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“Why France?”

“Please, Georges. Wasn't it Hitler who said that he who controls France controls Europe, and he who controls Europe controls the world? He was right. If there were a more strategic country, I would take my leave and go now. France is and always will be the center of the world.”

The president had crossed his legs; the head of the
Sûreté
had stopped blinking; the minister of defense was virtually glowing. They were softening.

Only Prime Minister Boisverte still glared.

“Let me give you an example of how this is going to play out, gentlemen. Jean, would you come here?”

The defiant prime minister just stared at him.

He motioned him. “Please. Stand over here. I insist.”

The man still hesitated. He was hard to the bones.

“Then where you are will do.” Fortier reached into his jacket and pulled out a silenced 9 mm pistol. He pointed the gun at the prime minister and pulled the trigger. The slug punched through the chair just above his shoulder.

The prime minister's eyes bulged.

“You see, this is what we have done. We've fired a warning shot across their bow. Right now they aren't certain of our will to carry through. But soon enough”—he shifted the pistol and shot the man through his fore-head—“they will be.”

The prime minister slumped in his chair.

“Don't think of this as a threat, Henri. Jean would have died in eighteen days anyway. We all will unless we do exactly what I have said. Does anyone doubt that?”

The remaining three men looked at him with a calm that pleasantly surprised Fortier.

Fortier slipped the gun back into his pocket and straightened his jacket. “If I die, the antivirus would be lost. The world would die. But I have no intention of dying. I invite you to join me with similar intentions.”

“Naturally,” Georges said.

Fortier glanced at the president. “Henri?”

“Yes.”

“Chombarde?”

The head of the
Sûreté
dipped his head. “Of course.”

“And how do we proceed?” the president asked.

Fortier walked around his chair and sat.

“As for the members of the military, the National Assembly, and the Senate, who must know, our explanation is simple: A new demand has come from Svensson. He has chosen our naval base in Brest to accommodate his demands. France will agree with the understanding that we are luring Svensson into our own web. A bluff. Voices of opposition will begin to disappear within the week. I anticipate we will have to call for martial law to protect against any insurgence or riots at week's end. By then we will have most of the world in a vise, and the French people will know that their only hope for survival lies in our hands.”

“My dear, my dear,” the president muttered. “We are really doing this.”

“Yes. We are.”

Fortier reached for a stack of folders on the table at his elbow. “We don't have the time to work through all of our individual challenges, so I've taken the liberty of doing it for you. We will need to adjust as we go, of course.” He handed each a folder. “Think of this as a game of high-stakes poker. I expect you will each hold your cards close to the chest.”

They took the folders and flipped them open. A sense of purpose had settled on the room. Henri Gaetan glanced at the slumped body of the prime minister.

“He's taken an emergency trip to the south, Henri.”

The president nodded.

“Thomas Hunter,” Chombarde said, lifting the top page from his folder. “The man who kidnapped Monique de Raison.”

“Yes. He is . . . a unique man who's stumbled into our way. He may know more than we need him to know. Use whatever force is necessary to bring him, alive if possible. You will coordinate your efforts with Carlos Missirian. Consider Hunter your highest priority.”

“Securing a man in the United States could be a challenge at a time like this.”

“You won't have to. I am certain that he will come to us, if not to France, then to where we have the woman.”

A beat.

“There are 577 members in the Assembly,” the president said. “You have listed 97 who could be a problem. I think there may be more.”

They reviewed and on occasion adjusted the plans deep into the night. Objections were overcome, new arguments cast and dismissed, strategies fortified. A sense of purpose and perhaps a little destiny slowly overtook all of them with growing certainty.

After all, they had little choice.

The die had been cast.

France had always been destined to save the world, and in the end that's exactly what they were doing. They were saving the world from its own demise.

They left the room six hours later.

Prime Minister Jean Boisverte left in a body bag.

12

THOMAS JERKED awake. He tumbled out of bed and searched the room. It was still dark outside. Rachelle slept on their bed. Two thoughts drummed through his mind, drowning out the simple reality of this room, this bed, these sheets, this bark floor under his bare feet.

First, the realities he was experiencing were unquestionably linked, perhaps in more ways than he ever could have guessed, and both of those realities were at risk.

Second, he knew what he must do now, immediately and at all costs. He must convince Rachelle to help him find Monique, and then he must find the Books of Histories.

But the image of his wife sleeping unexpectedly dampened his enthusiasm to solicit her help. So sweet and lost in sleep. Her hair fell across her face, and he was tempted to brush it free.

Her arm was smeared with blood. The sheet was red where her arm had rested.

His pulse surged. She was bleeding? Yes, a small cut on her upper arm—he hadn't noticed it last evening in all the excitement of his return. She hadn't mentioned it either. But was all this blood from such a small cut?

He glanced at his own forearm and remembered: He'd cut himself in the laboratory of Dr. Myles Bancroft. Yes, of course, he'd been sleeping here when that had happened, and he'd bled here, exactly as he feared he might.

His forearm had rubbed Rachelle's arm. The blood was half his. Half hers.

The realization only fueled his urgency. If he couldn't stop the virus, he would undoubtedly die. They might all die!

Then what? He hurried to the window and peered out. The air was quiet—an hour before sunrise. The thought of waking Rachelle to persuade her to forget everything she'd said about his dreams struck him as a futile task. She would be furious with him for dreaming again. And why would she think his cut was anything but an accident?

The wise man, on the other hand, might understand. Jeremiah.

Thomas pulled his tunic on quietly, strapped his boots to his feet, and slipped into the cool morning air.

Ciphus lived in the large house nearest the lake, a privilege he insisted on as keeper of the faith. He wasn't pleased to be awakened so early, but as soon as he saw that it was Thomas, his mood improved.

“For a religious man, you drink far too much ale,” Thomas said.

The man grunted. “For a warrior, you don't sleep enough.”

“And now you're making no sense. Warriors aren't meant to sleep their lives away. Where can I find Jeremiah of Southern?”

“The old man? In the guesthouse. It's still night though.”

“Which guesthouse?”

“The one Anastasia oversees, I think.”

Thomas nodded. “Thank you, man. Get back to sleep.”

“Thomas—”

But he departed before the elder could voice any further objections.

It took him ten minutes to locate Jeremiah's bedroom and wake him. The old man swung his legs to the floor and sat up in the waning moonlight.

“What is it? Who are you?”

“Shh, it's me, old man. Thomas.”

“Thomas? Thomas of Hunter?”

“Yes. Keep your voice down; I don't want to wake the others. These houses have thin walls.”

But the old man couldn't hold back his enthusiasm. He stood and clasped Thomas's arms. “Here, sit on my bed. I'll get us a drink.”

“No, no. Sit back down, please. I have an urgent question.”

Thomas eased the old man down and sat next to him.

“How can I host such an honored guest without offering him a drink?”

“You have offered me a drink. But I didn't come for your hospitality. And I am the one who should honor you.”

“Nonsense—”

“I came about the Books of Histories,” Thomas said.

Silence came over Jeremiah.

“I have heard that you may know some things about the Books of Histories. Where they might be and if they can be read. Do you?”

The old man hesitated. “The Books of Histories?” His voice sounded thin and strained.

“You must tell me what you know.”

“Why do you want to know about the Books?”

“Why shouldn't I want to know?” Thomas asked.

“I didn't say you shouldn't. I only asked why.”

“Because I want to know what happened in the histories.”

“This is a sudden desire? Why not ten years ago?”

“It's never occurred to me that they could be useful.”

“And did it ever occur to you that they are missing for a reason?”

“Please, Jeremiah.”

The old man hesitated again. “Yes. Well, I've never seen them. And I fear they have a power that isn't meant for any man.”

Thomas clasped Jeremiah's arm. “Where are they?”

“It is possible they are with the Horde.”

Thomas stood. Of course! Jeremiah had been with the Horde before bathing in the lake.

“You know this with certainty?”

“No. As I said, I've never seen them. But I have heard it said that the Books of Histories follow Qurong into battle.”

“Qurong has them? Can . . . can he read them?”

“I don't think so, no. I'm not sure
you
could read them.”

“But surely someone can read them. You.”

“Me?” Jeremiah chuckled. “I don't know. They may not even exist, for all we know. It was all hearsay, you know.”

“But you believe they do,” Thomas said.

The first rays of dawn glinted in Jeremiah's eyes. “Yes.”

So the old man had known all along that they existed with the Horde, and yet he had never offered this information. Thomas understood: The Books of Histories had long ago been taken from Elyon's people and committed to an oral history for some reason. If it made good sense so long ago, then surely it made good sense now. Hadn't Tanis, as Rachelle so aptly pointed out, been led down the wrong path by his fascination with their knowledge? Perhaps Jeremiah was right. The Books of Histories were not meant for man.

Still, Thomas needed them.

“I'm going after them, Jeremiah. Believe me when I say that our very survival may depend on the Books.”

Jeremiah stood shakily. “That would mean going after Qurong!”

“Yes, and Qurong is with the army that we defeated in the Natalga Gap. They're in the desert west of here, licking their wounds.” Thomas stepped quickly to the window. Daylight had begun to dim the moon.

“You've told me where the commander's tent lies—in the center, always. Isn't that right?” he asked, turning.

“Yes, where he is surrounded by his army. You'd have to be one of them to get anywhere near—”

The old man's eyes went wide. He walked forward, face stricken. “Don't do this! Why? Why would you risk the life of our greatest warrior for a few old books that may not exist?”

“Because if I don't find them, I may die.” He looked away. “We may all die.”

RACHELLE SAT at the table as if in a dream.

Knowing that it was in fact a dream.

Knowing just as well that it was no more a dream than the love she had for Thomas. Or didn't have for Thomas. The thoughts confused her.

The dream was vivid as dreams went. She was working desperately over the table, seeking a solution to a terrible problem, hoping that the solution would present itself at any moment, sure that if it didn't come, life as she knew it would end. Not just in this small room, mind you, but all over the world.

This was where the generalities ended and the specifics began.

The white table, for example. Smooth. White.
Formica.

The box on the table.
A computer.
Powerful enough to crunch a million bits of information every thousandth of a second.

The mouse at her fingertips, gliding on a black foam pad. The equation on the monitor, the Raison Strain, a mutation of her own creation. The laboratory with its electron microscope and the other instruments to her right. This was all as familiar as her own name.

Monique de Raison.

No. Her real name was Rachelle, and she wasn't really familiar with anything in this room, least of all the woman who bore the name Monique de Raison.

Or was she?

The monitor went black for a moment. In it she saw Monique's reflection.
Her
reflection. Dark hair, dark eyes, high cheekbones, small lips.