Christopher Farnsworth - Nathaniel Cade [01]

by Blood Oath: The President's Vampire

  The impound clerk, looking supremely bored behind the glass window, waved him over.

  Dylan swallowed. He handed the man his receipt and his proof of registration.

  “Where are you from?”

  “Orange County,” Dylan said. Khaled had coached him: keep the cover story simple and as close to the truth as possible. “I’m heading back to college.” He looked the part: short hair, jeans and a T-shirt with fraternity letters on it. He wondered if that last bit was too much.

  “Says this truck is a rental.”

  “Yeah,” Dylan said, still smiling. “I’m taking my stuff back to school.”

  A frown from the clerk. “Sort of a big truck for that.”

  Dylan shrugged, trying not to panic. “It was all they had at the rental lot.”

  The clerk just stared.

  Dylan added, as casually as he could, “I’m bringing a hot tub to the frat house.”

  The clerk looked incredulous for a moment, then broke into a wide grin. “No shit?” he said. “Damn, you really know how to party, buddy. Wish I’d thought of that when I was in school.”

  The clerk stamped his paperwork.

  “Take that to the guy out back, he’ll get your truck.”

  Dylan took the paper, grateful, but the clerk didn’t let go of it. He leaned close. Dylan did the same.

  “I know what’s going on here,” he said, a leer on his face.

  Dylan nearly wept. He’d gotten so close. . . .

  “You went a little overboard at one of the clubs last night, didn’t you?”

  He laughed again, and Dylan laughed loudly with him. “Yeah,” he said, feeling the anxiety flush out of him. “I guess so.”

  “Hey, I been there. You get away from those girls with your wallet, you’re lucky. Travel safe.”

  “Thanks,” Dylan said, feeling the sweat roll from under his arms. “You too. I mean, uh . . .”

  But the clerk had already called up the next person in line.

  Dylan walked down a corridor, handed his papers over to another person and, twenty minutes later, was behind the wheel of the truck again.

  Twenty minutes after that, he was back on the highway. He could still make the rendezvous. If he hurried.

  He couldn’t believe his luck. Maybe Khaled knew something after all. Maybe Dylan really was on a mission from God. Someone certainly seemed to be looking out for him.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Wyman sat behind his desk, wearing a plain shirt and jeans. Griff knew without looking that the VP had moccasins on his feet—a throwback to his days as a pot-smoking, Vietnam-protesting hippie. He wore them whenever he came in on the weekend. It was his trademark now, with several prominent mentions in profiles in newspapers and magazines. Of course, these days, he’d discovered the virtues of clean living and a good war, particularly now that he wasn’t eligible for the draft.

  Griff stood, hands behind his back.

  “Have a seat, Griff,” Wyman said.

  “No thank you, sir.”

  “Suit yourself.” He passed Griff a single sheet of paper. “What is this?”

  Griff picked it up off the desk.

  It was a copy of an approval for an arms sale—$2 billion worth of planes, guns and missiles—to Kuwait.

  “Looks like a done deal to me, sir.”

  “You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But then I’ve heard that there’s a former FBI agent—who works for a department that doesn’t actually exist, by the way—kicking up all kinds of crap with our Kuwaiti friends. Then I find that agent is asking questions about a good friend of this administration, a respected diplomat—”

  “Mahmoud al-Attar,” Griff cut him off. “Yeah. I know. His holding company was the one that sent the shipment with the pieces of our soldiers in it. His son, Khaled, has links to—”

  “I don’t care. Mahmoud al-Attar is a friend. And his companies are helping to broker this deal.”

  “That’s not really my problem, sir.”

  “I know you don’t like me, Agent Griffin. And I don’t like you.”

  “Your opinion means a great deal to me, sir.”

  “But try to be reasonable,” Wyman continued. “It’s the biggest shipping company in Kuwait. Millions of tons move through it every day. You have any actual proof this is connected to your little problem?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out—”

  “No. You don’t. And what has your friend Cade found out in L.A.?”

  “He’s still investigating.”

  “In other words, nothing. We need every friend we have in the Middle East, especially this one, to get supplies to our troops. And you’re jeopardizing that. For what? Nothing. Pure speculation.”

  “I’ll be happy to discuss it with the president when he returns, sir.”

  “We’re discussing it right now,” Wyman snapped. “The last thing this administration needs is to be connected in any way to a scandal. I’m ordering you to leave it alone.”

  Griff had to smile at that. “I’m sorry, sir?”

  “Don’t look so amused, Griffin,” Wyman said. “I mean it. I’m ordering you to leave the al-Attar family alone.”

  “No,” Griff said.

  “What?”

  “You heard me, sir.”

  Wyman’s face went bright red. “I gave you a direct order, Agent Griffin.”

  Griff leaned forward, his fists on Wyman’s desk. He wasn’t feeling great, and he had no patience for a bureaucratic ass-chewing. “And I said no. What are you going to do about it?”

  Wyman’s mouth worked a moment before sound came out. “The president is out of town until tomorrow. That makes me the head of the Special Security Council in his absence. You are legally bound to follow my—”

  “What do you think this is, Mr. Vice President?” Griff asked, still looming over the smaller man. “You think this is the scene in the movie where the detective gets ordered off the case? You’re wrong. It’s not that part of the movie. You want me to stop doing my job? Call the president. Otherwise, shut the fuck up and quit wasting my time.”

  Wyman sat back in his chair, eyes mean as a snake’s.

  “Get out,” he said.

  “Thank you, sir,” Griff said. He turned and walked to the door.

  “You know, someday I might be sitting in the Oval Office, Griffin. You should remember that.”

  Griff paused, his hand on the knob. “And you might want to remember you’re the seventh vice president I’ve worked under.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Wyman asked.

  “Seems likely you’ll be out of here before I am, sir.”

  Griff closed the office door before Wyman could reply.

  AS SOON AS GRIFFIN was out the door, Wyman opened a desk drawer, pulled out a cheap pay-per-minute mobile and dialed.

  The encryption took a moment, like it always did. Then, as soon as the person on the other end picked up, Wyman started talking.

  “It’s me,” he said. “I talked to Griffin. He won’t listen to me. He’s going to continue investigating the Kuwaiti connection.”

  He listened.

  “No. That would draw far too much attention. Things are tense enough here as it is.”

  He waited again, looking angrier by the second.

  “No,” he snapped. “That’s not my problem. I’ve met my end of the bargain. I gave you the information you wanted. I told you where Cade’s safe house is located. And I’ve given you a clear shot on . . . on the other thing. What you do with it—that’s your business. I can’t afford to do any more.”

  The tone of the voice on the other end raised several notches.

  “Hey, I did my best,” Wyman said. “How am I supposed to scare the guy? He spends all day in a basement with a vampire, for God’s sake. It’s up to you now.”

  He pressed a button, ending the call.

  Across the country, in her office in L.A., Helen slammed her phone down. Unbelievable, she thought. Wyman didn’t even have th
e balls to handle an over-the-hill FBI agent. Christ, I have to do everything myself.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Helen couldn’t believe Wyman had hung up on her. With that same phone, she could order anything from a tax audit to a cruise missile strike. But she couldn’t make Wyman pay for his insult. It was necessary to have a man on the inside. Unfortunately, they always seemed to be such worms.

  The door to her office opened. No knock. Helen grinned, thankful for someone stupid enough to interrupt her while she was in a mood like this—

  Then she saw the man at the door and she froze.

  He wasn’t a scary individual on the surface. Far from it. Balding, average height, round glasses that made him look like a small-town librarian.

  But the power that Helen used all flowed through him. She called him Control. It was his title. It was his role in her life, as well.

  He stepped in to keep tabs on her, offered the occasional instruction. He could find her anywhere, simply showing up like this, unannounced and unscheduled. He knew every detail of her life. She didn’t even know his real name.

  But she knew he could kill her, and would, without a second’s hesitation, if he thought it necessary.

  Helen was powerful, but Control—Control was God.

  Helen checked her fear and gave him her best smile. “What do you need, sir?”

  Control looked back at her, his face as placid as ever.

  “Agent Holt,” he said. “A word, please?”

  She gestured to a chair.

  He looked up at the ceiling, the walls. “Not in here,” he said.

  He went out into the hall. Whatever he had to say, he didn’t want the office’s recording gear to pick it up.

  Her hand shook slightly as she grabbed the handle and followed.

  Control leaned against the wall in the corridor. “What are you doing, Helen?” he asked.

  “What?”

  He sighed. “Why are you antagonizing Cade?”

  Helen’s fear vanished as the anger welled up inside her. “He was stalking one of our primary subjects—”

  “So?”

  Helen’s mouth worked for a second before she could come up with a reply. “We need Konrad. We can’t afford to lose him—”

  “Why would we lose him?”

  That stopped Helen short.

  “Because—you know their history,” she stammered. “We can’t allow Cade to be this close.”

  He looked annoyed. “Please. If Cade wanted to kill Konrad, he could have done it five times already. He hasn’t. What does that tell you?”

  “The president hasn’t authorized him to take any action,” she said. Reluctantly.

  “Correct,” he said, a teacher rewarding a slow pupil. “So why are you threatening your cover by involving the White House?”

  His face revealed nothing more than idle curiosity. Another federal office drone walked between them in the hall, giving them an apologetic look. Helen waited until she was gone.

  “Konrad wanted us to do something,” she said.

  He took off his glasses and wiped them on his tie. “Do you take orders from Konrad now?”

  She flushed. “No, sir.”

  “And there’s no reason to believe Konrad is involved in anything that would jeopardize him—or the Company,” he said. “Is there?”

  “No, of course not,” she said, too quickly. She tried to keep her face—and her mind—as blank as possible.

  He waited for her to say something else, but she kept her mouth shut. He put his glasses back on and nodded at her.

  “Then we have nothing to worry about.”

  “Cade is screwing with what’s ours,” she snapped. “We ought to put a stake in his heart. Or that kid with him. Just to send a message.”

  “We’re not prepared for that kind of fallout.”

  Helen sensed a weakness here, and she did what she always did: she pounced on it.

  “Maybe you’re not,” she said.

  He looked at her for a long moment. Long enough that Helen started to get nervous again.

  “You think you can handle Cade?”

  She opened her mouth, but he raised his hand. “You weren’t with us the last time we killed someone in Cade’s operation,” he said. “The president set Cade out like a mad dog. What do you think would happen if Cade were to tell the president his former aide turned up dead in Los Angeles? We had to cut loose a lot of people to cover our tracks. A lot of people. They found out the hard way they weren’t as valuable as they thought.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  Her controller looked disappointed. The slow student had taken a step back.

  “Of course it’s a threat, you stupid twat.”

  She looked away. “I’m sorry,” she said.

  He turned away and headed for the elevator. He was done with this conversation.

  “What am I supposed to do?” she asked.

  “You said Konrad isn’t doing anything, right?” her controller said, pressing the button for the elevator. “Then it’s simple. Cade has no reason to be here, once you stop provoking him.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said.

  “Good girl.” He got inside and the doors closed. Helen knew he’d disappear once he walked out of the lobby.

  She bent over, feeling nauseous. Helen was very grateful Konrad was going to make her immortal. Because she was going to betray the Shadow Company, and it had punishments that only started at death. From there, they got much worse.

  She took a deep breath and considered her options.

  Control suspected her of something, but didn’t know. If he knew, she’d already be dead.

  He was watching now. But he was a busy man. She wasn’t the only agent he had to track. The Company would give her plenty of rope to hang herself.

  She had to move fast, though.

  She went back into her office and hit the intercom.

  “Ken,” she said. “I need the activation code for the package.”

  “Uh . . . okay,” he said. “Are you sure about this?”

  Helen gritted her teeth. Was everyone going to give her shit today?

  “I just got confirmation,” she said, voice steady and clear. “The Company wants Cade off the board. He’s not supposed to be here. The White House will take care of any fallout. They’ll have to.”

  Nothing but silence from Ken. Helen rolled her eyes.

  “Oh, don’t be such a wuss,” she said. “How many people get a chance to put ‘vampire slayer’ on their resume?”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  The belief that sunlight will cause a vampire to immediately disintegrate, or burst into flames, appears to have originated with the film Nosferatu (1922). It should be noted that this idea does not appear in the folklore of vampires until after the film. Rather, vampires in folklore were vastly weakened during the day—and a full day of exposure to direct sunlight was often considered the way to kill a vampire. Our own investigations bear out that hypothesis. Direct sunlight debilitates the subject, causing him great pain and increasing weakness. (Simulated UV lights will weaken but not completely incapacitate him.) The proteins in the subject’s cells that ordinarily repair damage appear to switch off, and prolonged exposure would most likely result in subject’s blood and tissues desiccating and breaking down completely, causing coma, total bodily shutdown and irreversible death. However, even out of direct sunlight, subject’s abilities are reduced during the day. His strength wanes to that of five men (bench press = 1,000 lbs.), and his reflexes are only twice as fast as an average human’s. In addition, if he does not rest in a comalike state in complete darkness for at least 12 hours roughly every seven days, he will grow steadily weaker.

  —BRIEFING BOOK: CODENAME: NIGHTMARE PET

  Zach woke on the bed. He hadn’t reset his watch since D.C., so he had no idea of the time.

  He rolled over—and saw Cade standing there. He snapped up, limbs flailing. “Jesus Christ!”

  “We’ve talked about that,
” Cade said.

  Zach eased himself back to the bed. “Maybe it would help if you didn’t loom over my bed while I’m sleeping.”

  “I heard you wake up. Your breathing changed.”

  “Well. That makes it all better. What time is it?”

  “Daytime. Let me know when you’re dressed,” Cade said. “You’ll need to get to the clinic and watch Konrad again.”

  “Yes, sir,” Zach muttered.

  Zach squinted at his watch again, did the math . . . it was barely past ten a.m. He’d been asleep for less than four hours.

  With a grunt, he heaved himself out of the bed.

  The phone rang. Cade picked up. “What?”

  It wasn’t Griff. “Nice manners,” the female voice said. “Rude much?”

  The not-DHS agent from the night before: Holt.

  “I wasn’t expecting your call,” Cade said.

  “Don’t tell me: you’re an old-fashioned guy. You don’t think the girl should call so soon after the first date.” Cade could hear the pride in her voice. No one was supposed to have this number. Her resources surprised him. Again.

  But he wasn’t about to rise to the bait. He waited.

  “Who is that?” Zach asked. He wandered closer to the phone, grazing from the cereal box again.

  Cade gave him a look.

  “Fine, sorry, never mind.” He went away.

  “Tough room,” Holt said, when it became apparent Cade wouldn’t answer. “I guess I should get to the point. Leave the doctor alone. He belongs to us.”

  “And who are you?” Cade said. “You’re not CIA. You’re not Homeland Security.”

  “Need-to-know basis, and you are not among the needy. This is about keeping America safe. Surely you can understand that.”

  “I’ve heard it before. Usually just before a lot of people die.”

  Holt snorted. “You should be more worried about yourself.”

  Cade was bored. Sometimes it seemed ridiculous, talking to humans. Their slow thought processes, their short, fragile lives.

  “This no longer interests me,” he said. “You said you know me. Then you know I won’t stop. Whatever you’re going to do, you might as well do it.”