Burn (10 page)

President O’Connor had spent the toughest ten years of her youth behind a badge on the streets of Seattle. She knew firsthand the value of a good partner, good information and a good flak vest, and she knew the political importance of taking a stand when every cell in her body screamed, “Run!”

Mark had considered Toledo a good partner; they were tight for several years.

Claudia O’Connor wished now for some privacy. The only time the world gave her privacy was when she went to the bathroom. Even then, the Secret Service and The Football listened at the door.

A Mongoose set down on the White House lawn, its engines a shrill whine. The backblast had reporters on the lawn grabbing their coats and their equipment. Dwight Olafson, her Chief of Staff, entered the room with a stack of paperwork. Earl, her agent in charge, tapped her shoulder gently and indicated his Sidekick. He cupped his hand around her ear.

“Madam President, the Surgeon General recommends activation of Federal Emergency Management Agency protocols for isolating you, the Joint Chiefs and members of Congress. Three other airliners caught fire and burned in the last hour. The Vice-President is dead, and we’re not taking any chances. We’re taking you to The Mountain.”

Outside, her agents cleared the reporters from the area, ignoring their shouted questions, clicking shutters and whirring cams. The President stood, brushed off her black skirt and let Earl take her elbow. She raised her voice enough so that he could hear over the engine racket.

“I told you before, Earl, I don’t care what the books say. Don’t call me ‘Madam.’ Isn’t The Mountain a little premature?”

“We’ll brief you aboard, Ms. President. Some of those mikes out there can filter anything.”

“The Gardeners?” she asked.

He nodded, his expression grim.

“Shit.”

“Yes, Ms. President. In the fan. They’re selecting a new Master now. Meanwhile, that Noas guy’s in charge. He’s as paranoid as they get. The Children of Eden have secured all their facilities, placed their rangers on alert and called in contracts to every mercenary and gang unit they’ve ever dealt with. Intelligence suspects somebody inside their organization has eliminated the competition and is making a move.”

“On us?”

“Exactly.”

The President pursed her lips, tapped her fingers on her thigh, then turned to her Chief of Staff.

“Change of plans,” she said. “We’re going to Camp David.”

“Camp David? But . . .”

“A rabbit would go to The Mountain, and I’m no goddamn rabbit,” she said. “Set up a meeting with David Noas, or whoever’s in charge of the Children of Eden. We’ve got some talking to do. If it comes down to shooting, we’ll take care of that, too, when the time comes.”

“Yes, Ms. President,” Dwight said. “Camp David.”

Dwight Olafson’s red-veined cheeks reddened all the way to the top of his bald, sweaty head.

“The Sanhedrin are meeting now to select their new Master,” he said. “That hard-ass, David Noas, is a likely choice.”

“We hired his people in the Gold Wars,” Myers said. “He fought the Zulus in the bush while we worked the cities.”

“History calls it the ‘Independence March,’” the President said.

“No, it was done for gold, all right,” Mandell said. “And diamonds. The Israelis got into it for the uranium. David Noas got into it for God.”

“Does he hate blacks?” O’Connor asked. “I know there aren’t many in their organization.”

“He hates ‘idolaters,’ “ Myers said, “of any color or stripe. And, like most Gardeners, he doesn’t think much of women in command. Oh, yes. He does hate the FBI.”

“Why
them?”

“Lots of Catholics in the FBI, in the old days,” Myers said. “The FBI killed his whole family in a shoot-out when he was eleven. David Noas has always thought that Catholics are just Christian idolators, every bit as detestable and dangerous to him as Zulus. He considers the FBI the Pope’s personal police force in America.”

“Then let’s show him some bite,” the President said. “I want every Gardener warehouse, storage area, compound and weapon in this country secured by sundown. Now, get that prick Solaris on the line. And David Noas. I want him and the Surgeon General to meet me at Camp David. Clear?”

“Yes, Ms. President.”

President O’Connor rubbed her eyes and stood from the table.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to make some arrangements for . . . for my husband.”

Chapter 14

Judge not by appearances, but give just judgment.

—Jesus

Rico Toledo woke up inside a bubble of Plexiglas. He had IV lines in both arms, a tube up his nose and down his throat, several machines beeping out of synch and a body that burned like he was skinned. He could see out of his left eye, and that one was blurry. Rico tried to lift his head to get a look at his body, but he was restrained. Pain indicated all parts attached.

“Relax, Colonel,” a deep voice said. “We’ll be here awhile.”

A black man in fatigues loomed into view, the name “Clyde, J.” stitched over his pocket. He wore SEAL and corpsman insignia on his fatigues.

“Where?”

“Joe Clyde Memorial Hospital,” the medic said, with a chuckle. “We’re in the back end of a warehouse in beautiful La Libertad, Colonel. Pearl of the Pacific.”

“I’m not a colonel.”

“You’re reinstated, sir.”

“Harry? What about Harry?”

“I’ll ask the questions, Colonel, if you please.”

The voice came from a speaker above his head, and was not the deep voice of Joe Clyde. This was the effete voice of a career bureaucrat.

Rico turned his head slowly and saw his jowly, damp-handed replacement, Major Ezra Hodge, at a console outside the glass. He wore a telephone operator’s headset and an expression of complete disgust.

“Okay, Colonel. Please tell us the last thing you remember doing today.”

“You tell me about Harry, and I’ll tell you whatever I damned well please whenever I damned well please. Clear?”

Something had taken the skin off the inside of Rico’s throat, and talking felt like hot sandpaper in his larynx.

“Your son’s okay,” Clyde said. “The girl, too.”

“Mr. Clyde,” the bureaucrat snapped, “I’ll speak to your superior about this.
I’m
conducting this interview. And I decide when, or whether, you get out of there.”

“No you don’t, Major,” another voice said. “You’re relieved. Do not leave the building. I’ll speak to you when I’m through.”

Rico tried to remember that voice. It was so familiar, and his mind was so unwilling. . . .

“It’s Trenton Solaris, Colonel. Do you remember me?”

Rico smiled through Quik-Stitched lips.

“Yes, sir. Vividly, sir.”

“Fine. Then I’ll brief you if you’ll brief me.”

“Fair.”

“Harry, Sonja and the Chang woman are safe. Grace and Nancy Bartlett are still at the embassy for precautions, but they have talked with Harry and Sonja by phone. You are all in quarantine. We don’t know what you may have picked up. How much do you remember?”

Images flashed through Rico’s mind, like a stack of transparencies dropped into a whirlpool. He could pick out a melting face here, a burning building there, but nothing made sense. Solaris must have guessed his dilemma.

“Okay, Colonel, what’s the last thing you remember clearly?”

“Cleaning out my desk,” Rico croaked. “Turning in my keys.”

“That was quite a while ago, Colonel. A lot has happened since then. You went on vacation. The embassy blew up, the Jaguar Mountain Dam blew up. . . . “

“I remember the dam,” Rico said. “The water . . . I was smashed against the fence. . . .”

“Do you remember which fence?”

“ViraVax,” he said, and the memories started flooding back.

“ViraVax, south fence,” he said. “I opened the access hatch covers to let the water in. That prick Garcia shot down Harry and Sonja.”

“Very good,” Solaris said, and his voice sounded relieved.

“Now, what did you see there at ViraVax? Anything unusual?”

Rico started to laugh, but it hurt too much.

“Unusual?” He coughed as gently as he could. “‘
Unusual?’
People melting off their bones and burning up by themselves, charges shutting down every available entry and exit. Guerrillas blowing up the dam. . . .”

“It wasn’t the Peace and Freedom people,” Solaris interrupted. “The charges were planted and timers set before they got there. The squad leader says they tried to warn you, but you didn’t receive the message.”

Rico remembered that moment of doubt before blackness, when he’d thought that El Indio and Yolanda had betrayed him.

“ViraVax, then,” Rico said. “Whoever went into shutdown . . .”

“Exactly. And the man who did it is the one who killed Red Bartlett. He also set up the incident at the embassy to turn our people against you. He kidnapped Harry and Sonja to lure you in. You were a loose end that needed tying up.”

“How do you know this?”

“Harry rescued a data block that Red Bartlett set up. It was full of product that the Chang woman couldn’t find. You should be proud of Harry; he could have just fled and we would never know what we’re facing.”

Rico’s flickering memory focused on Harry, bent over him at ViraVax, helping him to his feet.

“I am
very
proud of Harry,” Rico said. “But I don’t understand why I’m so important to ViraVax. I was out of their hair. Why go to all this trouble over me?”

Solaris was silent for a moment.

“I’d rather get into that later, Colonel. Right now, it’s important that we find something that was shipped out of ViraVax to Mexico City, for distribution elsewhere. We need to know the locations of all Children of Eden clandestine operations in Mexico City. Do you have that information?”

Rico tried to remember, but nothing came up. He couldn’t tell whether he simply didn’t remember, or whether he had never known at all.

“I don’t remember . . . I don’t know,” he said.

“How about your contacts?” Solaris pressed. “This is something big, something that could take out every human on the planet. We don’t have the luxury of playing sides.”

“Try Mariposa,” Rico said. “She has several hundred people in Mexico City. They keep track of everything and everybody related to this country. She could do it.”

“Who is ‘Mariposa’?” Solaris asked. “How do we find her?”

“Get on the webworks and ask,” Rico said. “She’ll contact you.”

“We don’t have time for that—”

“Then get me a priest,” Rico said. “And get these restraints off me. Bad enough you lock me up, you don’t have to tie me up, too.”

Clyde unsnapped the restraints right away. Solaris nodded approval or forgiveness.

“Why a priest?” Solaris asked.

“Because I still don’t trust anybody,” Rico said. “Make it somebody from the Archbishop’s office, somebody I know. I’ll tell him how to find Mariposa.”

With Clyde’s help and a lot of pain, he scooted himself up to a sitting position. Rico’s mind, the string of images that made his mind, felt shuffled and misdealt. He did not want to give away someone as precious as Yolanda or El Indio because of a basic miscaution. His superior should understand that better than anyone.

“
What are you doing out at ViraVax?” Rico asked. “Are you going to dig it out, find out what happened?”

It was more of a probe than a question. Rico didn’t want to take any chances on releasing whatever it was that holed itself up underground.

“Not a chance,” Solaris replied. “The Corps of Engineers has already diverted the stream. After what Dr. Chang revealed about their operations, we’re going to cement over the whole thing and see to it that nothing and no one ever gets out.”

Rico weighed this for a moment.

“Do we have a phone in here?” he asked Clyde.

“Phone, console, the works,” Clyde said. “Whatever you need, we’ve got.”

Rico addressed Solaris.

“If I get Mariposa for you, I want two things.”

“Name them, Colonel.”

“Amnesty for Mariposa. And I want to talk with my son.”

“Done. You know I’ve always been good for my word.”

“Yes,” Rico said. “I know. But before we do anything else, I want to talk with Harry.”

“There’s a lot to tell you both, Colonel.”

“It can wait,” Rico said. “This can’t. Put him on.”

The connection was made through a speakerphone, and Rico hated speakerphones. He preferred to hold something; it gave him a better sense of control. The screen cleared and Harry appeared, looking rested and unafraid.

He looks like me.

Rico had had this thought before, but this time the resemblance was more than striking, it was frightening.

“Hello, son,” he croaked. “Good job.”

“Thanks, Dad,” Harry said. “Same to you. Are you going to be okay?”

“I think so,” Rico said. “Feels like I’ve been skinned, but I think everything’s here.”

“Looks pretty rough,” Harry said.

Silence.

“Harry, I’m sorry about the shot . . . I had to do it. I couldn’t let you go back in there. . . .”

“I know, Dad,” Harry said. “If I’d had the gun, I’d have done the same thing. Chill.”

“Your mom’s okay; Nancy’s okay.”

“Yeah, we just talked to them. They both say thanks, too.”

“Colonel,” Solaris interrupted, “we have some pressing business.”

“Yes,” Rico said, “we do. I’ll talk with you soon, son.”

“Okay,” Harry said. “Take care.”

The screen went blank as he added, “I love you, too.”

Sitting was not the position for Colonel Toledo. His butt was crisscrossed with stitches and Quik-Stitch, so he lay on his stomach, waiting for the priest. He knew which one it would have to be.

Colonel Toledo and Father Free went back to the Academy days, when Father Free taught ethics and Rico and Solaris were just another pair of promising buzz-heads. Solaris was always in the administrative track. An albino couldn’t do field work effectively unless it was above the Arctic Circle, and he sure as hell couldn’t blend into a crowd. Father Free was a good Jesuit and a superb intelligence officer. Officially listed as a chaplain, he bore the rank of captain and taught many people who outranked him. At the Academy, they called him “Spook.”

When Spook walked into the warehouse ten minutes after Solaris left, Toledo realized that Solaris had already called him in. That made him nervous. Colonel Toledo didn’t like anyone anticipating his next move.

Maybe he brought Spook in for last rites,
he thought.
I
look like somebody who should be dead.

But he knew better. Solaris must have guessed that Father Free had at least as many connections in the guerrilla community as Colonel Toledo, even though he had long ago quit the Agency to work among the poor in Central America. He became a bone in the Agency’s craw when he helped organize the National Security Alumni Association—retired spooks.

Father Free looked pretty bad himself. As the priest approached the isolette, Toledo noticed the dark-circled, sunken eyes, the filthy jeans and work shirt, and the ever-present kit for extreme unction.

“Spook,” he croaked, “you look like shit.”

“Thank you, Colonel,” Father Free said. “You’re looking your very best, too, I see.”

The Colonel nodded towards the priest’s kit.

“Expecting the worst?”

Father Free let his pale lips slip into a smile.

“Where you’re concerned, Colonel, I always expect the worst. You don’t seem to be dying, quite yet, and I haven’t been a part of your social calendar for a few years. What’s up?”

The Colonel turned to Sergeant Clyde.

“Sergeant, are you a Catholic?”

Clyde was reading a new hypernovel on his Litespeed. He chuckled.

“No, Colonel, I’m a Democrat.”

“I’m going to make my confession to Father Free, here,” Rico said. “You know what that means, legally?”

“Yes, sir,” Clyde said, “I think so, sir. It means he’s supposed to keep it secret and the court can’t force him to tell.”

“That’s right,” Rico said. “And it means I don’t want any eavesdropping. The lives of some of my contacts are at stake. I assume we’re fully wired, here.”

“That’s right, Colonel,” Clyde said. “But look at this.”

The big man squeezed out from behind his machine, pushed past Toledo’s gurney and pointed out some of the cables and connectors that snaked through the triple-seal Plexiglas.

“The Father has his Sidekick, you have gloveware in here. Have him plug in the Sidekick. You plug in the glove-ware on this end. You don’t go through any circuits, nobody can pick you up on audio or wireless and visual doesn’t count unless you use sign language.”

“Set us up, Sergeant, if you would.”

“Gladly, sir.”

In less than a minute Colonel Toledo was typing, “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been years since my last confession. You know why I chose this route; I expect your absolute confidence.”

“Guaranteed, Colonel,” Father Free said. “God gets his sheep back to the fold in mysterious ways.”

Colonel Toledo proceeded to arrange for Father Free to contact Yolanda Rubia and get her Mexico City teams to find and secure the Gardener warehouse that Solaris told him about.

“Tell her this is very dangerous stuff,” he typed. “Tell her that one stray bullet in Mexico City today could kill us all by mid-week. They have to stop that shipment before it’s broken up and distributed. They are guaranteed U.S. backup as soon as they’ve identified the structure. This is a straight contract job. Her team will be paid, like any other merc unit. That’s it.”

“I have nothing to absolve, here, Colonel,” Father Free said. “Confession is for the remission of sins, not merely a confidential chat. Complete your confession, then I can give absolution and it becomes a true confession.”

Rico hesitated, then remembered how good he felt when he was young, walking out of confession, thinking that he had a new life ahead of him.

Okay,
he thought,
why the hell not?

He didn’t think for a moment that Father Free would betray him, anyway. But for the priest’s sake, in case push came to shove, he had to give him some righteous protection.

“I’ve been drinking too much for fifteen years,” he typed. “I’ve committed adultery more times than I can count. And I beat my wife and child.”

At the last, his fingers trembled inside the gloveware and sent lines of nonsense across the cable.

“Are you sorry for your sins?” Father Free asked. “Do you resolve to go and sin no more?”

“I am,” Colonel Toledo typed, “and I do.”

And he was relieved to realize that he meant it. He had a chance for a new life now. His old self
had
died at ViraVax. He vowed not to waste this second chance on a bastard like that.