Safar looked stricken. “But what if nothing happens? What if Speedy is right and they all simply blend back into the shadows?”
Key shook his head. “Z1 can’t get back to the shadows right now. We already know, pretty much for a fact, that he’s fed on at least eight children while we’ve known him. As he lies in there, strapped and chained, his need to feed will only grow. The same may be true of C1, so the longer Eshe is in the wind, the less chance she’ll come back alive. So I believe something will happen, until we stop—”
Key froze. Lancaster recognized his stunned, self-recriminating expression. This time he said the magic word sharply. “Elaborate.”
Key returned his gaze briskly. “I think you were right the first time, sir. You suggested that our assignment and Colonel Logan’s mission might be on a collision course. So now, I’m suggesting that this would be a good time to prepare for impact.”
That left the collected crew speechless for a moment, but just a moment, because Morton Daniels was part of that crew.
“Man, Joe, there would be nothing I’d love more than that to be true,” he exclaimed, “but how can you possibly figure that? We got C1, C5, and Z1—!”
“Oh my god, Joe,” Lancaster breathed, his face blossoming in remembrance and realization. “Even I forgot. M1 and F1.”
Key smiled widely at the retired general’s immediate, and accurate, identification.
“Would you stop fucking with us,” Daniels exploded. “Just come right out and say it, would you?”
But Key was already almost out the door, on his way to search Rahal’s office as it had never been searched before—leaving the rest of the team to stare dumbfounded at their employer, who, for his part, was grinning like a vexed vulture.
“‘M’ for mother,” he told them, “‘F’ for father. The man and woman who brought the child up to the top of Mount Rushmore faster than it was possible. The man and woman who threw the child off the cliff. The man and woman who eluded the greatest dragnet in South Dakota history after they slaughtered two park rangers in a way a bomb could not. The man and woman who did not appear smudged on surveillance video—they did not appear at all!”
“Vlad the Impaler and Countess Bathory,” Gonzales recalled from history. “The king and queen. Overlord and consort. They could be the ones Z1 serves.”
Chapter 16
Dr. Val Dearden was everything Eshe Rahal hoped he would be.
He had been from the moment she contacted him on the advice of her students at the Oman Medical School where she had worked prior to joining Cerberus. In fact, within moments of her sending out the text requesting infectious disease experts, she received a simple, unsigned reply via text: Dr. Dearden’s name and message number. She reacted to it like a life preserver, only hesitating a moment before using the attached link.
She knew she was risking detection by using the anonymous phone more than once, but she decided it was worth the risk. After all, she had nothing to be ashamed of, or embarrassed about. She was trying to save a tormented young girl the most effective way she could. If she didn’t bring some sanity to the proceedings, and hastily, she would not have been at all surprised if Daniels came stomping into the clinic with a cross, garlic, and a sharpened wooden stake.
To her relief, Dr. Dearden himself returned the message—not via text this time but by an actual phone call. Since Rahal had the disposable “burner phone” on vibrate only, she was surprised, but not shocked, when it shook. And his deep, Indian-flavored English voice was remarkably calming. She could practically feel his smile of recognition when she told him who had suggested him, then relaxed for the first time in weeks when he said the six words she had been longing to hear.
“What can I do for you?”
She told him succinctly and clearly of the child who had been abducted, abused, and tormented, and seemed to have awakened from death with enhanced strength, reflexes, and speed—then was as honest as she could be about the girl’s subsequent restraint and quarantine. She felt his shock and concern grow with every word. And his reaction was more than she could have hoped for.
“Thank Shiva you called me,” he had said. “This sounds precisely like the maladies we are studying. Your case sounds like a possible breakthrough.”
“Does it?”
“Yes,” he had enthused. “How soon can you bring the child here?”
He offered her transportation, but a plan was already forming in her mind, so she politely declined. Then she pocketed the anonymous phone and immediately set about accomplishing her exit, starting with C1. She fearlessly entered the quarantine, and when she looked at the sleeping, angelic face, she was filled with certainty and conviction. This child was the victim, not the danger.
Wrapping the tiny girl in swaddling clothes, then strapping C1 to her via a baby carrier cocoon, Rahal left the clinic. Even though her certainty that what she was doing was right was growing with every step, she stayed in the unfinished hallways of the palace re-creation, where Cerberus had not bothered to install surveillance cameras yet. Even if they had, Rahal was sure that any sensible person would understand what she was doing and support her goal. But she also remembered what Daniels had said once.
“Better to ask forgiveness than permission.”
She was further aided by the grandiosity of the headquarters and the modesty of the staff, who were either on assignment or hard at work. She simply walked to the Chinese Versailles stables royale, which now housed dozens of vehicles—both modified by Gonzales and fresh from the factory showrooms. She chose a child-friendly Subaru Outback with the keys in the ignition and drove out the back of the property without delay or opposition.
It had been that simple. She had given Lancaster and the others every opportunity to stop her, short of daring them. But a child’s life was at stake, so nothing would stop her, and nothing did. She felt all the more certain when she found that the new Xinjiang Airport, built on the nearby Pamir Plateau, was complete. From there, getting a flight to Indira Gandhi International Airport was not a problem. She didn’t even have to use a credit card. Cerberus paid extremely well—so well she hadn’t thought twice about securing a first-class ticket. No one even questioned her passport, or requested one of the child. It all went like a dream.
Hours later, with the sleeping child never leaving her chest, she was in Hayana, India, where Dr. Dearden was awaiting her at the arrival lounge. Just seeing him made her feel peaceful. He was a tall, middle-aged, fit man, with a full mustache, graying temples, and a kindly—and relieved—smile. In his well-fitting gray suit and lab coat, he even reminded her of her late mentor, Professor Davi.
Making sure the airport staff was aware that this was a medical emergency, he easily and confidently guided them through customs and passport control, then led her to a clean, new ambulance with “Frontage Medical Institute” on the side. There, a serene, handsome, loving nurse placed the child in an intensive-care crib—the kind that were used for premature births—as Dr. Dearden led Rahal to a padded seat beside it.
“You’ve done a wonderful thing,” he assured her, his warm hand reassuringly on her shoulder. “An amazing thing. Rest now. It’s only fifteen kilometers to the institute—”
“No,” she said more urgently than she had intended. She controlled herself, breathed deeply, then tried again. “No, thank you, Doctor,” she continued, placing her own hand on his. “I won’t rest until I’m sure the child is past any danger. I need to remain aware for any questions you or your staff might have.”
He nodded, his face full of respect. “Of course. I’ll sit right here by you and answer any questions you might have, all right?” He did as he said, her hand now in both of his.
“You said you have been studying maladies with similar symptoms?” she asked as the ambulance started southwest on Route 48.
“Oh, yes,” Dr. Dearden replied in a folksy, assured tone that was
both comforting and familiar. “Our newly opened childhood disease facility possesses a complete spectrum of diagnostic and therapeutic expertise, including several state-of-the-art technologies that are first in India, first in Asia, and even first in the world.” He paused. “Why are you smiling?” he asked with inquisitive kindness.
“I’m sorry, Doctor,” she said, feeling better than she had in months. “But for a moment I thought you sounded like an advertisement.”
He laughed sheepishly. “Oh, I’m sorry. It’s just that I’m so pleased and even proud to be associated with such a fine institution.” He cleared his throat, readjusted his posture next to her, and started again, more seriously. “Yes, I have found an undiagnosed illness with similar symptoms spreading throughout this region, from Vietnam to Kazakhstan. But always the worst sort of superstition gripped the parents, townspeople, or local authorities, so I was unable to properly study the situation.”
“Superstition?” Rahal echoed with familiar concern.
Dearden grew grave. “Yes. I loathe sharing with you the details, but yes, there were even dismemberments and immolations, I’m sorry to say.”
“That is terrible!”
“Yes, truly terrible.” He patted her hand again. “Which is why I am so pleased that you were able to deliver the child from Tashkurgan. I am told that there are villagers there who still might not understand. But here, I can assure you, she will get the utmost care. What is her name, if I may ask?”
Rahal’s eyes widened as she remembered the child didn’t have one. “We—” she stammered in embarrassment, “we called her C1.”
He smiled in rueful understanding. “Well, at least you didn’t name her ‘patient zero,’” he said sympathetically. He looked over at the child, and his caring smile widened. “Let’s call her Angela, shall we? Until she is properly identified, of course.”
“Of course,” Rahal agreed, her smile also widening. “That is a perfect name.”
Dearden looked beyond her, out the ambulance windshield. “Ah,” he said, “we have arrived.”
Rahal looked in the same direction as he to see what looked like a mall of medicine. It was a widespread glass and metal building, placed just off a busy city street—one that was apparently designed to look like outspread, welcoming arms. As the vehicle drove slowly around it, Rahal caught glimpses of shining marble floors, brightly lit walls, and many beautiful art installations. Finally, the ambulance pulled up to a smaller, starker, separate building in the back, on the other side of a two-story parking lot.
“Our facility,” Dearden explained, getting up to prepare the child for delivery to the intensive care unit. “If you want to follow her through the initial diagnostics, I’m afraid you must go through the proper sterilization process yourself, of course.”
“Of course, of course,” Rahal agreed, just as the stress of the trip finally settled down on her. “But no, that will be all right. I have confidence in your—in your—”
Dearden smiled even more warmly at her. “I understand, Ms. Rahal. The staff will see to it that the child is safe. Let me take you to my office, where you can wait.”
The next few minutes were a blur to the Arabic woman, who suddenly seemed to remember how young she actually was—still in her late twenties—and how much she had gone through between Yemen and here. But as soon as her full attention returned, she found herself on a small, well-padded lounge chair in a small, all-too-familiar doctor’s office. It was a comfortable recliner, the kind she often saw in old-fashioned psychiatrist offices.
Unlike Professor Davi’s office, this one was spotlessly clean, with a high ceiling, wood-paneled walls, an examining table, medicine cabinets, a desk, and several well-appointed chairs. Although there were high-intensity lights designed for diagnostics on the walls, the rest of the room was softly illuminated.
Rahal looked up to see Dr. Dearden smiling down at her, stirring a cup of tea. He sat on the edge of the lounge chair and held the tea out to her. She smelled chai as well as milk, cinnamon, and ginger.
“How—” she started, feeling the dryness of her mouth, started again with greater effort. “How long have I been here?”
“Just a few minutes,” Dearden said in a hush, bringing the teacup closer to her nostrils.
“Did I nod off?” she wondered, relishing the sweet and spicy aroma of the creamy liquid.
“You may have,” Dearden said. “I would not know, since I was occupied for a time making sure that Angela was safe and secure.” He raised his head, his deep, dark, kindly eyes settling on hers. “You will be happy to know that she is.”
“I am,” she replied, abruptly realizing that she truly was. She also realized how tired she was when her hands started to shake as she attempted to take the teacup.
“There, there,” Dearden soothed as he extended his arm to place the cup on the end table beside the lounge chair. The action unavoidably brought his arm and torso across her. “Your hegira is catching up with you.” He had referenced the Muslim exodus from Mecca to Medina in 622 AD, making her feel even more welcome.
After he had placed the teacup, he curled his palm on the top of the lounge chair directly beside her reclining head. He looked down at her like a devoted father putting his daughter to bed—his solicitously smiling head now just a foot away.
“You no longer should rest,” he said compassionately. “You must rest. Doctor’s orders.”
“Yes,” she heard herself murmur, feeling her eyes closing. “Yes.”
And, as they closed, she swore she saw his head lowering toward her ear. Then she could feel his soft breath on her throat. It was sweet, but also there was something spicy in the aroma. Or was it the tea mixing, and maybe even camouflaging something else? Something stinging. Something.
“Eshe!”
Her eyes snapped open, but for a second she thought she was still dreaming. Josiah Key was standing in the doorway of Dr. Dearden’s office, looking down at them.
Chapter 17
If Rahal thought Joe would look reprovingly, or even shocked, at her, she was wrong. Instead he was smiling knowingly, comfortably, even sardonically.
Dr. Dearden had not vaulted to his feet. Why should he? He was doing nothing wrong or compromising. Instead he was just sitting up and twisting around to look over his shoulder at the intruder. “What can I do for you?” he asked with curiosity but no sign of affront.
“Don’t mind me,” Key said pleasantly, motioning with a rotating movement of his hand. “Carry on with what you were doing.”
Dearden looked puzzled. “How did you get in here?”
“I walked,” Key replied. “Was something supposed to stop me?”
Before Dearden could answer, Rahal interjected. “Joe, what are you—” She stopped, realizing she knew very well what he was doing here. “How did you—” She stopped again, not sure whether to say “get here” or “find me.” Either way, they both knew it was a time-wasting question, designed to help her regain equilibrium.
Key shrugged while coming farther into the room—attempting to look nonchalant, but concerned his cautious care was too obvious.
“Funny,” he said. “But there’s no such thing as a truly anonymous phone.” He looked at Dearden as he pulled up a patient’s chair to the other side of the lounge—positioned so the doctor was between him and the young woman, who, to her credit, was blushing. “You know, what with tech today, any device can be identified even from flecks of paint on duct tape. And once i-ID’d, no call or text is actually untraceable.”
Dearden looked at Rahal with an expression that asked “should I call security,” but the guilt-tinged look of affection that passed her face kept him away from any alarms. Of course, as far as Key was concerned, it could have been more than that. Just like the man’s puzzled look could have two meanings as well.
“Are you the father?” was what Dearden finally aske
d.
“No,” Key said resignedly. “I’m another caretaker.” He exhaled deeply, leaned back and crossed his ankles. “Very impressive place you got,” he commented, seemingly offhandedly. “Practically got the full tour trying to find your office way back here.” Key looked directly into Dearden’s eyes and all mirth left his face. “Funny how many staff members haven’t heard of you.”
Dearden didn’t bother defending himself. He simply stared back at Key with a face that might have been trying to mirror Key’s own but was betrayed by a growing knowing. Rahal seemed about to rally to the doctor’s defense but after examining both their faces remained silent.
Finally, Dearden spoke three quiet words. “I’m new here.”
Key let the words lie in the air for a second, then seemed to mull them over. “Apparently,” he finally said, and let that word lie as well.
Several times in the next few seconds Rahal was tempted to intervene, to break the silence, even to move, but she didn’t. Finally she quieted and stilled, letting her insight return to her. This wasn’t a macho pissing contest. It might have been if Daniels had accompanied Key, but it certainly wasn’t now. Finally, she saw it for what it actually was: a mental chess game. Her eyes widened when she realized that it was Key’s king at check. But he wasn’t going to concede until he had to.
Key’s eyes narrowed and his lips flattened, their ends threatening to droop as Dearden’s eyes narrowed and his lips threatened to rise. Rahal saw that both now knew that Key’s weakness was through his queen.
“Nevertheless,” Dearden finally said a full moment after Key’s “apparently” disappeared in the air. “I repeat: what can I do for you?”
Key inhaled deeply, as if saying “so that’s the way we’re playing it, huh?” Then he exhaled again in resignation. “In the spirit of repetition,” he said, standing, “we’re caretakers, so we need to take care.”
Dearden also stood, then moved languidly toward his desk. “If I understand you and the situation correctly,” he said with utmost courtesy, “are you requesting to take Angela out of this facility?”
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