carry out something like this, wouldn’t it?” Libby said. “Might as well have the karmic forces of evil on your side.”
“We ran into some people a while back who thought Walpurgis Night would be a propitious occasion for demon summoning, although they had a more low-tech approach in mind. How do you figure Halloween stacks up against Walpurgis Night, in terms of karmic evil. Just as good?”
“It’s better,” Libby said. “Or worse, depending on which side of the gates of Hell you’re on.”
“Yeah, that’s what I was afraid of.” Morris stood up, vertebrae in his lower back cracking in protest. “I don’t know about you, but I could use a shower.”
“Me, too. Reading that stuff makes you feel, I don’t know... soiled, somehow.”
Morris nodded as he stifled a yawn. “I reckon we ought to head back to New York tomorrow. We’ve probably done as much as we can down here. Anyway, there’s a couple of folks living there that we need to talk to.”
“Who’ve you got in mind?”
“Who would know more about the doings of Hell than a couple of people who’ve spent time there? I’m referring, of course, to Peters and your girlfriend.”
“
I wish you wouldn’t refer to Ashley as my girlfriend, Quincey.” Libby realized that she’d spoken a little more sharply than she’d intended.
“Sorry—no offense intended. For future reference, what would you prefer I call her?”
“I’m still working on that,” Libby said.
Chapter Thirty-Four
“AS YOU DIRECTED, I looked into that funny business at the Republican National Convention a couple of years ago,” Clyde Neale said, “specifically the circumstances under which Senator Stark collected three 9mm slugs in the chest.”
“I hope you found something interesting,” Burnett said.
“That I did. Accounts differ, but the consensus would seem to support the following facts.
“One: While escorting Stark along a corridor on one of the underground levels of Madison Square Garden, Stark’s Secret Service detail, consisting of six experienced agents, were all simultaneously rendered catatonic by something that none of them can remember, although all of them recovered within a few days.
“Two: once his Secret Service protection was disabled, Stark was abducted, along with his Administrative Assistant, Mary Margaret Doyle.
“Three: Stark and Ms. Doyle were apparently taken through a nearby door into a storage room. The door to this room is clearly indicated on the Garden’s building diagram—but after Stark was abducted the door just... disappeared. Other Secret Service agents, with assistance from NYPD Special Services, had to break through the brick wall to get into the room.
“Four: when the agents and cops finally broke through, they found Senator Stark tied to a chair while a priest, one Father Martin Finlay, attempted to perform an exorcism on him. Finlay, who died in a plane crash last year, had performed a number of exorcisms over the years at the behest of his religious order, the Dominicans.
“Five: also present in the room was one Quincey P. Morris, of Austin, Texas. He was arrested without resistance. Morris’s business cards describe him as an ‘occult investigator.’ He frequently works with a woman named Elizabeth Chastain, who advertises herself as a ‘white witch.’ She was not present when Morris was arrested.
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