by S. T. Boston
“I hear you had no luck discovering the location of the Tabut?” Buer's question was posed in such a way that Finch knew he required more than a straightforward 'no'.
“Unfortunately the three I spoke to all claimed the same thing.” Finch watched Buer raise a questioning eyebrow and continued. “They claimed none of them knew the location of the artifact, that even they weren't privy to such information.” His mouth was dry and he swallowed deeply. He knew Buer desired the Tabut greatly and would be disappointed that his desire had been thwarted.
“I find that hard to believe!” The scepticism was heavy in Buer's voice. “Did you try other methods to obtain the information?”
“Torturing them would have been a pointless and time consuming exercise. They could have told me anything, and we would have no way of knowing if it was the truth. If I'd had more time to work on them, maybe, but my orders were to ensure they all died that night. I highly doubt they would ever have broken. I was told it wasn't worth the risk of leaving any of them alive, unless they chose to help us.” Buer's eyes remained locked on him, taking in every word. “Also, they claim there is no Key Tablet to activate it!”
“We knew that already,” Buer commented. “What you say is true, though; they could have spun us any lies they wanted. We could have been racing all over the planet to try and locate it. I had hoped that one of them might choose to live and work with us, and then we could have recovered the Tabut and destroyed it. I don't need to remind you how dangerous it could be, if they were to get to it first.”
“Sir, it's been dormant for more than three and a half thousand years. Maybe they didn't know… actually, it's highly likely. I wouldn't put it past them to have entrusted that information to only a few of their highest ranking Elders.” Finch wasn't sure he believed his own statement, but he was keen to steer Buer away from the subject.
Buer was nodding his head, mulling it over. “You could be right. At least we know there is no Key Tablet, and also, thanks to you Robert, there are no Elders here to activate it. As you well know, both the biometric signature of an Elder and the Key Tablet are needed for the Tabut to work. If they do come and try to reach it, we'll be ready. We've come too far to fail now.”
“Have there been any developments in our own search for it?” Finch enquired.
“Nothing to note. The last lead we had was Canada, but we drew a blank. We're sure that in the early days, it was held in the Great Pyramid – the supposed sarcophagus in the King's Chamber is exactly the right size to hold the device, but we know the King's Chamber has been empty since explorers first opened it up.” Buer turned his gaze from Finch for a few seconds, pushing some papers around his desk. “So how do you like your new look?” he asked, taking a sip from the cup of black coffee that was steaming away on his desk. Finch had smelt it on entering the office and thought he could have used a cup himself.
“It's a marvel,” Finch enthused. “I don't think any of my old staff would know me, even if we bumped into each other in the street.”
“As you know, Robert, that was not the only thing we changed.” Leaning forward, Buer raised his eyebrows. “I know how much you hungered for it.”
“Yes, it's a true honour, sir,” Finch began, “I don't really feel any different though. Is that normal?” Finch regretted the question as soon as it left his lips. He suspected he'd sounded foolish.
Buer erupted into a deep belly laugh, so loud that Finch was sure the floor vibrated. Regaining control, Buer said, “What on earth did you expect? The strength of ten men? The ability to fly?” Finch's stupidity was clearly amusing him no end.
“No! Not at all,” Finch protested. “I just didn't know if I should feel, well… different.”
“No, I'm sorry,” Buer began, the first glint of amused tears gleaming around his eyes, “I guess it can be a little confusing at the start. It's been so long since it was bestowed upon anyone. You were the first, but more will follow. Once all this is over, we'll need good, trustworthy and educated people.”
Finch allowed himself a small sigh of relief. Somehow, he'd managed to rescue the situation. “I'm sorry if the question sounded stupid,” he said, straightening his tie.
“There are some things you need to remember, Robert. You aren't invincible. If you're wounded, you will still bleed. Granted, your healing time will be greatly increased, and you will have no need for dressings or bandages. No diseases will touch you, just as your organs will never tire and fail. Just make sure you don't get shot in the head or heart, or get yourself blown up!” Buer grinned. “Live by this phrase and you won't go far wrong, Immortality does not mean invincibility. I don't need to remind you of that; you killed four Elders yourself.” He opened one of the desk draws and removed an envelope. “In here is your new identity. You will only be known as Robert Finch to us and no one else.” He pushed the envelope across the table and Finch picked it up.
“May I?” he asked, turning it over in his hands.
“Of course,” encouraged Buer, “go right ahead.” Finch tore the envelope open and shook the contents out onto the smooth black surface of the desk, so he could begin pawing through the medley of items required for a complete change of identity. Opening the US passport, his new face stared back at him from the rear page. Under the photo was the name 'Isaac Stephens'.
“Isaac?” Finch queried, “Really? I mean isn't that a little…”
“Biblical?” Buer cut in with a laugh. “Yes, my personal choice. I liked the irony, a little like our dear friend Tillard. Besides, you won't have that name for long. As soon as everything is done, you may revert back to your birth name.” Buer seemed pleased by the joke. Finch failed to see the funny side, but the knowledge that Buer at least possessed a slight sense of humour, no matter how warped, was settling. Also in the envelope, he found a new driver's licence and birth certificate, as well as a new debit and a credit card.
“There's five hundred thousand US dollars in that account,” said Buer, gesturing at the debit card. “The Visa has no limit. I don't expect you to require excessive funds over the coming weeks, but it's there as a precaution. After that, the money in those accounts will be as worthless as the plastic the two cards are made of.” Buer leaned back in his chair, which creaked under the bulk of his massive body. “Which brings me neatly to the next subject.”
Finch felt his heart rate quicken. This was it, this was the end game. Everything up to this point, including the four deaths, had been mere preparation.
Buer reached under his desk and produced a black leather briefcase. Opening it, he stared at the contents for a few long seconds, as if he were admiring a masterpiece. “We were unsure who to task with the US side of the job. We had many volunteers, but almost all of them are still employed in government or the like, and we can't risk pulling them out yet, since they may still be needed. I know we have asked a lot of you already, but I'm hoping you'll accept this final task.” Buer spun the briefcase around. Finch studied the contents; they looked completely normal – diaries, pens and a small document folder. Finch looked across the top of the briefcase and saw Buer grinning at him. “It's good, isn't it?” Buer turned the case back so it faced toward him. Fishing inside, he removed an expensive-looking silver pen and unscrewed the base. Where the ink cartridge should have been, was a small glass vial containing a clear liquid. He carefully unscrewed it and held it between his thumb and forefinger. While it appeared to be water, it was in fact quite the opposite. Water was thought of as the giver and sustainer of life; this was the destroyer. The sunlight streaming in through the windows sparkled off the small vial, giving it a jewel-like appearance. “In this vial is a viral agent, far beyond anything their scientists can engineer, and far beyond anything they can cure. We estimate it to have a communicability rate of over ninety-nine point nine percent. After the virus has raged over the planet for a month, we estimate there will be less than seven million people left alive. We have no way of knowing for sure until it goes live.” Buer pushed his cha
ir back and stood up, facing the window. “The clever part of this virus is the incubation period.” He glanced over his shoulder to check he still had Finch's attention. “From the time of contraction, it will take a full thirty hours to show any symptoms at all. The virus is an airborne infection, meaning it's highly contagious. For thirty hours, the people who carry the virus are just as infectious as when they start to show symptoms. When they do start to show, it will be in the form of a headache and rash-like sores. Then, over the next ten hours, every cell in the human body gradually attacks itself, causing death approximately eleven to twelve hours after infection. I won't go through all the gory details. Let's just say, it's far from a swift and painless death.” Buer picked up his cup and drained the last of the coffee. “It's the first thirty hours that are most important to us, as no one will even know it's spreading like a brushfire. That's when the most damage will be done. Once this starts springing up, there will be quarantines put in place, borders and airports will be closed, but it will already be too late!” Buer screwed the vial back into the pen with slow, deliberate movements. Finch, of course, knew all this already, but he enjoyed hearing it as much as Buer enjoyed the theatre of telling it. “We have chosen the locations for the pathogen to be released into the public. It will be your duty to make sure this batch is deployed.” Buer walked around the desk and handed the pen to Finch. “To release the agent, all you need to do is push the base of the pen. Just like you would to extend the nib. The pathogen will be released over a two-minute period. Don't worry; you're quite immune.” He smiled. “Be sure to keep hold of the pen and move through your location, mixing among as many people as possible. The virus will survive outside of the vial and the human body for three hours, giving it plenty of time to work its way into air-conditioning systems. I believe a famous English author once wrote that the pen is mightier than the sword. He will never know how right he was!” Buer gazed out of the window at the city. “I almost pity them,” he said smugly. “All completely unaware of the fate that's about to strike!”
“What of those who survive?” asked Finch, turning the pen in his hand. “There are bound to be outlying areas and islands that won't be infected. Also, as you say, there will be those who just won't contract the disease at all.”
“The numbers will be so small in comparison, we can just mop up those unlucky enough not to die. There may even be some use for them, I don't know. As you're aware, this is by far our best option. When we tried before, they had no technology to strike back at us with. Things are different now. They have the ability to cause us some real damage, if we just confront them.” Reaching back into the case, Buer retrieved a small ticket pouch and handed it to Finch. It contained a return, first class ticket to Paris on American Airlines. Looking at the departure date, Finch saw he was leaving tomorrow. “I've arranged for you to stay in the city tonight,” Buer said, moving back around the desk and relaxing into his chair. “Tomorrow, four vials of the pathogen will be released. One at Heathrow Airport, in the International Departure Lounge. One at Hong Kong International Airport, again in the International Departure Lounge. The same for LAX, and then yours. It's to be released just before you board your flight from JFK. With the help of air travel, the virus will be spread across the globe in a matter of hours.” In truth, Finch didn't need it spelled out. During his time at college they'd covered possible terrorist tactics, looking at the ways a viral agent might be spread into the population. Releasing it at an airport was considered by far the best option. “From there,” Buer continued, “the passengers will carry it to their destination airports and the infection will spread. There will be no point in trying to quarantine the sick. Within thirty hours, it will be impossible to contain.”
Chapter 5
Sam drained the last dregs of beer from his glass and placed it back on the table. “This American beer is like making love in a canoe,” he commented, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.
Adam shot him a slightly confused glance.
“You know – fucking close to water!” Sam chuckled, obviously pleased with his joke.
Adam swilled the remainder of his pint around the glass, staring at the golden liquid. “Very funny,” he replied dryly, watching as the rather rotund waitress in an ill-fitting, bright blue pinny arrived at their table with two very large plates of Mac 'n Cheese.
“There you go, gentlemen,” she chirped in the same slightly annoying, enthusiastic tone she'd taken their order in. “Will there be anything else?” Her pink and white checked uniform looked as if someone had dragged it straight out of a fifties American diner before she'd started work. The more modern plastic name badge, pinned neatly to the fabric, announced her name as 'Patty'.
“Two more beers please,” replied Sam, already drenching the daily special in far more ketchup than was needed, “and can you make them Buds this time?” The waitress nodded and hurried across the bar, her bobbed blonde hair swooshing as she went. They'd received her pretty much undivided attention since their arrival. No one wanted to be out making merry today. The memorial service for President Remy had been held and the whole place had a sullen feel to it. A large projection TV in the corner silently replayed highlights from the service which had taken place in Washington DC earlier in the day, while a jukebox pumped out trashy country music. They'd been in the air during the actual service, landing in Denver just a few hours after it ended.
“It never fails to amaze me, just how many meals you add bloody ketchup to,” laughed Adam as he began to tuck into his own dinner.
“Old military habit, mate,” said Sam, wiping his mouth. “It was one of the only things that took the taste of the ration packs away.” He mixed the sauce in and proceeded to add yet another large dollop to the daily special for good measure.
“And what's with ordering more beer? One of us has to drive after this.”
“Stop being such a fusspot,” said Sam, shovelling forkfuls of the now red-tinged Mac 'n Cheese into his mouth. “The beer here is so weak, I reckon I could drink five pints and not be over the limit.”
They'd arrived in Denver a few hours ago, after a laborious, nine-hour flight. Adam hated flying in what the Americans called 'coach'. Usually when he was contracted by a paper or magazine to do a story that required overseas travel, he at least managed to get business class. When they'd booked the flights six months ago, Sam had refused to pay the extra five hundred Euros to travel on one of the new intercontinental Boeing fast jets that many major airlines now offered, and wouldn't even consider upgrading to business class on the slower flight. Had he not been so tight-fisted, they could have cut the journey time down to just three hours, or at the very least, had a decent-sized seat and a meal. Also, every time the hostess trolley made an appearance, Sam had been keen to make the most of the free alcohol, leaving Adam to remind him they had to pick up the RV as soon as they landed. Then after finally touching down in Denver, they discovered that the rental firm, who had advertised themselves as being right next to the airport, was actually just over five miles away. After a brief taxi ride, they eventually picked up the large camper which was going to be home for the next few weeks. The Ford MTR Freedom was classified as a five berth RV; neither of them was sure how comfortable it would be with five passengers, however for two, it was perfect. The subject of who would be claiming the double bed was yet to be resolved; the smaller singles which needed making up each night looked so narrow, they both feared they might fall right out of bed by rolling over.
The waitress returned with two fresh beers on a tray and deposited them onto the table. Apart from a rather drunk-looking guy in a suit and a few college students, they were the only ones in the bar.
“I was going to suggest staying in Denver for the night,” Sam began, washing down a mouthful of food with a swig of beer, and eyeing Patty as she busied herself wiping a few tables down. The cloth she was using looked as if it carried more germs than a public toilet seat. “You know, have a few beers, pull some college chicks, it's not li
ke we have to go far to get to our hotel on wheels. It seems a shame to waste that five berther on just the two of us.” He gave Adam a knowing wink.
“Nice idea, but I hardly think anyone is in the mood for partying today. Besides, wasn't it your idea to drive out to the park, so you could wake up in the mountains and sample the air?” Adam swallowed his last mouthful of food and began mopping the sauce up with a piece of slightly stale bread.
Pushing his empty plate away, Sam retrieved a map of the Rockies National Park and began folding it out awkwardly on the table. “I had a look on Google Earth before we left,” he began, trying to lay the map flat over the empty dinner plates and various condiments. “I reckon if we head out of the city on I70 and through Idaho Springs, then drop onto Route 40, that will take us up into the mountains; there looked to be a few nice rest areas around, right in the heart of the park. Then in the morning, we can walk a few trail ways before heading on.” His finger was pressed on a place that appeared to be in the middle of nowhere, and as he held it there, cheese sauce began to leak through onto the page. “Ah, shit!” he protested, lifting the map off the table and giving it a shake.
Adam experienced an odd feeling about the whole idea. He'd never been to the Rockies in his life, but what he'd seen is the dream certainly looked like it could fit the area. A chill ran down his back. On the flight over, he'd tried to get some sleep, but every time he closed his eyes, all he could see was the strange girl's pale, lifeless face.
The week Adam's parents died, he'd been away at university in Bournemouth studying for his media degree. He'd gone out for a few drinks with some friends in the town that night. Returning home slightly drunk, he'd gone straight to bed. Two hours later, he'd woken up screaming like he had last night. In the dream, he'd seen a tanker veer across the road and plough straight into his parents' car. Even though it was two am, he'd phoned home straight away, but to his dismay, a police officer had answered the call. The next day he was back in London, with Lucie crying on his shoulder. Both their parents were dead. They'd been on their way home from a dinner party at his aunt and uncle's. The police believed the tanker driver had fallen asleep at the wheel, veered across the road and virtually crushed their Audi. Over the years, Adam had pushed the memory of that dream to the back of his mind; however, it had resurfaced earlier on the flight to America. It was hard for him to explain – something about the dream of his parents' crash had felt different, more real. The dream about the girl and the river felt the same. He never bothered mentioning it to Sam – although he loved him like a brother, he knew he'd be in for a piss taking, so he'd kept it to himself. “I'm not sure you're allowed to stay overnight in the park's rest areas,” Adam cut in, suddenly searching for a reason to avoid driving up into the mountains for the night and wishing he'd encouraged Sam's idea of staying in Denver to get drunk. “If a ranger finds us, we might get a fine.”