White

by Ted Dekker

  “The antivirus.”

  “And while you’re there, see if he knows who has the blank Book of History. One of his guards took it. Clear?”

  “The blank Book of History.”

  “Good. In addition, there are two primary pieces of information we need you to plant in Carlos’s mind. Our objective is to turn him, but short of that we need him to believe two things.”

  “Okay. I think I can handle two things.”

  24

  F or a moment that stretched long into the next, Carlos lay in the attic. Far below was the basement from which Thomas (and Monique) had escaped only days ago, after telling Carlos that he was connected to another man beyond this world—the one who was bleeding from his neck. That was him, Johan.

  Carlos touched his neck. Wet. He pulled his fingers back. Sweat, not blood.

  Of course there’s no blood, Johan thought. That was thirteen months ago. But here in this world it was only a week ago. I’m in the dream that Thomas told me about! Does Carlos realize that I’m here? Johan sat up.

  Carlos knew immediately that something had changed, but he couldn’t define that change. He felt unnerved. He was sweating. A distant voice warned him of danger, but he couldn’t hear the voice. Intuition.

  Or was it more? His mother’s whispers of mysticism had come alive to him these last few weeks. Thomas Hunter had found a way to tap the unseen. He’d lain dead on the cot for two days before apparently throwing off the sheet and climbing the stairs to the main level. True, a doctor hadn’t confirmed his death, as Fortier had pointed out. There were stranger examples of near death. But Carlos dismissed the Frenchman’s agnostic analysis. Hunter had been dead.

  He looked around the room. And now he was here?

  No, Johan thought. It’s not Carlos; it’s me. And although I know his thoughts, he doesn’t necessarily know mine, at least not yet. Carlos isn’t the one dreaming. I am. It’s just like Thomas said it would be.

  Why Carlos? Because Carlos believed that there was a unique connection between them, although not enough belief to wake Carlos up to the fact that Johan was present, as in the case of Mikil and Kara.

  And the man had a week-old cut on his neck to prove it. The same cut that Johan had received from Thomas thirteen months ago in the amphitheater when Justin had exposed him. Mind-bending. But real. As real as Thomas and Mikil had promised it would be.

  He was in the histories at this very moment. How, he couldn’t imagine—some kind of time warp or spatial distortion, whatever Mikil could possibly mean by that. More importantly, according to Thomas, he could affect history by depositing thoughts into Carlos’s mind and by learning his intentions. Two things, Thomas had insisted. Convince him of these two things, learn what you can, and then get out.

  Carlos had a sense of déjà vu. Something familiar resided in his mind, but he couldn’t shake it loose to examine it properly. He stood and walked to the dresser. He mopped his face with a handkerchief. His breathing felt ragged and his face hot.

  This is how you will feel when Fortier slips poison in your drink after he’s used you like an animal—sooner than you think.

  The thought caught him off guard. Naturally, he had some reason to distrust Fortier. Hunter had suggested as much himself. The moment Carlos had the antivirus, he would take the necessary steps to protect himself. He’d already told Fortier that Hunter had claimed a coup would come on the heels of the virus. They couldn’t possibly know that the coup would be orchestrated by Carlos himself. But he was powerless until he had the antivirus.

  Now he was thinking that waiting so long might be a problem.

  Why will Fortier let anyone even capable of a coup live long enough to conduct it? You have a day, maybe two; then he will snuff you out.

  A chill flashed down his spine as the thought worked its way into his mind, not because this simple suggestion was new or even surprising, but because he suddenly knew it was true. Fortier might even do away with Svensson. His grip on this newfound power would last only as long as opportunity to strike back eluded his many new enemies. Fortier would isolate himself for protection. He would burn his bridges behind him.

  It was all just a theory, of course, but Carlos was suddenly sure he’d stumbled onto something he could no longer ignore.

  A day’s stubble darkened his chin. He splashed cologne in his hands and patted his cheeks. A shower would have been part of his normal morning routine. This wasn’t a desert camp in Syria.

  Another thought occurred to him: he had to meet Fortier. Now. Immediately.

  Exactly why, he wasn’t so sure.

  Yes, he was sure. He had to test the man. Feel him out without sounding obvious. Fortier was leaving for the city this morning.

  Carlos stepped to the closet, pulled a beige silk shirt off the hanger, and slipped into it. He lifted the radio from his dresser.

  “Perimeter check.”

  A slight pause. Static.

  Then the guards in place around the compound started calling off their status. “One clear.” “Two clear.” “Three clear.” “Four clear” . . . The check ended at eleven.

  Satisfied, Carlos checked his reflection one last time in the mirror and exited the loft. Three flights to the basement. Down the long hall. He entered the security code, heard the bolts disengage, and stepped into the large secure room.

  A conference table ringed by ten white chairs sat on rich green carpet. The monitors along the south wall were fed by a dozen antennas, only one of which was located on this building. Most were many miles away. Fortier had spared no expense in cloaking the compound’s signature. It no longer mattered—the facility was already compromised by Monique and now Thomas. This was Fortier’s last visit.

  No sign of the Frenchman.

  An intercom behind Carlos came to life. “Carlos, please join me in the map room.”

  He knew. He always knew.

  And he might even take care of you now.

  Carlos shrugged off the thought and walked to the third door on his left. Why did this Frenchman unnerve him so easily? He was simply one man, and he possessed half the killing skills Carlos did.

  Which guard took the Book?

  What on earth was that? What book? Had a guard taken the log book—if so, he couldn’t remember being told about it.

  He shook his head and stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. There were three others in the room besides Fortier. Military strategists. As Carlos understood it, they would all be gone today.

  Fortier turned from a wall of maps that showed the exact location of each nuclear power’s arsenal, inbound to France. Several had already off-loaded—the Chinese and the Russians were nearly intact on French soil now. The British and the Israelis had followed the United States’ lead by offering their arsenals in exchange for the antivirus. There was to be a massive showdown on the Atlantic off France’s coast. But the terms of the exchange only ensured that Fortier would get what he wanted.

  The weapons.

  “Please leave us,” Fortier said to the others.

  They glanced at Carlos and left the room without comment.

  “Carlos,” Fortier said, wearing a slight grin. He clasped his hands behind his back and faced the maps. “So close, yet so far.”

  “I would say you have them in a corner, sir,” Carlos said.

  “Perhaps. Have you ever known the Israelis to allow themselves into a corner?”

  From the beginning, the destruction of Israel had been Carlos’s primary concern. Fortier looked back.

  “I don’t think they are allowing anything, sir. They are being forced. And in a week it won’t matter.”

  “Because in a week we will wipe them out, regardless of what happens in this exchange,” Fortier said. “Is that what you mean?”

  “Assuming that we take their weapons, yes.”

  “And what if we don’t take their weapons? What if they’re bluffing?”

  “Then we call their bluff and destroy them anyway. We have the
weapons to do that.”

  “We do. In fact, as of this moment we have the largest land-based arsenal in the world. Most of the United States’ arsenal is on the ocean. But from a purely military perspective, our position is still weak.”

  “You’re forgetting the antivirus.”

  “I’m setting the antivirus aside, and I’m saying that without it our position is strong, but not strong enough. The United States’ submarine fleet alone could still do substantial damage. We’re still setting up the tactical missiles from China. Russia has 160 intercontinental missiles under my command pointed at North America and their allies. On balance we are in the perfect position to finish the match in precisely the fashion we intended.”

  “But you have reservations,” Carlos said.

  Fortier paced and drew a deep breath. “I spent nine hours yesterday in conferences with the highest-level delegates for Russia, China, India, and Pakistan. They’ve all embraced our plans, eager to play their part in a changed world. There have been challenges, naturally, but in the end their response is better than I could have hoped for.”

  Something bothered Carlos about the man’s tone. Sweat glistened on his forehead; he seemed more circumspect than normal. Perhaps even nervous.

  “But I don’t trust the Americans,” Fortier said. “I don’t trust the Israelis. I don’t trust the Russians, and I don’t trust the Chinese. In fact, I don’t trust any of them. Do you?”

  “I’m not sure you are required to trust them,” Carlos said.

  “Trust is always required. One hidden weapon could take out half of Paris.”

  “Then, no, I don’t trust them.”

  “Good.” Fortier lifted a large black book from the top of a file cabinet and slid it onto the table in front of Carlos. He’d never seen it.

  “What is this?”

  Fortier frowned. “This is the new plan,” he said.

  This could be good and this could be bad—Carlos wasn’t yet sure which. He reached for the book.

  “Page one only,” Fortier said.

  Carlos left the book on the table, lifted the cover, and turned the first page. A list of names ran down the page. His was the fourth down. Missirian, Carlos. The rest of the page contained at least another hundred names, listed as his own, surname first.

  “I’m not sure I understand,” he said, looking up.

  “Our list of survivors. One hundred million in all, by family. We have no doubt as to their loyalties based on family ties and history, and we have precise plans on how to distribute the antivirus to them. The list took five years to compile. There will be some bad apples, of course, but we will deal with them easily enough once the rest are gone.”

  Carlos felt the blood drain from his face. Fortier had no intention of giving the antivirus to any nation. Only these would survive.

  “Whether your name remains on this list is entirely up to you, of course,” the Frenchman said. “But my decision is final.”

  He wasn’t sure what to say. Why was Fortier telling him this? Unless he intended to trust him after all. Or was he telling him to earn Carlos’s loyalty so that he could ultimately eliminate him with ease?

  “This isn’t . . .” Carlos stopped. Pointing out the obvious would do him no favors. Fortier was going to wipe out most of Islam—it could hardly be Allah’s will.

  “You’re concerned with Islam,” Fortier said. “I assure you that the book contains the names of your most respected imams.”

  “And they agree with your plan?”

  “They will be given that opportunity.”

  Yes, of course. “It’s prudent. Bold. It solves everything.”

  Fortier studied him, then finally smiled. “I hoped you would see it that way.”

  “And the exchange?” Carlos asked.

  “Still critical. We aren’t out of the woods yet. There’s always the possibility that they will find an antivirus in time. Once we have their weapons, their destruction is ensured.”

  Carlos paced to the end of the table. “You do realize how dangerous this list is. How many know?”

  “Ten, including you. None of them have the antivirus yet.”

  A stray thought suddenly flashed through Carlos’s mind. Svensson was key to the antivirus—he’d undoubtedly ensured his survival by manipulating the antivirus in a way only he knew. He’d claimed as much two weeks earlier, and Carlos didn’t doubt him. If Svensson was killed, the antivirus would die with him. Though they already had stockpiles of the remedy, surely Svensson had developed a plan for this contingency as well.

  Take Svensson.

  That was the thought.

  Until the antivirus was widely distributed, Svensson might be the more powerful of the pair. Controlling him meant controlling more than Carlos could imagine.

  “You will remain here until after the exchange has been completed,” Fortier continued. “We need full pressure to bear on the American president through these riots. It is now your highest priority. After the exchange I want this facility leveled.”

  “And the assassinations?”

  “As planned, depending on how well they behave.”

  Armand Fortier watched the door close behind the man from Cyprus and wondered if he had made a mistake by showing him the list. But he needed the man’s full cooperation these last few days, and there was no better way than engendering his complete trust. Killing him now, before they had control of the nuclear arsenals, was too risky. Who knew what self-protective measures Carlos had in place even now?

  His cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He slipped it out and glanced at the number. A paging code.

  Fortier walked to a red phone on the wall and began the tedious process of making an overseas call through secure channels. He’d talked to the man only once before, and the conversation had lasted less than ten seconds. The CIA director had proven invaluable and earned his life. Little did he know . . .

  The call finally connected.

  “Grant.”

  “Speak quickly.”

  Pause.

  “I have reason to believe that my contact has been compromised.”

  Contact? Carlos.

  “The man from Cyprus.”

  “Yes,” the American said.

  “You’re certain?”

  “No. But they’re trying to reach him.”

  “How?”

  “Through Hunter’s dreams.”

  Dreams. The one unanticipated element in all of this. Fortier still wasn’t sure he believed the nonsense. There were alternative explanations that, however unlikely themselves, made more sense than this mystical pap.

  “Operations as normal,” Fortier said.

  “Yes sir.”

  “He must not learn that you suspect him.”

  “Understood.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Almost six,” Dr. Bancroft said. “PM.”

  They’d slept about three hours.

  Kara sat up and glanced at their arms, which were still taped together. She looked at Thomas. “We did it.”

  “So far so good. We’re alive and free.”

  “And Johan is dreaming.”

  “Hopefully.”

  Bancroft reached across Thomas and carefully unwound the tape from their arms. “Johan is dreaming,” he said. “Tell me this is good news for us. Here, I mean.”

  “It’s as good as it gets for now. What Carlos does is now up to him.” Thomas swung his feet to the floor and took a moist antiseptic towelette from the doctor.

  “Incredible,” Kara said. “I mean, this is absolutely incredible!”

  “It gets more real each time. Three or four times and you don’t know which is really real.”

  “Honestly, if I didn’t know better, I’d say that this is the dream,” she said.

  “It might be,” Thomas replied.

  “I’ve always wondered what it would be like to live in a dream,” Dr. Bancroft said with a shallow smile.

  “Until you understand that there are
other realities beyond this one and actually experience one of them, this is as real as it gets, Doctor. My father used to say we fight not against the things of this world, but against . . . I can’t place the exact quote, but it was spiritual. Trust me, Doctor, you’re not living in a dream.”

  He rubbed an itch under his arm. Bancroft followed his fingers, then looked in his eyes.

  “Just a rash,” Thomas said. “Probably something I picked up in Indonesia.”

  He stood and walked toward the desk phone. “Do you mind stepping out for a moment, Doctor? I have a call to make.”

  Dr. Myles Bancroft left reluctantly, but he left. Thomas dialed the White House and waited while they patched him through. The president was sleeping, but he’d left instruction to wake him when Thomas called.

  “Thomas. You dreamed?” His voice sounded worn.

  “I dreamed, sir.”

  “And Johan?”

  “If you don’t mind, in person. The line may be clear, but—”

  “Of course. The chopper’s already there on standby.”

  Thomas nodded. “Things are moving forward?” Meaning was Gains on his way to Israel?

  “Yes. But we’re down to two days—”

  “Excuse me, sir, but not on the phone.”

  “We may have another problem. The demonstrations are starting to look ugly.”

  “Bring in the army.”

  “I already have. It’s not my safety that concerns me. It’s public sentiment. If this goes badly, my hand may be forced.”

  “I need more time.”

  “And I need to find out what’s happening—”

  “As soon as I dream again, I’ll know,” Thomas said.

  The president was silent. He was extending himself on Thomas’s behalf. If his gamble to play the cards as Thomas had suggested failed, several billion people would lose their lives.

  Then again, what choice did he really have?

  “Get here as quickly as you can,” the president said and hung up.