Predator One (29 page)

The piece above that one was a framed piece of Nigerian beadwork. Another memory. Callisto. The entire time they were lovers, she hadn’t
known his real name. She found out when the State Department told her he was dead. Anton Michael Gunn. A Scot who worked for MI6 and who died with a Russian bullet in his brain.

There were others. All tied to memories of people whose faces could never be put on her walls. Security, ethics, politics. They had to remain anonymous except inside her memories. The most bittersweet was the one at the
top of the landing. A big framed piece with its own small light. A moody surrealist landscape in which nothing appeared to be present except dust blown by colored wind. To the discerning, attentive eye, however, there were shapes suggested by deft brushstrokes. Lions and prey animals, carrion birds and jackals. But you had to know how to see them. It was subtle and powerful. So powerful.

That
piece was the only one that was not tied to a ghost.

The man was alive, but he was as unreachable as the surface of an alien world. A man who was layered in mystery, just as the theme of the painting was layered.

She paused, as she often did, and studied the painting, a faint smile on her lips that she was totally unaware of.

She did not speak his name aloud. Not even here. Not that she thought
her place was bugged or that he was watching. No, her life was built around habits of good security. Repairing damage was not preferable when damage could be avoided.

So, she never spoke his name here.

Not his real name or any of the many names he used. Now and over the years. Instead, she sighed and reached out to touch the lion hidden by the swirling clouds of color.

She never heard the bedroom
door open.

She never heard the silent footfall on the carpet.

She never knew how close to death she was until the point of the knife buried itself between her ribs.

Chapter Fifty-nine

Thomas Jefferson University Hospital

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

March 30, 5:43
P.M.

I lay there like a lump while Church called Toys. Church put the call on speaker, and I heard both sides of the conversation. Toys’s voice was subdued, nearly uninflected. I could imagine why. After the fall of the Seven Kings and the destruction of the Red Order, Church had taken Toys
on as some kind of project. He gave him access to a lot of the Kings money and encouraged him to do some good with it. Maybe it was some kind of social-engineering project. Maybe the big man liked to study insects. Not sure, and I don’t much care. If Toys stepped in front of a crosstown bus, I wouldn’t much care, either.

Perhaps I need to learn to be more forgiving.

Perhaps I don’t want to.

Toys represented the kind of human animal that was preying on the rest of the herd. I don’t bond with predators. Never have. My life was ruined by a gang of predators who raped my girlfriend and nearly beat me to death. If that’s made me unfair or intolerant, then fuck it.

Church had his own agendas, his own motivations. He thought Toys was worth trying to save.

Everyone needs a hobby.

On the
other hand, some of what Toys was saying made me sit up and pay attention.

“I’ve been putting this all together. The drone attack at the ballpark in Philadelphia, the secondary set of bombs. That almost fits a pattern,” said Toys.

“What pattern would that be, Mr. Chismer?”

“It was something Hugo Vox had put together years ago. He was working on a way to follow up 9/11 and one-up the game. He
wanted a bigger hit, with longer-lasting effects on the U.S. and world stock markets. He wanted to essentially crash the American infrastructure. At the same time, he wanted to disable the DMS via a series of attacks that would have an emotional impact on the key players.”

“You’re saying you knew of this plan and have waited until now to share it with us. I find that very interesting.”

“No,”
Toys said quickly, “you don’t understand. This was something Hugo had wanted to do, but he’d shelved it because the rest of the Kings opted to go with the Ten Plagues Initiative instead. Hugo told us about it one night over brandy and cigars.”

“Us?”

“Well … Sebastian and me. Hugo was thinking out loud. Being expansive, the way he liked to do. Showing how easy it would be to work a big con on
the rubes. His words. Hugo laid out exactly how it could be done using drones. And that was before drones were as sophisticated as they are now. Hugo anticipated their development, even estimating a timetable for it. He was brilliant like that.”

“Sing me his praises another time,” said Church. “Right now, I’d like you to tell me what he said.”

“Okay, but you need to understand that I don’t think
anything was ever put into play, because it wasn’t long after that the Kings were torn down by your lot. And now Hugo and the other Kings are all dead.”

“Understood.”

“Well, Hugo said that a strike at a sports arena would be hugely successful. Security is never as good as they think it is. Materials and weapons could be brought in any of a dozen ways. Hidden in parts for an industrial air conditioner,
for example. Like that. He said if you did it right and planned ahead, you could manage it quite easily. And then it would be a matter of picking the right event. Hugo favored baseball over any other sport because it’s known as the national bloody pastime. It’s more American than hockey. Even more than football, as he saw it. And opening day would mean a greater sentimental attachment and
better media coverage. His second choice would be the World Series, but since you couldn’t know which teams would be playing, it would be more difficult to plan ahead.”

“I see,” said Church. “And it’s your opinion that someone has taken Hugo’s idea and put it into play?”

Toys laughed. Short and ugly. “Junie told me what you think of coincidences. I never thought much of them, either.”

“Is there
anything else?” asked Church.

“Nothing specific, but … if someone’s taken Hugo’s idea, doesn’t that mean they have access to Seven Kings’ information? I mean, I know Hugo’s island was destroyed, but Sebastian and the others were clever bastards, and they were bloody paranoid. They could have made duplicates of their records, contacts, research … Someone could do a lot of harm with even a fraction
of that.”

“Yes,” said Church dryly, “that had occurred to us.”

He glanced at me as he said this. I’ve spent a lot of the last few years of my life hunting down groups that had been using pieces of the Kings’ science and fragments of their infrastructure. They’re a bit like genital herpes. They never quite go away.

“Look,” said Toys, “I’m sorry that I don’t have something more concrete. I left
that all behind, and Hugo shut the doors pretty heavily after the Ten Plagues Initiative. All I bleeding well have are suspicions and a few things I remember. Would you rather I
didn’t
call?”

“Of course not,” said Church mildly. “And we do appreciate this information. Truly. Did Hugo say how he planned to make that attack? Would he have used drones for this attack?”

“Not exactly. Not back then,
anyway. Drones weren’t that practical back then. The technology’s come a long way since he told us about it, but he did say that one of these days drones would be the primary weapon of terrorism. He said that they’d be practical.”

“Practical,” echoed Church.

“His word.”

“Thank you, Mr. Chismer. Let me know if you remember anything else.”

He disconnected the call.

I glanced up at him. “And
you’re absolutely sure Hugo Vox is dead?”

He didn’t answer. A few years ago, Church said that he’d personally killed Vox. I doubted Church would make a claim like that unless he was sure.

Even so, I felt like Vox’s ghost was standing just out of sight, laughing at us.

Chapter Sixty

UC San Diego Medical Center

200 West Arbor Drive

San Diego, California

March 30, 5:45
P.M.

“They’re bringing him up!” shouted Lydia, and immediately Junie and Toys burst from Circe’s room and ran to the elevators. The doors opened as they got there and a team of nurses and doctors came hurrying out, pushing a gurney on which Rudy Sanchez lay moaning and bloody. DMS Agent
Cowpers was with them, his sidearm drawn but held down beside his leg. He stepped out and waved everyone back to clear the way.

“Rudy!” cried Junie, reaching for the injured man’s hand. Rudy flapped his hand at her, clawing the air as if trying to tear through some envelope of pain in order to reach her. Their fingers met, entwined, and then she was running alongside the gurney, holding his hand.
They rushed to the empty ICU room next to Circe’s.

Lydia Ruiz and Sam Imura grabbed Cowpers and pulled him aside, and Toys was bemused to see that the agent was thrust against the wall with no more force than Lydia had used on him.

“What the fuck happened?” demanded Lydia. A nurse tried to tell her to watch her language, but Lydia fried her with a glare.

While Cowpers began recounting what
appeared to be a contradictory story about an empty chapel and a surprise attack, Toys ghosted up to stand outside the ICU room. He watched as the medical team began examining Rudy. From what Toys could see, the injuries did not look too bad. Some cuts and bruises on his face and what looked like burns on his hand. But Rudy thrashed and moaned as if in great agony. It was clear that he was delirious
and maybe on the edge of a psychotic break. His eyes were wild with shock or madness.

Junie tried to soothe him, and she had to fight to keep her place beside him. The nurses did not seem able to shake her. That amused Toys. He always liked Junie, but his respect for her strength was growing.

Fierce little bitch, he thought. A good match for that thug, Ledger.

Then his attention was torn away
from thoughts of Junie, of Ledger, of anything. A word hung on the air as clearly as if it had been painted there. A word. A name. Something Toys heard only as an afterthought as Rudy Sanchez, in his delirium, mumbled it.

Toys reeled.

Rudy said it again.

And again.

That same name.

That dreadful, impossible name.

He watched Rudy’s bloody lips form it again. Speak it again.

“Nicodemus … Nicodemus…”

Chapter Sixty-one

Thomas Jefferson University Hospital

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

March 30, 5:47
P.M.

“What do you want me to do?” I asked.

“For the moment, nothing. Because of your concussion, the doctors want you here for at least another day.”

“The doctors can kiss my—”

The door jerked open, and Brick hurried in without waiting. “Boss, turn on the TV. Shit is hitting the damn fan.”

I snatched up the remote and hit the button. It wasn’t necessary to ask Brick which channel, because there was only one story and it was on every channel. As soon as the screen came to life, we all looked into listless, dead eyes. The reporters were yelling. Actually yelling. They were that excited.

Brick and I looked at Church, expecting him to be as rattled as us. We should have known better.
He sighed, removed his glasses, cleaned the lenses with a handkerchief, put his glasses back on, and then folded the handkerchief and tucked it neatly back into his jacket pocket.

“It is not generally my policy to say, ‘I told you so,’” he murmured, “but I did advise the president to disclose this and make a full statement to the nation.”

“Too late now,” I said.

“Yes,” said Church. “Months
too late.”

“What’s going to happen?” asked Brick.

Church shook his head. “A witch hunt. And very likely criminal charges. The CIA in its present form will be finished. Done. There’s no way they can recover from this.”

“Will the president?” I asked.

Church gave a small shrug. “If he’d revealed this within hours of Echo Team hitting the Resort, he’d have come out of it as a hero. A sure thing
for a second term. Now … his only chance will be to throw the CIA under the bus and hope that his delaying of this information doesn’t result in impeachment.”

“Will it?”

Church nodded. “Oh yes. He’s done, too. And the previous administration may face criminal charges. Some members certainly will, though some people may fall on their sword to keep the former president from having to take any
direct blame. Plausible deniability is elastic.”

“Damn,” said Brick.

“What’s our play in this?” I asked.

He looked at me. “Our play? We have no play, Captain. We did a very specific mission, we accomplished as many of the goals of that as were possible, and we turned all of the evidence and materials over to the White House, the NSA, Homeland, and other relevant authorities. We were out of
it once your team left the island. We have no part in this. And, quite frankly, I can’t waste much time on it. I made my recommendations when there was time to do this all the right way.”

He said it with a note of inflexible finality. Brick and I looked at each other, eyebrows raised. He mouthed the words, “Oh boy.” Shaking his head, he went back out into the hall.

“Got to ask, though,” I said
to Church. “What do you think of the timing of this? The video being released today, while all this is going on.”

“Seven Kings,” he said. “Without a doubt.”

“Is this the other shoe you thought they were going to drop?”

“Hard to say. It’s a considerable punch. There will be shock waves around the world. Embassies will need to be put on high alert, and some will probably need to be evacuated.
We’re fortunate that the attack at the ballpark happened on a Sunday rather than a business day. The president was able to keep the market from opening. I only hope POTUS is cautious enough to keep the stock exchange closed for the rest of the week. This could crash the economy.”

I nodded. “But is this it? Is this the endgame for the Kings and does that mean we’ve lost the whole damn fight? The
attack in Philly and then this to take down the president. I mean … this is bad. This could do more damage to the economy, world opinion, and our standing in the global community than the fall of any dozen towers. I’ve got a bad case of the shakes happening here because it looks like the Kings picked the kind of fight the DMS isn’t set up for.”