“Of course.”
“It’s the vice president and his wife. They arrive, noon tomorrow. But no name on the reservation, okay?”
“Absolutely, of course. We’re honored to have them stay with us. Anything you need, just let me know.”
“We will,” said Daniel, taking the key card.
On the way to the ballroom, Daniel checked the Canadian Women’s Clubs website again, memorizing the names and faces of the senior officers. The day before the big event, it was a safe bet that at least one officer of the club would be on hand to supervise preparations, and it would be better if he didn’t have to ask someone to point her out.
Just inside the ballroom, he spotted the club president, Mary Donovan. She was about sixty-five, an attractive woman—although clearly face-lifted—with frosted blond hair and perfect makeup, wearing a white Chanel suit over a pink silk blouse.
“Excuse me, Ms. Donovan?” he said.
“Mrs. Donovan,” she said with a sly smile.
“Yes, ma’am. My name is Mitchell. I’m not sure if you’ve been made aware, the vice president and his wife will be visiting this hotel during your brunch tomorrow—”
“Surely you don’t have security concerns about our group.”
“Oh no, you misunderstand. The vice president was very pleased to learn that you’ll be here. You see, his wife has extended family in Nova Scotia . . . Halifax. They both have great affection for Canada. I’m here to ask you if they might stop by to say hello during the cocktail hour before brunch.”
Mary Donovan’s eyes went wide. Botox kept the rest of her face from moving, but she was clearly thrilled. “Oh my, that would be lovely,” she said.
“Just an informal visit, you understand. They’ll stop in around noon, mingle a bit. The vice president may say a few words. And of course some of you ladies may wish to have pictures taken with them.”
“Yes, that’s terrific! We can hold off the meal until one o’clock, or they’re welcome to stay and dine with us.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible. They really only have a brief hole in their itinerary—twenty minutes maximum—but they would love to see you and your group.”
“And we will love to see them, Mr. Mitchell. Thank you so much!”
“Great. If you need to coordinate anything with the hotel, just speak with Miss Chen. She’s the manager taking care of us.” He started to turn away, stopped as if remembering something. “One other thing, Mrs. Donovan, and this is very important: The vice president and his wife are looking for a nice, quiet weekend as a couple in New York, away from the press corps. So please ask your members to use discretion. We’d hate to find a dozen news vans parked out front tomorrow.”
“You can count on us,” said Mary Donovan, beaming as much as her face would allow.
The formal dining table in the Royal Terrace Suite could seat ten. Daniel sat at it alone, eating a room-service filet mignon with a mélange of root vegetables under a port reduction. There was a fully stocked bar in the suite, but he limited himself to one bottle of good red wine, and he quit with a third left in the bottle. He couldn’t afford to be fuzzy in the morning.
His cell phone rang as he was rising from the table.
“Yup?”
“What the hell are you up to over there, Padre?” said Raoul.
“Just working on your challenge.”
“You managed to spend over forty thousand dollars in the last six hours. What, are you trying to set a record?”
“You didn’t stipulate a budget,” said Daniel. “Anyway, we’re set for tomorrow. Don’t be late or you’ll miss the show.”
“You sound pretty confident.”
“Like you said, it was a simple challenge.”
“Oh really? Then how about a side wager? A thousand dollars says you don’t make it happen.”
“How about this,” Daniel countered, “I lose, I pay you a thousand dollars. I win, you never call me Padre again.”
Raoul laughed. “You’re on, Padre.”
“And that’ll be the last time,” said Daniel, ending the call.
Daniel took breakfast in his room while scanning the newspaper for any mention of the vice president. There’d been no mention in the previous day’s paper and he was relieved to find none this morning. He kept CNN on in the background and kept an ear open. A simple news item about the veep at some function anywhere in the world other than New York City would be enough to sink his plan if the wrong people saw it.
He checked his watch: eight forty-five. It would be better if the hotel approached him rather than the other way around, and he hoped it would happen soon. He’d asked both Chen and Donovan for discretion, but he was counting on human nature. He’d given Chen implicit permission to discuss the visit with whomever she thought needed to know, and he’d flat-out instructed Donovan to tell the members of her club and ask them to use discretion. He’d also invited Donovan to discuss the matter with Chen. He figured by now 80 percent of the hotel staff and every well-heeled Canadian woman in the tri-state area had heard the news.
The knock on his door came at 9:01. He opened the door to a man in a charcoal-gray suit. The man wore no nametag, but Daniel knew him by sight, having found his LinkedIn and Facebook profiles on the Internet the night before. He was the Plaza’s director of security. His name was Anthony Root, but his online conversations revealed that everyone who knew him called him Tony. He lived in Newark. He was a fan of the Giants and the Mets and the Devils. He was married with two kids and a golden retriever named Goldie. Daniel hadn’t bothered to memorize the names of Tony’s wife and kids, his date of birth and wedding anniversary, the name of his high school, or his favorite books, movies, music, and food. But it was all there online.
Before the man could speak, Daniel said, “Mr. Root, come in.”
“Thank you. I understand we’re having a very important visitor today and I thought we should coordinate, so we’re ready for the, uh, the motorcade . . .” Root stammered to a stop as he took in the room. “There’s usually a lot more of you guys. I—I don’t understand . . .”
Daniel put a hand on Root’s shoulder. “Listen, Tony. Sometimes even the most powerful people in the world just need to get out like regular people living a regular life. You can’t imagine the pressure living in that fishbowl. So there’ll be no motorcade, as such. Sometime between noon and 12:05, two unmarked limousines will pull up to your front entrance. Our VIPs will exit the second car with two of our men and will walk into your hotel like regular folks. Okay?”
“Um, sure.”
“Now here’s what we need from you: At exactly 11:55, have your security team shut the front entrance to pedestrian traffic and divert guests to alternate exits. And you need to clear the sidewalk in front. The entire block, no foot traffic on this side. That’s it. Once inside the hotel, our VIPs will head straight for the ballroom to meet with the Canadian Women’s Club. As soon as they’ve cleared the lobby, you reopen the entrance. Got it?”
“I’ll see that it’s done.”
“Good. Remember, this is a low-key visit. If word leaks out to the media and it comes from anyone on your team . . . you’re responsible.”
At exactly noon, Daniel stood on the sidewalk in front of the Plaza Hotel, suppressing a smile. Nobody came or went through the front doors, security staff waved taxis and limos around the corner to the side entrance and politely maneuvered pedestrians at either end of the block to the other side of the street.
Daniel stood and admired the view. Okay, it wasn’t an Edward Hopper canvas, but he’d created the entire scene out of pixie dust. In its own way, it was a minor work of art. A little pride was justified.
The rear window of a stretch limo parked at the opposite curb rolled down, and Daniel could see Raoul and Pat sitting in back. He jogged across the street and climbed in to find Pat laughing, saying t
o Raoul, “Pay up, buddy.” Raoul stuffed a wad of money into Pat’s hand as the car pulled away from the curb.
“Nice goin’, Dan,” said Pat.
“Thanks.”
“So what was the scam?”
“They’re expecting the arrival of the vice president and his wife,” said Daniel, “and I feel terribly guilty. I’m afraid the tri-state area Canadian women are in for a disappointment.”
“Impersonating a secret service agent carries long jail time—” Raoul cut himself off before saying “Padre.”
“I never actually told anyone I was a secret service agent. And I never said the veep’s name. I could’ve been talking about the vice president of UNEX Incorporated and his wife. I just invited the right people to make the right assumptions. Nothing I couldn’t talk my way out of with a good attorney by my side.” Daniel smiled. “I can assume you guys have a few of those on call, right?”
Raoul eyed Daniel’s secret service getup and shook his head, laughing through his nose. “You got some balls on ya, man. I’ll give you that.”
7: SYMPATHY FOR THE DEVIL
Red Ridge, West Virginia
Today is a good day to die. But I’ve decided to stay alive until tomorrow.
The sergeant behind the desk went a little ashen when he read what came up on his computer screen.
“Well?” said Daniel.
The young man snapped to attention. “Uh, I’m very sorry for the inconvenience, Colonel Pomerance, sir. Someone at the Pentagon must’ve forgotten to forward your electronic pass.”
“Don’t shift blame,” said Daniel as he brushed past, “it’s unbecoming.”
He put his right palm on the reader and waited for the green light. After ten excruciating seconds, the light came on. The door buzzed and the sentry pulled it open.
Daniel walked through. He tried to ignore the sharp metallic report that echoed through the hallway as the door locked behind him.
He failed to ignore it.
Raoul’s words came back to him now: Once the door shuts behind you, you’re on your own. You mess up in there, no way we can get you out alive.
Daniel took a deep centering breath, in through the nose and out through the mouth. His body stopped pumping adrenaline into his bloodstream. He strode toward the man struggling into a white doctor’s coat while hurrying up the hallway to greet him.
“Sir, I apologize, they didn’t tell me they were sending anyone.”
“So I gathered,” said Daniel. “Where is he?”
“On level 3. Elevator’s down the hall.” They began walking.
“Brief me along the way. I don’t have a lot of time.”
“Yes, we can stop at my office on 2 and pick up the file.”
Daniel didn’t break stride. “Was I not speaking English when I said I don’t have a lot of time? Just tell me what you know and stick to the most salient points. Details can wait until I decide if this is worth my attention.”
“Yes, sir. Patient is Major Shields Blankenship, of South Carolina.”
“Christ, I know his name. Describe his condition.”
“He arrived to us gravely ill, but with no accompanying report.”
“You were not informed where he arrived from?”
“That’s right, sir. Colonel Dillman did not offer that information when he checked Blankenship in.” They stepped into an open elevator. There were twelve underground floors. The doctor pressed B3, and the door closed.
“Go on.”
“The patient’s condition worsened while we sent his blood for analysis. We put him on intravenous antibiotics and saline right away of course, but I’m afraid he came to us too late.”
“He’s dead?”
“Oh no, he’s going to live—the antibiotics are doing their job—but I feel certain he suffered some brain damage from the very high fever before our intervention brought it down.” They stepped off the elevator and continued down the hall.
“Cut to the chase, Doctor. Why. Am. I. Here.”
“Well, sir, this is strange, but the patient came to believe that he was, um, possessed.”
“Possessed.”
“Yes. By Satan.”
“You have got to be shitting me.”
“No, sir. But that’s not why I contacted the Pentagon. You see, while claiming to be Satan, Major Blankenship began talking about the plague outbreak in fourteenth-century Europe, particularly in Norway. Some of it was disjointed but there was a definite narrative to his story, about families ripped apart and towns wiped out by the Black Death. He kept mentioning a town called Mandal; he seems obsessed with the place. So I looked it up, and there is such a town in Norway, in a valley of the same name. And other details of his narrative—other place names and the timeline of the Black Death’s spread across the country, for example—are also accurate. But the patient’s ancestry all goes to England and Ireland. No Norway.”
“So maybe he has a Norwegian history fetish.”
“And then he started speaking fluent Norwegian,” said the doctor, “and with an authentic Norwegian accent.” He shrugged. “My father-in-law is from Norway and he has the same accent. So I called up Major Blankenship’s personnel file and found nothing in his history to suggest he would know Norwegian. And I thought, What if the man isn’t who he claims to be? The situation looked to me, sir, like a possible security threat. So I called it in. We’re now recording him 24/7, catching everything he says.”
“You were right to call it in,” said Daniel. “Current status?”
“He became violent, so we’ve restrained him and started him on Valium. He’s conscious and lucid, but no longer manic. His mind is somewhat”—he searched for the right word—“dampened, if you’ll allow the lay term.” The doctor came to a stop just outside an unmarked door.
Daniel glanced at his watch. Eighteen minutes had elapsed. If all was well, the Foundation would have possession of the computer network for another forty-two. “Now I need you to go directly to your office and upload all records on this case to my office at the Pentagon. Everything you’ve got.” He reached for the door handle.
“Sir, I think you may want me with you for the patient interview, for a medical perspective—”
Daniel waved him off. “You’ve got your orders, Doctor. I’ll be fine.” With a sharp nod toward the elevator, he said, “Go. Do. Now.”
The doctor scurried off to obey his orders.
Daniel stepped into the room, where a man lay on a slightly inclined hospital bed, his wrists and ankles bound to the gleaming chrome rails by padded leather cuffs. A wide leather belt secured his waist to the bed. The man was awake but silent. A large flat-screen television monitor was mounted on the wall behind his head. The screen was divided into four segments, displaying the facility’s front entrance, reception room, elevator, and this very room. On the screen, Daniel saw himself from behind, the man in the bed facing the camera lens, but not looking into it. The man stared unblinking at a spot on the ceiling above the camera.
Daniel started the voice recorder on his smartphone and approached the bed.
The man continued to stare at the ceiling.
Daniel threw a glance at the spot where the man was looking. “I don’t see anything fascinating up there, do you?”
The man didn’t move. Daniel stepped to the edge of the bed, clanged his ring three times against the chrome rail just above the wrist restraint. “Anybody home?”
The man finally turned and looked Daniel in the eye. “Please don’t bang on the rail.”
“Wasn’t sure you realized I was here.”
“I expected someone like you to come along.”
“This may be an odd question,” said Daniel, “but am I speaking with Major Shields Blankenship right now?”
The man’s smile bordered on impish. “No.”
“Then
what shall I call you?”
“You know who I am. And I know who you are, Pater.”
Pater? It was the Norwegian word for “father.” But how could the man possibly know? Daniel felt a little dizzy, but he maintained his composure, gave nothing away on the outside.
He said, “Prince of Darkness then, is it?”
“Just call me Lucifer. Major Blankenship has been placed on temporary hiatus. I need use of his vocal cords, so I’ve taken possession of his brain.”
“What about his soul?” Daniel kept any sarcasm out of his tone.
“Don’t be silly; I’ve had the boy’s soul for years. And I’ll have yours soon enough.”
All of the man’s physical cues indicated that he believed what he was saying. But physical cues were somewhat muted by Valium—in fact, people had long used the drug to beat polygraph tests—so these cues were of limited value. Daniel said, “And you need use of Major Blankenship’s vocal cords so you can talk about a tiny village in Norway during the Black Death. Is that correct?” This time he didn’t hide the sarcasm.
“I know what you’re thinking,” the man said, “but you didn’t really expect me to spin the major’s head around and make him spit pea soup, did you?”
“Actually, I’m thinking you’ve had a high fever, which has caused some damage to your brain.”
The man continued as if Daniel hadn’t said anything. “Then again, you don’t strike me as much of a priest, so I suppose that makes us even.”
“I’m not a priest.”
“Liar. Your uniform fools men, it doesn’t fool Lucifer.”
Daniel glanced at his watch. “I have neither the time nor inclination to debunk your identity. Lucifer, not Lucifer—doesn’t matter to me. I don’t even believe in the devil.”
“It was 1349,” said the man. He blinked very slowly, lids like window shades drawn shut and raised again. “Det skjedde før i Mandal, hvor det åpenbare var engang skjult og det skjulte vil åpenbares . . .”
The Devil's Game (The Game Trilogy Book 2) Page 4