The King of Plagues

by Jonathan Maberry

  “Is that all we are?” I asked. “Hunters in the dark?”

  “Isn’t it enough for you?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t want that to be all that I am.”

  Church nodded.

  We stared out to sea, watching as the thickening clouds were underlit by the setting sun. The colors were intense. Dark reds and hot oranges. It looked like the whole world was on fire.

  Part Three

  Ten Plagues

  The governments of the present day have to deal not merely with other governments, with emperors, kings and ministers, but also with the secret societies which have everywhere their unscrupulous agents, and can at the last moment upset all the governments’ plans.

  —BENJAMIN DISRAELI

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  In Flight

  December 18, 10:29 P.M. GMT

  Prebble’s team gave me a lift to Heathrow. It was a silent trip except for some murmured condolences for the losses suffered by the DMS. We were all in mourning. The final death toll from the Hospital had been released.

  Four thousand, one hundred, and sixteen people.

  That was eleven hundred more than had died in the fall of the Towers. Add to that the body count from Area 51: 79 people on the research and development team, 26 support staff, 8 from the Nellis Air Force Base Military Intelligence Team, 6 members of Lucky Team, 9 men and women from Area 51’s on-site security team, and the 2 members of Echo—130 all told. Add Plympton’s wife and daughter, Charles Grey and his family, and two dead in the fish tank and the total was 4,253 dead in less than two days.

  Those numbers were full of broken glass and splinters. You couldn’t touch them without bleeding.

  I sat in one of the padded seats on the chopper with Ghost’s head on my lap and stared inward into some of the empty darkness in my head.

  I wished that Grace was with me.

  God Almighty, Grace … why aren’t you here?

  I closed my eyes and tried not to scream. Inside my head the Warrior was ramming the point of his knife into the ground over and over again, teeth bared in a feral snarl of unrelenting bloodlust. The Modern Man was hiding somewhere; he just couldn’t deal. I wanted the Cop to emerge, to assert his cool control, but for the moment he was silent, and ugly winds blew across the darkness of my inner landscape.

  I dozed for a while, but my dreams were nasty and I woke to the sound of my phone buzzing. I flipped it open.

  “Do not tell me there’s been another attack,” I said by way of hello.

  “No,” said Mr. Church, “but here’s a twist for you.”

  “Hit me.”

  “Jerry Spencer and his team found the body of Trevor Plympton in the subbasement of the hospital.”

  “Killed by the blast?”

  “Hardly. The debris kept him fairly intact, but it is clear that he had been systematically and comprehensively tortured.”

  “Ah, Jesus … . Were they able to fix the time of death?”

  “Best guess is two to six hours after the deaths of his family. Well before the bombs went off.”

  He let me process that for a moment.

  “That is a twist,” I said, “but it tells us something. It straightens the logic.”

  “Tell me.”

  “If Plympton had been coerced into bringing the bombs to work and setting them up for fear that something bad would happen to his family, he might have snapped. He might have killed his wife and kid and then gone to work to maybe stop the bomb.”

  “Why kill his family?” Church asked.

  “Because he was about to betray the extortionists.”

  “Why not go to the authorities?”

  “Plympton told us why in his note.”

  “‘They are everywhere,’” Church quoted.

  “Yes, and he believed that to the point of killing his wife and daughter in order to protect them from worse treatment at the hands of the Seven Kings.”

  “So, who killed Plympton?”

  “Good question. We know from Fair Isle that the Kings had several agents in place. They clearly used the same setup here. So we’re back to what we talked about on Fair Isle, that the Kings have a way of identifying certain psychological profiles within their target facilities.”

  There was silence at both ends of the line as we each thought about all the things that were wrong with that.

  “It smacks of too much inside knowledge,” said Church.

  “Way too much.”

  “Let me work on that end of things,” he said. “In the meantime, I’ve arranged for a specialist to liaise with you. Dr. Circe O’Tree. She’s an analyst who specializes in the social, religious, and historical justifications for terrorism. She’ll join you on the flight to the States.”

  “Good. We can use the help. But … where do I know that name from?”

  “I doubt you watch Oprah, so I’ll venture that you saw her latest book in the stores. The Terrorist Sophist.”

  “That’s it. Looked interesting,” I said. “Should have picked it up.”

  “Pick it up in the airport,” he suggested. “It’s useful stuff. Dr. O’Tree works for Hugo Vox out at Terror Town, though she’s been in London for the last two months working in security logistics for the Sea of Hope. Her track record for intuitive leaps and Big Picture perspective checks is remarkable. I tried to recruit her for the DMS, but she declined.”

  “Why?”

  When he didn’t answer, I said, “She sounds like a sharp cookie. I’ll try not to embarrass the home team.”

  “That would be nice,” Church said dryly. “Last thing before you go. We have the first lab reports from the Hospital fire. They’ve found residue consistent with a large quantity of automobile tires. They were apparently stored on the top floor of the Hospital in several rooms that had been roped off, ostensibly for plumbing repairs. Hospital officials have no explanation for that, and they believe that the tires had to have been brought in very recently. We can presume that Plympton and/or others working for the Kings brought them in within the last twenty-four hours before the fire.”

  “Why? To increase the toxicity of the smoke or special effects?”

  “That’s Spencer’s take. There are a number of ways in which a pall of darkness can be spun into a political or religious statement. And it may tie in with what Dr. Sanchez learned at Graterford. That’s a good topic to run by Dr. O’Tree.”

  He disconnected.

  I CHEWED ON that for the rest of the flight to Heathrow. Gus Dietrich had arranged for an aide to be there with my suitcases. I ducked into a bathroom and changed out of the BDUs and into a light traveling suit.

  Ghost, looking like a tortured martyr, went into the cargo hold in a big box. Even when I gave him his favorite toy—a well-chewed stuffed cat with DR. HU stitched on its chest—from the looks Ghost threw me you’d have thought I’d just whipped him with a chain.

  Did I feel guilty as I kicked off my shoes and stretched out my legs in first class? Could I imagine his piteous whines as I sipped my first glass of Jameson?

  Yeah, but I dealt with it manfully. I finished the drink in two wheezing gulps, ordered a second and took a slug, then rested the glass on my thigh. My eyes started drifting closed and I didn’t fight it.

  “Captain Ledger—?”

  I fought the urge to heave out a frustrated sigh as I cranked open one eye. “Yes?”

  A woman set a briefcase down on the adjoining seat. She was very likely the most beautiful woman I had ever seen in real life.

  “Mr. Church told me that you’d be aboard this flight,” she said. “I’m Dr. Circe O’Tree.”

  I stared up at her and for a moment I forgot all about death and destruction. I also forgot that I’d buckled my seat belt, so when I tried to stand and shake her hand I jerked to a halt and spilled my whiskey all over my crotch.

  Smooth.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Over the Atlantic

  December 18, 10:43 P.M. GMT

 
; We both looked at the dark stain spreading on the front of my trousers.

  “Well,” I said, “I guess there’s no way I’m going to make a bigger jackass of myself than that, so we can go on the assumption that everything else will be less of a disappointment.”

  Circe O’Tree arched an eyebrow. “Oh, I don’t know. We have a long flight ahead of us.”

  Damn.

  She was average height, but beyond that all other uses of the word “average” went right out the window. Circe had a heart-shaped face framed by intensely black hair that fell in wild curls to her shoulders. She had full lips, high cheekbones that a model would have sold her own offspring for, and a set of heart-stopping curves. The brown of her eyes was so dark that the irises looked black. I figured her for Black Irish with a dash of Greek. She wore a tailored tweed skirt and jacket over a sheer white blouse. She wasn’t dressed to show off, and there wasn’t a hint of flirtation in her smile, so this was all on me. I could blame it on being caught off-guard. Sure, that sounds good.

  “Mind if I sit?” she asked.

  “Please,” I said, fumbling for what few manners I had left.

  She sat and laid her briefcase on her thighs and tried not to smile at the whiskey spill. When the cabin attendant saw the mess and—God help me—tried to dab at it with a cloth, Circe turned aside and bit her thumb to keep from laughing.

  I yanked out the tails of my shirt to hide the damage. The attendant, red faced and flustered, brought fresh drinks, a new whiskey for me and a Coke Zero for Circe.

  “So,” I said, “want to start this over again? ’Cause really I’m not as much of an imbecile as evidence might suggest.”

  “I try not to hold first impressions against people.”

  “Thank god for that. Can we try those introductions again? You are—?”

  “Do you want the full name or the one that fits my driver’s license?”

  “Give me the whole enchilada. I’ve got time.”

  “Circe Diana Ekklesia Magdalena O’Tree.”

  “Yikes.”

  “I have a complicated family history.”

  “No kidding.”

  “‘Circe’s’ easier.” She held out a hand. She wore rings on most of her fingers and a silver band of Celtic knots around her thumb. Her grip was strong, the way a woman’s is, without affected delicacy or an attempt to prove herself by trying to crush my bones. I noticed that there was a line of callus running from her index finger to her thumb. Shooters get calluses like that. Her trigger finger was the only one without a ring. File that away.

  “Captain Joseph Edwin Ledger,” I said. “Joe to my friends.”

  “Nice to meet you, Joe.”

  “You hold any rank?” I asked.

  She shook her dark hair. “Just the degrees. M.D., couple of Ph.D.’s, bunch of master’s. I was a world-class nerd.”

  “What fields?”

  “It’s a mix. Archaeology, anthropology, physics, psychology, and medicine with a specialty in infectious diseases.”

  I whistled. “Weird mix.”

  “Less weird than it appears. I’ve always known that I wanted to work in the threat assessment field. Counterterrorism and antiterrorism. The physics and medicine help me understand the specific nature of the WMDs we might face; the archaeology and anthropology give me a lot of cultural perspective. And the psychology allows me to crawl inside the heads of freedom fighters and political extremists.”

  “Makes sense, but you must have started collecting degrees in grade school.”

  Her smile abruptly dropped about twenty degrees. “Are you going to tell me that I look too young to be so smart?”

  “Uh … no. My comment was meant to convey appreciation of your accomplishments, not to condescend.”

  Circe said nothing. Insecure and a bit touchy. File that away, too.

  “Church said you were in London for the Sea of Hope thing. I just got the skinny on that yesterday.”

  “And—?”

  “And what?”

  “Most of you people seem to think that it’s an extraordinary waste of security resources and probably an overall waste of time.”

  “‘You people’? What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Military types. Covert-ops types.”

  “Ah. You mean male types. Sorry, Doc, but I wasn’t going in that direction. If you want to hear what I actually think, try asking it without the challenge.”

  She sat back and appraised me for a moment, but it was hard to tell what conclusions she was drawing. She said, “Okay, so what do you think of Generation Hope?”

  “No bullshit?”

  “No bullshit.”

  “I think it’s long past due, and I’m encouraged to know that the project was conceived by the next generation. The current generation in power—on both sides of the aisle—spend too much time with their heads up their asses playing partisan politics and not enough time planning for the future. I don’t like the grasshopper viewpoint when it comes to issues that affect the whole world. That said, I think the Sea of Hope is about the best target I could think of for a terrorist attack, so providing top-of-the-line security for it makes a lot of sense.”

  Another long moment while she fixed those dark, calculating eyes on me.

  “Okay,” she said. “Points for that.”

  “Gosh, thanks.”

  Circe gave me a charming smile. “We’re not going to get along well, are we?”

  I laughed. “Actually, I kind of hope we are. I’ll behave if you will.”

  She shrugged. “It’s worth a try.”

  That bought us a few seconds of awkward silence. I waited for her to fill it. She didn’t, so I caved and asked, “You’ve worked with Church before?”

  Something flickered in and out of her eyes and she brushed a nonexistent piece of debris from the leather cover of her briefcase. “Once or twice.”

  “He speaks highly of you,” I said.

  “Does he?” she said distractedly. Her eyes drifted down to her hands for a moment, and I couldn’t tell if she was being evasive because her history with Church was awkward or because she was intimidated by the thought of him. She wouldn’t be the first person in a power position who got moody and introspective when Church’s name was mentioned. There was something about Church that made you assess everything from how clean your fingernails were to how many sins were left unconfessed on your soul. After a few seconds she raised her eyes and looked at me.

  “It might be useful if you brought me up to speed on what you’ve learned,” she said. “Mr. Church said that you’re already forming some useful theories … ?”

  “Don’t yet know how useful they are,” I said, “but here goes.”

  I told her everything that had happened since Church called me yesterday. The jet was far out over the Atlantic by the time I finished. While I spoke she took a lot of notes on her laptop.

  The story hit her pretty hard and her eyes were wet. “Fair Isle. That encounter with the little boy—”

  “Mikey,” I said.

  “Mikey. That must have been very difficult.”

  “Harder for him than me.”

  “No,” she said, “I don’t think so. He’s past it now; he’s out of it. You have to carry it around with you.”

  “It’s part of the job, Doc.”

  She shifted to study me, eyes narrowing again. “Why are you doing that?”

  “Doing what?”

  “Blowing it off as if it’s nothing? You watched a little boy die a horrible death today. You had to use him in order to do your job. Are you going to sit there and tell me that it’s just another day at work? What, you did that and now you can clock out and watch the in-flight movie?”

  I sighed. “What should I do? Break down and cry?”

  “It would be a little more human.”

  “Sure … and I’ll probably get around to that. I’m not that kind of macho. But at the same time, how would it get me through the rest of today? People I
know have died today. I killed two people yesterday and someone else today. I want to hunt down the people responsible for what’s going on and kill them. Would disintegrating into tears get me through any of that?”

  “You live a difficult life, Captain.”

  “So does a nurse in a charity ward. It’s all relative, and the name is ‘Joe.’”

  “And the loss of your men?” she said. “You must be devastated.”

  “Sure. Granted, I’ve been away and didn’t really know them, but they wore the uniform, so anyone in the field is going to feel the loss.”

  She nodded. “Funny, most professional soldiers who said something like that would come off sounding like a bad actor in a cheap action film. You don’t.”

  “Thanks. I think.”

  “It’s more typical of the kind of person Mr. Church tends to hire for his teams. He needs tough men and women, and granted there will always be a bit of the tough-guy catchphrases being tossed around, but most of the people I’ve met have a deeper level.” She cut me a sideways look. “And no, Captain Ledger, that is not in any way a flirtatious remark.”

  “I never for a minute thought—”

  “Yes, you did,” she said, but she said it pleasantly. Or so I thought. “Of course you did.”

  “No, really, I—”

  She held up a hand. “Okay, let’s throw some cards on the table so we can move forward without stepping on eggshells. Fair enough?”

  “Yes?” I said dubiously.

  “I work at T-Town, which is about ninety-nine percent men, and all of them either are alpha personalities or think they are. That said, what we have here is the standard dynamic for sexual tension. I’m moderately good-looking, I have big boobs, and I get hit on by everyone from the pastor of my church to baristas at Starbucks, and by every single guy at T-Town except for my boss and the range master. I don’t blame them and I don’t judge them. It’s part of the procreative drive hardwired into us, and we haven’t evolved as a species far enough to exert any genuine control over the biological imperative. You, on the other hand, are a very good-looking man of prime breeding age. Old enough to have interesting lines and scars—and stories to go with them—and young enough to be a catch. You probably get laid as often as you want to, and you can probably count on the fingers of one hand the number of times women have said no to you. Maybe—and please correct me if I’ve strayed too far into speculation—being an agent of a secret government organization has led you to buy into the superspy sex stud propaganda perpetuated by James Bond films.”