Category Archives: Alibi-Folio

A Terrible Mercy

Chapter One: Sentries

ooooHe didn’t distinguish the voices at first. They were part of the overall mosaic of sound one gets accustomed to in London, a noisy city in a deafening century. But that was outside. Within Westminster Abbey it was yesterday. A thousand years of yesterdays.
ooooDumas bent closer to his work.
ooooThe watery gray light of a stormy English winter had exhausted itself on the day and was leaving through the web of windows in the south transept. A semicircle of anemic electric lights in wall sconces were left to stand watch over his shoulders like half-blind old men, too high to be of any practical use, casting just enough light so his own shadow kept getting in the way. He rubbed a little harder to transfer the images from the stone to the rice paper. The next train to Birmingham left Euston station at 5:17, and he had to be on it; rather, he hoped to be on it. He wasn’t of sufficient importance to anyone that he actually had to be anywhere.
oooo“Thatcher would have seen coming,” said a man’s voice, separating itself from the background. “She was a pragmatist.”
oooo“So, you don’t think peace is such a good idea?” said a second voice, also a man. He seemed amused.
oooo“It’s a pipe-dream. You know that better than most.” The man nodded toward a depiction of Paradise in a dingy stained-glass rosette. “Adam was the only man who ever knew it. Then Eve entered the picture . . . ” He made a dismissive gesture with his fingers. “Now it’s just a rune we bow to, undecipherable as the swirls on a Celtic cross; but we like the sound of it. So we throw blood and bones at it as if sufficient sacrifice will bring it to life.”
ooooA wordless interlude followed, during which the wandering motes of millenia sifted into the sightless eyes of stone and plaster saints. “The old girl was right when she said we hadn’t heard the last of the Irish Troubles with the St. Andrew’s Agreement. People ignored her, just because the gears were beginning to slip.”
oooo“They ignored her because they didn’t like what she had to say,” said a second voice, also a man. “Just like they ignored Churchill, and Reagan, and Bush. People are pretty quick to slap on the blinders when reality intrudes on their delusions. Anyway, who even remembers Thatcher anymore? Or Patrick Magee and the Brighton bombings? Ancient history. Say IRA these days, and people think you’re talking finance. Mention the Iron Lady, and they picture Meryl Streep.”
ooooThe voices were not those of young men, nor were their words those of young men. Truth be told, their perspective was one with which Dumas – however hard he might be trying not to eavesdrop – could identify. These were men of his generation; a fact which did not dispose him any more kindly toward them for their intrusion. What were they doing here? Though neither a drinker or socializer himself, he imagined that somewhere, among all the pubs presently undergoing renovation and updating in London, there must exist some dimly-lit, poorly-frequent throwback to the ‘50s where smoking and intelligent conversation were still allowed and men of their vintage could bluster, and fuss, and complain to their heart’s content. If not, then a private club, of which a few remained. Why here in Westminster? Why now?
oooo“In any event, she wouldn’t have pulled the rug out from under the Loyalists to trade for peace, the way Number 10’s done this time ‘round.”
oooo“Not peace. Peace of mind; the kind one buys with blinders on, and pays for in the same currency Chamberlain exchanged for Hitler’s precious slip of paper. To be fair, the bombing of the Baker Street Mosque brought al Qaeda back from the dead, and lit a fire under our home-grown towel-heads and malcontents. I think the PM figured a second edition of Sinn Féin upstarts was one more than the Home Office was willing to deal with at present. Even Gerry Adams couldn’t keep them in line.” He chuckled drily. “He’d be livid, wouldn’t he? a bunch of kids who weren’t even born when Belfast was a battleground, doing what he and the rest of the living dead hadn’t managed in forty years!
oooo“Anyway, now that the ink is try on the Oxford Accords . . . the country’s running amok with unemployed extremists – pardoned, pointless, and heavily armed. Does anyone really think they’re going to go quietly to hourly work at Wimpy’s?”
ooooThere was a smile in the other man’s voice. “Wimpy’s were taken over by Burger King, weren’t they?”
oooo“You take my meaning. Not an attractive career option for some testosterone-fueled radical who’s just grasped one of life’s little ironies: you can get what you want at the point of a gun. It’s going to make the riots of 2011 look like foreplay.”
ooooDumas was irritated by the interruption, and by his inability to tune out a private conversation. No one was supposed to be in the cathedral between the Samuel Johnson Memorial Service, on the 18th, and Christmas morning while three of the vaults in the nave were being reinforced in preparation for the hoards of visitors expected in the aftermath of the Games. It was dangerous. They’d canceled the memorial service – and even Dumas had difficulty obtaining permission to spend a few hours in the Poet’s Corner – and he sat on the Board of Regents.
ooooThe intruders must have come in through the cloisters.
ooooThe old men in the wall sconces seemed emboldened at having chased away the day, and shone a little more brightly now that it had all but gone, leaning over his shoulder and casting critical glances upon his work as, high overhead, sleet etched a blustery message on the windows.
ooooHe needed to squeeze Thomas Gray in before he had to go. At this rate, he’d have rubbed all the graves in another month or so – his contribution to the family fortune. A pauper’s bequest; especially apt since he’d sold most of the real art to subsidize the title and the family pile at Hanbury.
ooooLord Dumas, kneeling, rubbing, gently bringing the dead to life on paper. Truth be told, he’d gotten good at it. He made a point of reading some of the works of each in turn and would whisper to them in their own words as he worked;
oooo
oooo‘Their lot forbad: nor circumscrib’d alone
oooo Their growing virtues, but their crimes confine’d

ooooNormally, the sound of his voice had the effect of quieting the troubling doubts raised by his more pragmatic inner self in consideration of his labors; would people pay to see The Dead of Westminster, Distinctive Rubbings by Lord Dumas, Eighteenth Earl of Shadowmarch?
ooooLast Earl of Shadowmarch, and good riddance.
ooooWho cared? Even he didn’t. It was only some atavistic sense of familial loyalty that kept him at it. He scratched a hasty signature in the lower right-hand corner.
ooooFootfalls measured the silence until the first man replied. They came to a stop where the Poet’s Corner intercepts the south ambulatory, about twenty feet away.
oooo“When you give in to bullies, you don’t just empower them, you encourage whatever methods they employed to achieve their objectives; usually terror and violence. Meaning it’s the innocent who pay; a busload of tourists in Tahrir Square; mourners at a funeral in Baghdad . . . ” He paused for a moment. “The kind of peace those acts purchase, I’m willing to die to prevent.”
oooo“Or kill?”
ooooDumas stopped rubbing in mid stroke.
ooooA long row of wooden folding chairs formed a porous wall between Dumas and the men. He pulled himself across the cold stone floor on his knees and, pressing his face against the chairs, peered through them.
ooooThe first man was indistinguishable from half a million others on which England held the exclusive patent. Everything about him was medium: his height, his weight, his clothes, his shoes, his voice. Medium. A tiny island of silver hair in the middle of his forehead oversaw the retreat of the hairline in general. An indistinctive man who couldn’t have been more anonymous if he’d trained for it. Nevertheless, there was something familiar about him.
oooo“Then why all the bother about McGilvery, if he’s just one among many?”
ooooThe speaker’s voice was low and full-throated, with a distinctly Gaelic flavor. His words were clear despite the fact that he spoke just above a whisper. Like Dumas, he was fairly tall and had probably been lean at an earlier stage in life. Unlike Dumas, he was muscular and ruddy, not much at home in his new suit. There was a lot of silver in his close-cropped hair, especially about the temples and in his carefully groomed mustache and beard.
ooooAs Dumas had inferred from their voices, the two were roughly the same age though the small man seemed older. Preoccupied and nervous, he kept looking in the direction from which they’d come and off into the shadows of the north transept and the Henry VII Chapel. Once, Dumas felt sure he was staring right at him. “Arafat was one among many,” the small man said. “If Rabin had had the forethought to slip a knife into his belly at that little Nobel fête, we’d all have been a damned sight better off. Better yet, if some benevolent time-traveler would slip back to the start of it all and throttle Haj Amin al Husseini in his bassinet . . . ”
ooooThe tall man choked off a monosyllabic laugh. “Some would say Balfour was the midwife for that particular monstrosity. Water pretty long under the bridge in either case, wouldn’t you say? Anyway, I don’t think there’s much chance of the others rallying ‘round a loose cannon like Sean McGilvery. I just think you’ve become obsessed with him because of what happened to your daughter.” Immediately he repented. “I oughtn’t to have said that. Sorry.”
ooooThe eyes of the other man wandered the darkened precincts of the cathedral, as if in search of something he knew wasn’t there. “Used to be there was a reason for blowing up babies and bludgeoning grandmothers in their wheelchairs, however logically or morally profane. At least they all danced ‘round the same maypole. Did lip-service to the same totem. Now, it’s totally senseless. Vicious.
oooo“Violence in support of an ideology is a fearful thing – God knows we’ve had our share of it lately – the video of Mohamed Merah laughing and praising Allah as he pumped a bullet in the brain of that little girl in Toulouse makes an indelible poster for radical Islam, Forsane-Alizza in particular – but at least you know where it’s coming from and what its ends are, more or less. Violence without ideology, as an end in itself, is just an omnivorous mass, mutating as it evolves as mindless and meaningless as wildfire . Look at the lunatics swarming Europe. Hoodlums and anarchists calling themselves revolutionaries, as if that somehow ennobles their crimes. Haven’t even the sense to see they’re holding knives to their own throats.”
ooooHe sighed deeply. “Nothing new under the sun. What’s that from? Ecclesiastes, isn’t it?”
ooooThe other man made a noise of agreement.
oooo“They’re insane.”
ooooThere was a brief silence during which Dumas battled the urge to declare his presence. No ignominy could surpass that of being found squatting behind the chairs eavesdropping on a private conversation between two gentlemen. And in Westminster, of all places.
ooooBut it was already too late. If discovered, he’d have to pretend to have fallen asleep.
oooo“Go on and say it,” said Rhodes.
oooo“Say what?”
oooo“‘Like the rest of society.”
ooooThe bald man grunted a note of irony. “Don’t get me started,” he said. “But this isn’t about McGilvery. He’s already stuck his neck in the noose. All I have to do is give the rope a good stout yank – which pleasure shall be mine within a fortnight if all else goes according to script.”
oooo“I thought as much. It’s the ‘all else’ we’re here about, isn’t it, Avery?”
ooooAvery! Avery Fuller. The Ghost of MI-5. Dumas had seen him in Parliament often when the Conservatives were in. A shadowy figure with some connections to the COBRA Committee’s Joint Terrorism Analysis Centre who, true to his sobriquet, haunted the dim recesses of government.
oooo“Let’s have it then.”
ooooFuller searched every nook and cranny of the abbey with practiced eyes, twice sweeping across the row of chairs as Dumas held his breath. “It’s very sensitive.”
oooo“I gathered as much,” said Rhodes. The quirky smile dissolved from his lips and he stared hard at his companion. “We could have discussed McGilvery at the office.”
ooooFuller took Rhodes by the arm and drew him off the aisle, closer to Dumas whose heart, he felt sure, would betray him at any minute. “You remember Farhan al-Sa’di?”
oooo“Found him in a basement in Basra shortly before we pulled out of Iraq, didn’t we?”
oooo“Started his illustrious career as a courier, sneaking porn and Nestle’s Quik! to bin Laden in Abbotabad. His street cred among the rank-and-file soared when he escaped bin Laden’s compound the night the Yanks landed.”
oooo“So I recall. He’s not got out after all this time, has he?”
oooo“In a manner of speaking,” said Fuller. “He’s dead.”
oooo“Nothing quick and painless, I trust.”
oooo“Food poisoning, of all things. Apparently the cuisine at Belmarsh prison is at odds with the Arab constitution. Must’ve been the bacon.”
ooooRhodes’ mirthless, monosyllabic laugh banged around the extremities of the minster in search of humor. “The chef deserves the Victoria Cross. So, why the secrecy?”
oooo“Take a seat,” said Fuller, pulling a chair from the stack nearest Dumas. He opened it and sat down. Rhodes did the same, depleting Dumas’ cover by a quarter. “I assume you’re familiar with the ebola and Marburg viruses?”
ooooRhodes bolted out of his chair and stood with his back stiff and his eyes widened in what couldn’t be taken for anything but blind fear. “Hell!”
oooo“Shh!” said Fuller, darting cautious glances at the points of the cross. “Sit down, man!” He patted the vacant seat. “Sit down. What’s gotten into you?”
oooo“I’ll tell you what’s not getting into me,” said Rhodes shakily as he resumed his seat. “Bloody ebola. I’ve seen it in action, and I’d rather be drawn and quartered.”
oooo“Bad as they say?”
ooooRhodes was breathing deeply and swallowing frequently. “Bad?” He stared blankly at Fuller. Sweat was forming on his forehead. “Just the word makes me nauseous.”
ooooThe folded legs of a chair intersected directly in front of Dumas, forming two triangles. Through the upper triangle, he could see Rhodes’ face. No longer ruddy, it had turned pale and pasty as if someone had stuck a spigot in the base of his skull and drained the blood out. In the lower triangle his hands troubled one another fiercely.
ooooThey were not the hands of a timid man.
oooo“I was on my way to Kenya after sorting out a little trouble in Kinshasa – back in my dark ages – not long after New Year’s. Somewhere along the way I hopped this old Fokker Friendship for Nairobi, and we bounced around the better part of the day, picking up passengers and freight from Kisangani to Entebbe.
oooo“In Kisumu this mgoso got on board.”
oooo“Mgoso?”
oooo“White bloke. I didn’t take much notice, at first. Then, just as we were swinging out over Lake Victoria, he reached for the goody bag and crammed it over his mouth.
oooo“I almost laughed, you know how you do when it’s someone else who’s airsick and not you? But it went on and on. The bag was full – then started oozing over with this – this vile, blackened blood.”
oooo“I say!”
oooo“The bag broke and we were all showered with it. It was like a nightmare, one of those things you just know can’t really be happening. Then he raised his head.” Rhodes turned away and winced, as if to avoid staring the memory in the face. “Blood was gushing out of his mouth, his nose – his eyes and ears. And his skin was falling away in fetid clumps”
oooo“Good heavens, Rhodes!”
oooo“‘Crash and bleed’ they call it. He was being eaten alive – from the inside out – by ebola.”
oooo“You don’t mean to say . . . you didn’t catch it, did you? Well, clearly not. Did anyone else?”
ooooRhodes shrugged. “Who knows? If not, it’s a miracle. The plane landed in Nairobi and the poor wretch dragged himself off in a taxi. That’s the last I saw of him, but I heard what happened from a doctor friend. Not a nice story.
oooo“When they finally dissected him it was impossible to tell one organ from another. Everything had sort of joined together in a putrid mass of blackened ooze. Blood pudding, the doctor called it. Cases like that made ebola front-page news back in the day. A lot of books were written on the subject, some scientific, some sensational. But no collection of words could ever describe what I saw.” The hands stopped their incessant worrying as he fell silent, then resumed as he spoke.
oooo“It’s always something” said Fuller. “The disappearing rain forests, the ozone hole, snail darter, global warming. Every potential disaster has its messiah, stuffing cash in his trousers with one hand while clearing space on the mantle for the Nobel Prize with the other. Every cause generates its own mini-economy, and the job of those who feed on that economy – its apostles and evangelists – is to fuel the fear. Heaven forbid they should find a solution, they’d all lose their jobs.”
oooo“Life would be much easier if all the devils had horns. Nice little speech, though. I don’t guess you’ll be delivering it at that environmental feel good they’re having across town.
oooo“Ebola doesn’t belong on your list, though. It’s earned whatever fear it inspires.” Rhodes removed a handkerchief from the inner pocket of his overcoat and dabbed at his forehead. “I’ll tell you how bad it was; I’d bought this old plantation along the eastern rift – within sight of Kilimanjaro – and was fixing up whenever I had the chance, the odd week or fortnight here and there.
oooo“Seven years I stuck at it. Not paint and wallpaper, either, mind. First I had to reclaim the land itself – sixty acres of it. Not as hard to do as to keep done the way things grow down there. Then I raised the main house – which wasn’t much more than clapboards with a tin roof held in place by cobwebs to begin with – and installed a proper cellar only to find termites had got at the sills and cross-members – had to replace every last one of them.
oooo“I figured it was worth the sweat and tears, though, since I meant to retire there – find the old maid daughter of some local missionary who’d be only too happy to settle in and see me through my dotage, since I don’t have any other family . . . not anymore.
oooo“Every sou I had in the world went into the place. I was going to cash in my chips next furlough and erase myself from civilization; slip off the grid, as they say.”
ooooHe paused, staring at the floor. “That day in Nairobi, I booked into a hotel, took the longest, hottest shower in history, got on the next flight out and never looked back.”

ooooA protracted silence followed during which even the storm seemed to sit still and await developments. Dumas could hear the sweat forming on his temples and his back hurt so much he hardly noticed the pain in his legs or the cold stone floor freezing his buttocks to sleep. But there was no question of moving now.
ooooFuller loosed a long sigh on the centuries. “It may be too late to look back.”
ooooRhodes’ hands tensed. He let his eyes ask the obvious question.
oooo“Ebola’s in Europe.”
oooo“Where?”
ooooFuller didn’t answer immediately, but Rhode’s didn’t prompt him. “Fact of the matter is – I haven’t a clue.”
oooo“What do you mean? If there’s been an outbreak, it has to be localized somewhere.”
oooo“There hasn’t been an outbreak – yet.”
oooo“Then how do you know it’s here?”
oooo“Someone’s brought it in – on purpose; al-Sa’di’s people.”
oooo“You’re joking”
oooo“Shh!” Fuller cautioned. “Keep your voice down.”
oooo“The place is closed to the public.”
oooo“Maybe so,” said Fuller, “still – ”
oooo“Where does your information come from?”
oooo“Out of Washington . . .”
oooo“Oh, well, then.”
oooo“It’s solid.”
oooo“Solid? Out of Washington? Mutually exclusive terms.”
oooo“Well, discredit where discredit is due, Rhodes; we’re the ones who verified WMDs in Iraq . . .”
ooooRhodes had worked up a head of steam, however, and would not be diverted.
oooo“Since 9/11 the security infrastructure in the States has sprung up like a mushroom cloud, so fast that one hand doesn’t know what the other’s doing. Hell, the hand doesn’t even know what it’s doing itself! Did you know there are over 850,000 people with top-secret clearance in the United States? And more than a third of ‘em are contract employees! If that many people know something, what’s the secret!?
oooo“I’ve still got friends at half the departments in Liberty Square, and they’ve all bitched to me over drinks at one time or another about how everyone else serves the interest of their own little fiefdom, spending more time guarding their perks and parking spaces than they do battling terrorism.” He bracketed the air with inverted commas on the last two words. “These people go to war with each other over who can use what acronym! Since 9/11, more than 260 intelligence agencies have come into being, Avery; every one with its own population of directors, deputy directors, assistant deputy directors, associate assistant deputy directors, and hoards of crab-handed analysts duplicating efforts by cubed multiples and they all do obeisance to Washington’s great Unspoken Mandate – POT: ‘Protect Our Turf.’ Anything to keep the funding coming.”
ooooRhodes had allowed him his little diatribe, Fuller had reciprocated.
oooo“Feel better?”
ooooRhodes exhaled sharply and, with a wan smile, said: “If you gather from the preceding that I have little confidence in your intel from Washington, you would have inferred correctly.”
oooo“Just between you and me?” said Fuller.
oooo“Of course.”
oooo“The information comes from Payton Brady.”
oooo“Payton? Son of Walter, your old school chum?”
ooooFuller nodded.
oooo“He was ten years old last time I saw him. What’s he now? Twelve?”
oooo“Twenty-four, and snatched fresh from college by the CIA – who are having to pluck the low-hanging fruit because all their top personnel are defecting to the private sector, once they get TS/SCI clearance.”
oooo“You’re saying Payton is a low-hanging fruit?”
oooo“The exception. A real patriot.”
oooo“And to prove it, he’s committing treason to slip you some top-secret intel?”
oooo“He’s one of those crab-handed analysts you mentioned. He sifted the information from a variety of sources, and pushed it up the chain-of-command.”
oooo“Let me guess; the chain of command wasn’t interested.”
oooo“If you can credit it.” Fuller came as close to laughing as his physiognomy would allow.
ooooDumas swallowed hard and tried to ignore a persistent tickle at the back of his throat.
oooo“That’s what they were going to use to get al-Sa’di out? The virus?”
ooooFuller must have nodded, because Rhodes continued without interruption, “How did they come by it?”
oooo“Something else you won’t credit. Seems they came by it courtesy of our friends and allies the Dutch.”
oooo“You’re joking,” said Rhodes, but he knew levity was foreign to Fuller’s constitution. “Not the same crowd that perfected an airborne version of the H5N1 virus and were so proud of themselves they wanted to publish the recipe on the internet.”
oooo“After Science and Nature decided against providing a forum for them. Yes. The very same, to a man.”
oooo“I was joking.”
ooooFuller shrugged. “Dr. Ron Abêtir of The Erasmus Medical Institute in Rotterdam. It took the pressure from the director of the U.S. National Science Advisory Board for Biosecurity to put the kibosh on those plans.”
oooo“But that was avian flu. Nothing to do with Ebola.”
oooo“That’s where things get interesting. Abêtir was apparently not pleased when his government stifled him; no doubt there was a lot of prestige going begging . . . ”
oooo“Which means money…”
oooo“Goes without saying. So – subsequent events gave rise to speculation that he might have found another way to spin his research into gold.”
oooo“Sell it to terrorists.”
oooo“Not just your garden variety; Boko Haram.”
oooo“Nigerians!”
oooo“Flush with oil cash. And since driving the Christians out of the northern part of the country, massacring those who remained, and eviscerating the regional government, they’ve anointed themselves with the task of purifying Islam . . . ”
oooo“By wiping out whoever won’t submit to Shaira. In shaa’Allah. ”
oooo“Their interpretation of it, at any rate.”
oooo“But not with anything so sedate as H5N1, with only a 50% kill rate. They wanted a more lethal concoction, so – at his suggestion – they sponsored Abêtir on a little scientific foray down to your old stomping grounds, some cave or other – ”
oooo“Kitum Cave,” said Rhodes, “on Mount Elgon. I thought the WHO was going to bury that place fifteen years ago.”
oooo“That sounds right. Some sort of doomsday pit they’ve got themselves there apparently, eons of rot and filth brewing up a sort of viral stew – cousins to HIV, from what I gather – ”
oooo“HIV is a head cold by comparison,” Rhodes interrupted.
oooo“Be that as it may,” said Fuller, “Abêtir’s idea was to officiate over the the unholy union of H5N1 and certain traits of a strain of Ebola; creating an incurable disease so they can create a cure for it – Armageddon in concentrate. All in the name of research.
oooo“More than likely he’d convinced himself – more likely allowed himself to be convinced – that he’d somehow retain control. Can’t imagine he’d have made such a deal with Devil otherwise, no matter how out-of-joint his nose was – but he hadn’t reckoned on al-Sa’di’s tribe, who caught wind of the project. Of course they immediately grasped the potential of such a biological atom bomb . . . ”
oooo“For blackmail.”
oooo“In politics it’s called a bargaining chip but, yes, blackmail. ‘Either release al-Sa’di or we release the virus’.”
oooo“From what I know of Boko Haram, I don’t see them just surrendering the goods to al-Sa’di’s people. Arab and African Muslims don’t often share the same bed.”
oooo“Didn’t used to; there’ve been so many ideological splits since the Arab Spring, though, that the motivations behind the actions of a given group aren’t reducible to the standard Sunni-Sufi-Shi’ah formula. What we’re left with is theological quicksilver. So we don’t know how al-Sa’di’s crowd came into possession of . . . whatever they’re in possession of.”
oooo“You think it was successful then, this ‘marriage’ between H5N1 and ebola?”
ooooFuller shrugged again. “No one knows for sure. What we do know is that Abêtir’s dead.”
oooo“How?”
oooo“He was found in a river. There wasn’t enough left of him to determine the cause of death.”
oooo“Accident?”
oooo“The first bullet may have been. Probably not the next four.”
ooooRhodes absorbed this. “Anyone else?”
oooo“If you mean anything indicating an armed action between al-Sa’id’s people and Boko Haram, no. Of course, something like that could have taken place upriver. Who knows how far he’d drifted by the time the body was found.”
oooo“My head’s spinning.”
oooo“In the words of the old song, it’s only just begun,” said Fuller. He removed a small case of leather and gold from his inside coat pocket, opened it, and removed a small black cigar.
oooo“You shouldn’t smoke in here,” said Rhodes reflexively.
ooooFuller put the cigar to his lips, lit it, and released a cloud of blue smoke upon the still, stale air. “Smell of smoke is nothing new to the saints,” he said. “They say the damned roast forever in fires just outside the walls of heaven.
oooo“For the sake of argument, let’s assume that – pursuant to what passes for logic amongst fanatics – al-Sa’id’s people killed Abêtir, for whatever reason, then realized they may have acted precipitately. My guess is it would probably occur to them that they’d need a medical person of some stripe to handle the witch’s brew they suddenly found themselves custodians of.
oooo“So, they kidnapped the nearest person who seemed to fit the bill, the head scientist on a CDC project operating in the same region under the auspices of the U.N. An American woman named Thompson, or something very like.” He patted his pockets. “It’s in my notebook.”
oooo“Nevermind about that,” said Rhodes impatiently. “I find myself thinking questions I don’t want the answers to,” said Rhodes. “Is it airborne?”
oooo“We’re operating on worse-case assumptions. So, let’s assume so. H5N1 has survived nearly seventy-two hours; what they call hang time – I take it that means it can survive a while in the air . . . ”
oooo“Outside a host,” Rhodes concluded, nodding slightly.
oooo“Yes. From what I understand most viruses break down pretty quickly under ultra violet light – sunlight, what have you. In all likelihood, this lot does too, but – again, assuming the worst – not nearly so quickly. As a serum, properly kept – freeze-dried, for example – it could last forever.”
oooo“So, they’ve got this doctor; this woman, playing nursemaid to Satan’s spittle while they carry out the negotiations.” Rhodes whispered hoarsely.
oooo“Assuming she’s not in on it, somehow.”
oooo“Oh, great! You didn’t mention that. Is she come kind of academic nutcase?”
oooo“Not as far as we know. People are digging into her background. Until we have a clearer picture, we have to consider the outside chance. You never know.”
oooo“I don’t suppose al-Sa’di’s friends would be content with his carcass?”
oooo“They don’t know. I have no way of contacting them. All to the good, I expect. God knows what they’ll do if they find out he’s dead; very loudly blame us for it, at the least. I shudder to think what reprisals that might reap in the present atmosphere. In any event, they’re not likely to fold their tents and gently steal away.”
oooo“You’ve managed to keep it quiet.”
oooo“So far.”
oooo“Another question I don’t want answered: What’s all this got to do with me?” Rhodes had mastered his nervous hands and the color had returned to his face. oooo“Why drag me here?”
ooooFuller shuffled in his seat. “I think you know.”
oooo“If you think I’ll have anything to do with that . . . that concoction,” Rhodes protested in a loud whisper, “you haven’t been listening. I wouldn’t get within fifty miles of it.”
oooo“You may be within a mile of it already, for all we know.” Fuller’s voice was calm and even.
oooo“I don’t care,” Rhodes protested. “I’m not going to do it. I’m retired, remember? I’m the one in twenty who survives this racket with his sanity reasonably intact . . . ”
oooo“Listen, Daniel,” Fuller interrupted softly. “You’ve got to know – I’m prepared to do whatever it takes to get you put you onto this.” The brief silence that followed was laden with meaning. “Anything.”
ooooRhodes looked up with a start. “You wouldn’t do that Avery.” But the look in his eyes betrayed the certainty that he would. “We’re friends . . .”
ooooRhodes protested, forgetting to whisper. “You couldn’t possibly . . . ”
oooo“I think you should read this before you assume what I will or won’t do.”
ooooThe hands in the lower triangle, nervous again, received an envelope and opened it. The eyes in the upper triangle read and widened. “This is monstrous!” he gasped, glancing nervously from the paper to Fuller.
oooo“It’s a monstrous business, trading in people’s secrets,” said Fuller coolly. “I think the end of the Cold War has left us with too much time on our hands.
oooo“Six copies of that letter will be on their way to the papers by special messenger at six o’clock if you refuse to take it on.”
ooooRhodes was dumbfounded. He knew Fuller wasn’t making idle threats. A reply died on his lips as he re-read the letter in disbelief. “I can’t believe you’d do this.”
oooo“I’ve done much worse. You know that,” Fuller replied. “We both traded in our souls long ago. That’s the price of admission. I’m sure I could have made you see sense eventually, without having to resort to this, but there’s no time. Diplomacy is the first casualty of crisis.”
oooo“Where is it?” said Rhodes with bitter resignation. He took a cigarette lighter from his pocket and lit the paper, holding it between his fingers until it had burned completely. He dropped it to the floor and ground the charcoal to dust on the ancient stones beneath his feet.
oooo“Europe,” said Fuller stoically. “That’s all I know. Could be anywhere. I’ve had two calls, one from France, the most recent from a mobile phone in London.”
oooo“A mobile phone.”
oooo“Very veiled language. I doubt anyone who wasn’t privy to the first call could have made the least sense of it. I barely made sense of it myself. At any rate, that doesn’t tell us much about where the serum is.”
oooo“It tells us there’s someone in London who knows where it is,” said Rhodes flatly. “How many people can you give me?”
ooooSilence.
oooo“Avery?” said Rhodes. “How many?”
oooo“None, I’m afraid.”
oooo“You can’t mean it – you’re mad!”
oooo“There’s someone in the department – someone over me at the Committee – who’s in their pocket.”
oooo“You should take your intel to Secretary Scott directly.”
ooooThe Home Office is leakier than Parliament…or the Titanic, take your pick. If Al-Sa’di’s people were to find out what we’re up to…
oooo“However – that’s not to say you can’t buy your own help . . . “
ooooOnce again the hands received an envelope.
oooo“What’s this?”
oooo“A government draft-to-bearer for a half-million pounds.”
oooo“A half-million? How did you come by that kind of money if no one at COBRA knows?”
oooo“I borrowed some of the money from the little caché in Al-Sa’di’s belongings when we searched his flat in Basra. Heroin money. All duly catalogued and stuck in an interest-bearing account ’til further notice.
oooo“Computers are wonderful things. It pays to keep up with technology, you know – especially when one can do so at the department’s expense. After hours, of course.”
oooo“You stole it.”
oooo“Temporarily appropriated.”
oooo“It’ll turn up missing in accounts at the end of the month,” said Rhodes.
oooo“The 27th, to be exact,” Fuller replied. “That’s when they close the books.”
oooo“They’ll find out. That could be enough to queer things, even for you.”
ooooThe older man was quiet for a moment. “Imagine the population of Europe suffering in the manner you described,” he said at last. “I think it’s worth the risk of a job, don’t you?”
oooo“And your freedom.”
ooooFuller smiled stoically. “They’d have to find me.”
ooooRhodes’s responding smile had something deeply fatalistic about it. “Thinking you might buy back that soul you were talking about?”
oooo“Deposit the draft at Barclay’s in Sloane Square. The assistant director’s name is Scopes. He’s done some timely expediting for me in the past,” was the non-reply. “You’ll find everything you need in there. An ID card with a hologram of my thumbprint. That should get you in anywhere this side of the queen’s bedchamber. Sign it with your new name.”
oooo“Which is?”
oooo“Russell Church. Born in South Africa – an orphan, unmarried. You came to England four years ago, representing a South African manufacturer of semiconductors. Executive in charge of international sales. Congratulations.”
oooo“Does a rise come with the promotion?”
oooo“It’s all synopsized in the envelope. Nice dull history.” He hesitated for a moment. “Of course I’ll help you in any way I can.”
ooooRhodes tucked the envelope into his jacket pocket.
oooo“There must be someone we can trust.”
oooo“A week ago I’d’ve agreed with you. But once you fancy you’re being cuckolded, even your confessor doesn’t escape suspicion. The most insignificant things develop sinister dimensions.
oooo“I had the dickens of a time working up the crust to call you, to be perfectly frank.”
oooo“You were suspicious of me?”
oooo“In twenty-four hours time you’ll be suspecting me – if you’re doing your job.”
ooooDumas perceived a look in Rhodes’s eyes that seemed to ensure the eventuality.
oooo“Your personal secretary, do you think he can be trusted?”
oooo“She,” Fuller deliberated. “I think so. But she’s perfectly placed to pass along information.”
oooo“She? A female secretary, Avery? The Nineteenth century’s catching up to you! How long has this been going on?”
oooo“‘Nothing’s been ‘going on.’ She was sent over to me a couple of weeks ago when Hyde retired.” said Fuller. “She’s very smart, I’ll give her that – and pretty in her own way, they tell me. Came well recommended.”
oooo“Name?”
oooo“Avril Miller,” said Fuller. “No – I’m convinced it’s someone higher up.”
ooooThe men studied their feet in silence.
oooo“They’ll be near an airport.”
oooo“I had thought of that,” said Fuller. “It’s most likely. If not now, then certainly as the deadline approaches. All they’d have to do is toss the vial in an air conditioning duct and – everyone in the airport would be infected in minutes, climbing onto their planes – like biological petri dishes; human time bombs.”
oooo“On to other airports, major cities – the virus would have spread worldwide within twelve hours.” Rhodes took a cigarette from a battered silver case and put it between his lips. He didn’t light it. “What’s the incubation period, do you know?”
oooo“Twenty-four to thirty-six hours.”
ooooRhodes lowered his head to his hands. “This isn’t good, Avery. Not good at all.” When he raised his face, his eyes looked like those of an old man. The skin that had been pressed against his fingers had lost its elasticity and was slow to resume its shape. “This is when we’re supposed to start quoting Revelation, isn’t it?” Outside, the wind caught up the souls of a million dead and dragged them among the parapets and gargoyles.
ooooFuller stood up, thrust his hands in his pockets, studied the ceiling, and hurled words at the wailing wind. “‘I saw in heaven another great and marvelous sign: seven angels with the seven last plagues, last because with them God’s wrath is completed.’” He didn’t whisper this time. His voice echoed through the abbey.
ooooRhodes looked up at him.
oooo“Where else do you research the end of mankind?” Fuller shuffled a few aimless paces toward the nave and stopped. “Interestingly enough, those plagues come in vials, too.”
oooo“Curious,” said Rhode, raising his eyes.
oooo“What? My quoting Scripture?”
ooooRhodes studied the shadows overhead. “The rafters seem to be holding up all right,” he said. “What’s curious is that bit about seven angels and seven plagues – the ebola virus contains only seven molecules – proteins. That’s all. Nobody knows what they are, or why they do what they do.” He paused. “Seven submicroscopic Angels of Death.”
ooooDuring the exchange Dumas managed to twist himself a few degrees in the opposite direction. His limbs sang out in celebration as the blood surged through them, though their relief was short-lived. Immediately they began to suffer new depths of agony.
oooo“The threat wasn’t necessary, you know, Avery,” said Rhodes, standing. “For all my kicking and screaming, I’ve always done my duty.”
ooooBoth men were now framed in the upper triangle; Rhodes was the closer of the two which, given Dumas’s perspective, made him seem about twice as tall as his companion. Fuller nodded almost imperceptibly. “I hadn’t the time to play the begging game.” He began walking toward the cloister door. Rhodes fell in beside him. “Any ideas?”
oooo“Two,” Rhodes replied without hesitation. “A large bitter, and a sound kip. It could be my last for a while.”
oooo“Where will you begin?”
oooo“With the phone calls,” said Rhodes. “Tell me everything you can remember – what was the voice like? Anything at all—we can go out this way. It’s quicker,” he gestured toward the main entrance. “The bolt opens from the inside and latches automatically.”
ooooFuller stopped in his tracks and replayed the conversation in his mind.
oooo“It was a male voice, husky. Thickly accented – but I can’t tell a cockney from a Liverpudlian, much less one Arab dialect from another. But that’s what it was – or what I’m meant to think it was . . . an Arab.”
oooo“Were there any background sounds?”
ooooFuller shook his head. “Not that I recall. Nothing that stood out, at any rate. All my conversations are recorded automatically, though. The machine is in my office. Not much to go on, I’m afraid.”
oooo“You must be joking,” Rhodes replied facetiously. “Finding a husky-voiced Arab in Londonistan? Should be a walk in the park.”
ooooThey resumed walking. “It’s not fair I’ve put you in this position,” said Fuller. “It’s a terrible knowledge to possess alone.”
oooo“You possessed it alone,” said Rhodes quietly. “Now you’ve divided the burden by half.”
ooooTwo thirds, thought Dumas as he unbent his leg. As the men approached the door they receded from his hearing. Now and then a word bounced off the intervening masonry but the wind throttled the sentence to which it was attached, so their meaning was lost.
ooooHaving already heard the end of the world, sequelae was superfluous. He clambered to his feet, with Thomas Gray clutched in the sleep-benumbed fingers of one hand and the charcoal stub embedded in the palm of other.
oooo
oooo“‘Forbad to wade through slaughter to a throne,
oooo
ooooAnd shut the gates of mercy on mankind.’”
ooooThe ancient iron hinges complained loudly in the narthex as the massive oak door opened upon the 21st century. Winter rushed in at the breach and skidded across the ancient stones in menacing eddies of ice and dust. Dumas was suddenly overwhelmed with an irrational fear – that when the door closed he would be shut in forever with the terrible secret, impotent as the dead. With a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach he staggered blindly up the aisle, no clear thought in mind but the insistent feeling that he had to purge himself of his accidentally acquired knowledge, as if it was a purse someone had dropped. A boil that had to be lanced.
ooooThe door was closed by the time he reached it. He threw it open with the vehemence of someone who had been buried alive, and ran outside. Suddenly swathed in the full fury of the storm and indecision, Dumas stopped on the step and yanked his collar around his neck. The two men were walking along the pavement in front of the sanctuary. Alerted by the squawk of the hinges, they stopped, too, turned and stared at him. The shock showed in their faces.

oooo“You there!” Fuller cried above the wind. They were his last words. The archway of the sanctuary was suddenly concussed by a blinding pulse of light and an explosion that tore a ragged hole in the wild night and scraped the two men over its sharpened edges.
ooooDumas was momentarily transfixed, unable to react, unable to think, or blink or breathe until, seconds later, the squeal of tires drew his attention to a small green Morris Minor pulling away from the curbing on Victoria Street. Beneath the visor of his hand as he shielded his eyes from the storm, he saw through the open window in the side of the car nearest him – the passenger side – a redheaded man, in his face contorted with inhuman satisfaction which quickly gave way to alarm as his eyes met those of the only witness to his crime.
ooooWhoever was driving stepped on the gas and the car sped up Storey’s Gate.
ooooFor the Olympics, white plastic road barriers had been set in place from Victoria St, to Abington Road, Great Peter Street, and Marsham Road, turning Westminster and the surrounding neighborhood into a pedestrian mall. The arrangement was found to be conducive, so it was kept in place. Beyond that, the boroughs of Westminster and Kensington had been designated Special High Congestion Zones in which non-commercial vehicular traffic was subject to substantial surcharges over and above the customary £10 daily levy. As a result, even in the best weather there was little traffic and – with the Minster closed and the newborn winter battling a furious nor’easter – few pedestrians haunted the precincts.
ooooDumas ran first to Rhodes, whose remains had been blown ten feet closer by the blast. A veteran of the Falklands War, he immediately recognized the savage signature of a particularly powerful hand grenade. There was no need to feel for a pulse; he couldn’t find a wrist.
ooooDaniel Rhodes need no longer live in fear of ebola.
ooooConspiracy would plague Avery Fuller no more.
ooooGiven that he could have no intimation of its profound consequences, Dumas’s next action was both instinctive and inexplicable; he quickly fumbled through shredded remains of Rhodes’s Burbury and removed the envelope Fuller had given him, slipping it into the pocket of his greatcoat. Then he went to Fuller, who was lying on his back, staring up into the starless sky from the remains of his face with a look in his eyes that apprehended a horror transcending that of simple death.
ooooA large hole had replaced the man’s upper torso; the heat of the blast had apparently cauterized the vessels that would otherwise have been pouring blood into the cavity. A palm-sized leather notebook had fallen from among his clothing and laid on the ground near his head. Dumas picked it up, dropped it into his pocket beside the envelope, and stood amid the carnage like a good Englishman to await the arrival of the authorities.
ooooHowever, the sirens had begun to wail in the distance as the little green car returned, having skidded around the corner from Great George Street, it proceeded the wrong way up Sanctuary Lane by Parliament Square at high speed, shredding one of the plastic barriers that defended Westminster from the 21st century. Dumas’s instincts sprang to action when a semiautomatic rifle appeared in the window.

Chapter Two: Waterloo

ooooDumas turned to the sanctuary door, and began pounding upon it, pulling mindlessly at the great brass handle until the first bullets splintered the wood only inches from his face. In response, he crumpled to the ground, a reflex that saved his life as a second volley violently marked the spot where his head had been.
ooooThe corner formed by the sanctuary and the Abbey formed a kind of urban box canyon, and – barring a leap over the spiked wrought-iron railing bounding the area that would have been beyond his abilities even as a much younger man – there was only one place to go. Frantically he pulled himself up and lurched toward the abbey. His life depended on whether the door had latched when it swung shut behind him. The sickening thud of bullets traced the path of his escape with a jagged dotted line on the stonework, shattering the glass in the gift shop door. Dumas, as he ran, swatted at them spastically, as if fending off a swarm of angry flies. He threw himself against the door and it burst open. The green car squealed to a stop only yards away as he shut and bolted the door and fled into the depths of the shadows. The percussive gunblasts were oddly hollow, ineffective against the thick oak door, unable to puncture the past. Dumas leaned back against the choir to catch his breath.
ooooThe shooting stopped. Sirens were nearby, now. Lots of them. Coming from all directions.
ooooOdd, the feeling that he’d somehow had his neck ripped out and his heart stuffed into his skull by angry hands. For all that, his throat hurt as he gulped air desperately. However deeply he breathed, he was unable to satisfy his lungs or abate the sensation of an electrical charge surging back and forth between his shoulders.
ooooThe sound of his panting echoed in the vast emptiness of the Abbey; a poor facsimile of the emptiness he felt inside. Without warning, his world had been inverted; his soul, once huddled over the tiny fire of itself, had suddenly erupted into an inferno of greater things. As far as he knew, he alone possessed the terrible secret so recently abandoned on his doorstep by Avery Fuller and Daniel Rhodes.
ooooHe, and the poets.

ooooWithin minutes, a comic admixture of police and media had set up a circus in the tiny square between the Sanctuary and Abbey doors. Television lights probed the lengthening shadows in search of blood and body parts while a reporter made up a likely scenario from the available evidence and presented it as news. He could always amend and retract later, when no one was watching.
ooooThe regular police, who arrived first and cordoned off the area, were superseded by Parliament Security, who flexed their muscle to no particular purpose and were, in turn, superannuated by lower echelon lackeys of Scotland Yard, who jabbered incessant nonsense into their radios and, beyond that, did nothing in particular with daunting authority while attending the arrival of a superior.
ooooAmid the general confusion, a redheaded man in a much worn herringbone greatcoat strode purposefully across the square to the corner and picked up a crinkled sheet of rice paper that had blown there, folded it under his arm and, with furtive glances in all directions, returned the way he had come. He ducked into a little green Morris Minor that waited at the side of the road, just outside the glare of lights.

oooo“Here, here!” said someone outside, the nasal voice dulled by the thick door and its journey through the shadows. “Is anyone in there?”
ooooIt was a good question. Someone, surely, but who? The thoughts with which Dumas was confronted conjured up fears before which he was a new and nameless creature.
ooooRed, blue, and yellow lights throbbed mute alarms through the stained glass windows, tracing subliminal saints and apostles on the stonework, overlaying the majestic with the surreal. All the poetry, all the humanity by which he was surrounded, were reduced to a single word: ebola.
ooooSomeone was pounding on the door, but they wouldn’t break it down; it was Westminster Abbey. This was England.

ooooDespite the Abbey’s size, there were few exits. He made his way past the Jericho parlor, stumbling through the darkened Deannery to the least known of these, a small paneled door in the corridor wall below the Dean’s Yard entrance. He’d never known it to be open, even as part of a ceremony, and wasn’t sure where it led, but he was sure no one would be waiting for him on the other side.
ooooThe columns that fringed the cloisters were eerie in the darkness like stony sentinels, eternally quiet, illuminated only by siftings from the smoky dome of dull yellow light that haloed the city. Dumas had never been given to fancy, but a latent imagination stirred itself to life as he stood in the deep shadows, his fingers frantically tracing the invisible door in the darkness like a blind man’s.
ooooAn ancient hook-and-eye assembly held the top and bottom of the door in place and just below and above these, respectively, were beaten-iron slip-bars. None yielded easily, but three or four elongated minutes later, covered with sweat and throttled nearly senseless by his heart, he forced the last bolt and pushed the door open to long, squeaking complaint and stepped into the cool evening.
ooooHe’d emerged behind a huge, leafless oak tree in the corner of a courtyard, much too small to be the Dean’s Yard. Directly opposite him was a narrow alley. He made his way across the cobblestones to a small park which he recognized as comprised of the back yards of two venerable houses fronting on Great College Street. These were divided by the same stone wall that boxed the rear of the property bordering on Jewel Tower Lane. Four-foot walls would have posed a challenge for someone of his age and diminished physical abilities. Nine foot walls were out of the question. He pitched westward toward the street.
ooooSuddenly the roads were choked with people and automobiles, all going in the same direction, siphoned – despite barriers erected expressly to prevent them – like mechanical corpuscles through the arteries of London toward the malignancy at Westminster. Dumas ran through the park at Abington Street, across the lane, and into the shadows of St. Margaret’s Church, surveying the buildings of Parliament and trying desperately to figure out what to do next.
ooooAll attention focused elsewhere, St. Margaret’s Street was virtually deserted. Directly across from his hiding place was St. Stephen’s Entrance, usually closed this time of day. The Commons entrance would be open, and guarded; he made his way to it both wondering and trying not to wonder what he’d do once inside. For the moment, he had only to survive.
ooooCommons wasn’t in session. The place would be deserted until after Boxing Day. That was good. He needed time to think. Time to plan. A uniformed guard – his attention drawn to the hive of activity at Westminster – admitted him through the parking gates with a nod of recognition and a “M’Lord.” Duman made his way to the Member’s entrance.
oooo“Good evening, sir,” said the gray-coated Parliamentary doorkeeper, saluting. “Black Rod on hols?”
ooooBlack Rod was the ceremonial name of the head of security for the House of Lords, whose subordinates manned its doors. It was a good-humored tweak of the nose to the upper house. “Seems we’ve had some excitement by the Abbey. Have you come that way?” He reached for the door and opened it. “Are you all right, your lordship? You don’t look well.”
ooooAs the glass door swung toward him Dumas saw in its reflection a little green car parked on Bridge Street, facing north. He turned just as the redheaded man threw open the passenger door, jumped out and, with calm precision, lobbed a grenade over the fence. It rattled to earth not twenty feet away and bounced across the pavement. “Down, George!” Dumas cried, throwing himself on the doorkeeper and knocking him to the ground. The grenade rolled in front of the open door and, for a moment, Dumas and the doorkeeper stared at it, stunned to paralysis.
ooooDumas tossed a bewildered glance at the redhead who was leering through the wrought iron fence, his hands gripping the rails as if he would pull them from their sockets. The grotesque contortion of his expression in that split second brought to Dumas’ fevered brain an absurd likeness to the legion of gargoyles that inhabited the upper reaches of London. That could only mean one thing.
ooooDumas stood halfway, grabbed the doorkeeper by the collar and dragged him to his feet. “Get out!” he cried. “It’s going to . . . !” The doorkeeper, who Dumas was inadvertently holding between himself and the blast, suddenly went limp and fell on top of him, driving him to his knees. “George!” Dumas cried, buttressing the dead weight on his shoulder. There was no reply. He threw a desperate glance at the guard house as he collapsed under the doorman. The guard lay on the ground, unmoving. Dumas dragged himself from under the body and let it slip to the ground.
oooo“You just can’t take the hint, can you, your lordship!” the red head yelled in a thick brogue. “You’re supposed to die!” Dumas looked up at him, watching dumbly as the Irishman removed another grenade from a small metal case and pulled the pin. For a few seconds, Dumas’s senses were too addled to translate events in real-time; everything seemed to be happening in slow motion.
ooooBut the blur of an arm heaving the grenade through the startled darkness shook him to his senses. He scrambled to his feet and stumbled across the courtyard toward the colonnade.
ooooHaving to adjust the trajectory as the projectile left his hand, the redhead threw wide of the mark. The grenade went wildly awry and slammed through a second story window of the tower wing. Seconds later, it exploded within. Big Ben responded to the blast with a single, somber ‘bong’ which, together with the explosions and the chattering of the quarter bells, summoned the guards as well as a contingent of officials from the Westminster detachment who, visions of 9/11 burned into their brains, now tramped at the double down Broad Sanctuary and across Parliament Square – with its cast-iron ‘Please Keep off the Grass’ signs – at the head of a patchwork army of the uninvolved. A group of oriental tourists watched from the portico across the street, pointing excitedly and taking pictures.
ooooDumas had fallen akimbo at the base of the inner wall of the colonnade. Swaddled in shadows, he could see without being seen.
oooo“Get in!” barked the driver of the green car harshly. “Leave it!”
ooooIn a series of sharp glances, the redhead assessed his compatriot, the approaching host, and the shadows of the columns that shielded Dumas.
“You go,” he said. Reaching through the rear window of the car, he withdrew the semi-automatic pistol and stuck it in his belt. He took off the herringbone greatcoat and flung it on the back seat. “I’ll finish up with the old man.”
ooooWithout further urging, the green car, obscured from prying eyes by a neat line of young trees, squealed away from the curb in the direction of Westminster Bridge.
ooooFor the first time Dumas noticed that the redhead was dressed in Royal Army combat fatigues. He raised another grenade in his hand and turned threateningly toward the onrushing policemen.
oooo“Come along, your lordship, or they all die.”
ooooDumas bolted from the shadows, horrified. “All right. All right, I’ll come along. Leave them alone.” He’d stumbled several paces before the real irony occurred to him: if he was killed, there’d be no one left to save the world.
oooo“Too bad,” said the redhead. “If there’s anything that warms my heart like the sight of a dead Englishman, it’s lots of dead Englishmen.” He lowered his arm, and removing the gun from his belt kept it trained it on Dumas as he clambered over the fence. “That way,” he said, gesturing toward the electronic gate at the far end of the portico that gave way onto Tower Bridge.
ooooUnnoticed by the incoming authorities, who were preoccupied with identifying body parts, they dodged through the line of trees where the redhead fell in behind Dumas and prodded him to the double with his weapon.
ooooDumas hesitated as they emerged from the shadows, for which he was rewarded with a solid jab to the back with the gun barrel.
oooo“Mustn’t keep the undertaker waiting,” said the redhead through his grin.
ooooA third of the way across the bridge they stopped and the redhead quickly removed his jacket and tossed it overboard. He was wearing a frayed burgundy cardigan, under which was a white t-shirt. “This is it, your lordship,” he said, removing a baseball cap from his pocket and pulling it on his head. “Look like your average tourist, don’t I? On up with you, there’s a good chap,” he said, mimicking the accent of the despised upper class.
ooooDumas complied.
“You shouldn’t have gone to church today, your lordship,” said the redhead. “I hope you said your prayers.”
ooooDumas, in what might have been the last act of his life, Dumas simply fell backward.
ooooFor a fractured second, the redhead was too astonished to react.
ooooDumas had misjudged the distance to the surface – which was much farther than he’d anticipated. Taking his last breath too early, it was knocked from him upon impact with the swiftly-flowing river. The shocked gasp that followed harvested a lung full of oily, brackish water as he plunged out of sight. Immediately, he pulled for the surface, coughing and spitting. The bitter cold shocked through him like lightning.
ooooTwo things worked to his advantage: against all odds, he was alive; and he was directly under the bridge. The current was strong and in seconds he’d be out in the open. Taking a deep breath he pulled once more for the depths.
ooooThe bullets came in quick succession, puncturing the water all around him with hissing needles of silver bubbles that trailed off in twisted pirouettes as they lost momentum and sank harmlessly into the blackness.
ooooHis first instinct was to dive lower, try to swim back under the bridge and wait. But the tide was going out, and the current much too strong, he was already twenty yards downstream and too weak to make it that far. Besides, his last breath had already turned to poison in his lungs. He bobbed to the surface as quietly as possible.
ooooThe redhead was impatiently scanning the black waters while he jammed a fresh clip into the gun. Dumas exhaled softly, took a deep breath and sank beneath the current, instinctively stroking toward the north bank as his extremities lost all feeling. The question was, would the cold kill him before he could find a place to crawl ashore?
ooooHe’d expected the river’s sharp bend to the south and the current crowding that shore, to take him within arm’s reach of Millennium Pier, but he swept past the London Eye and its queue of intrepid souls, turning their backs on the river, hunched against the storm – oblivious to the aged raft of spitting, choking human flotsam he’d become – missing the pier by a good ten yards.
ooooThe new Hungerford bridge drifted into view without extending a hand to help, its terminus being somewhat inland with no vertical supports close enough to be of any use.
ooooDumas was becoming lightheaded as the hungry cold licked the last few drops of warmth from his bones and the bridge drifted disinterestedly overhead. A host of pigeons had settled among its rafters. He imagined he heard music – classical music. A waltz? Shubert? No – a layer of madness – Ravel’s La Valse. Odd music to die by.
ooooHe was on his back now, his arms extended to either side, his feet dangling far, far below – beyond the reach of his senses. His clothes were so heavy and, but for the current, would have pulled him under. His body was fast going to sleep, waiting for his brain to turn out the light.
ooooA subsidiary river of thoughts over which he had no control began flowing through his mind, like a dream. Surely that’s what it was. This sort of thing happened only in American movies – not in real life, and never to middle-aged Peers of the Realm.
Was it very lonely in the North Sea? he wondered. A frozen carcass would probably last a long time. Whatever would the Norwegians make of him? By that time he’d be beyond concern. ‘As a rule men worry more about what they can’t see than what they can.’ Julius Caesar.
ooooHis ruminations were brought to an abrupt conclusion as he collided with Festival Pier. Festival Pier! He’d forgotten. He grabbed at a piling as it drifted by and clung with all his might, dipping his face in the water, stinging himself to reason.
ooooAt the opposite end of the pier, steps led up to the riverside promenade – and the Queen Elizabeth Hall. That’s where the music was coming from. The thought that he hadn’t been as delirious as he imagined had a stimulating effect. Kicking and thrashing from piling to piling he pulled himself toward shore and, after what seemed ages, felt the mud sucking at his shoes.
ooooThe effort required to stumble through the rotten refuse of two thousand year’s human habitation toward the granite steps woke his heart and pumped blood to his extremities. At the top of the steps he stood panting, his body oozing wraiths of steam as a winter embraced him with frigid arms. He began to shiver uncontrollably.
ooooNearby, under the shelter of a heavily-graffitied pedestrian overpass, a skateboarder slapped and slammed through the concrete jungle, stuffing the shadows with echos. Beyond this solitary inhabitant of a world in which Dumas was hopelessly alien, the icy wind and sleet had swept the River Walk clear of its customary traffic of walkers, gawkers, and joggers. Only one thought possessed him, that of shelter. Warmth. Maybe that was two thoughts.
ooooHe staggered toward the lights and music.

oooo“I’m sorry, sir,” said the woman at the desk, as Dumas stood before her dripping on the worn red carpet, blue with cold. “This is a closed rehearsal.”
“I’ve fallen in the river,” Dumas explained.
oooo“So I see,” the woman said. “A little early for that, isn’t it?”
oooo“For what?”
oooo“Well,” said the woman with a knowing smile, “the only people I’ve ever seen fall in the river were pretty well in their cups. And at your age!”
oooo“I am not . . . ” Dumas began to protest, but there were more important considerations. “May I use the men’s room?”
oooo“I’m sorry, we’re closed to the public. You’ll have to do that elsewhere.”
oooo“I just want to ring out these things as best I can – and warm up a bit.”
oooo“We’re closed to the public,” the woman repeated, picking up the phone. “P’raps you’d like to discuss the matter with security.”
ooooDumas stood staring at her for a moment in disbelief. “I fell in the river from Westminster Bridge – and I’m nearly dead with cold. I need your help.”
ooooThe woman returned his stare without blinking. “We’re not open to the public.” She began dialing. “They have heat at the police station, I’m sure.”
ooooThey’d also have more questions than he could manufacture answers for.
oooo“There’s no need for that,” said Dumas. He turned and left the building. Once outside, cursing the mind-benumbed lack of initiative typical of the low-level British disfunctionary, he battled the urge to return and express his indignation. The anger pushed a warm rush of blood through his system, probably saving his life.
ooooHe was a stone’s throw from Waterloo Station. Every step of the way he chided himself for not cultivating a wider circle of friends, one of whom might come in handy at present. As it was, he knew no one on the south bank – and few enough on the north, although he’d spent three days a week at the flat in Russell Square since he attained the title – nearly thirty years ago.
ooooHis meager crown of hair had frozen stiff by the time he reached the station. A blast of warm air blew at him from wall vents as the glass doors swung open and he entered the cavernous interior of the station. He stood there for a full two minutes, bathing himself in the warmth.
oooo“Is it raining?” asked a pile of clothing in the corner.
oooo“I beg your pardon?” said Dumas, too startled to respond logically.
oooo“I said is it raining? But it’s too cold to rain, isn’t it? How did you come to get so wet?” said the laundry; a female voice.
oooo“It was wet – where I was.”
oooo“It’ll be a wonder if you don’t catch your death of cold.” The pile moved slightly, revealing a girl’s eyes among the folds.
oooo“Yes – I . . . I should think that most likely,” he stammered.
oooo“You’re in trouble.”
oooo“Am I?”
oooo“I know the look,” said the girl, tracing her face with her gloved index finger. “What’s your name?”
ooooDumas didn’t respond. As the threat of imminent death diminished, his brain replayed the events of the last half hour. The more he thought, however, the more confusing things became. Eventually, his train of thoughts led to the envelope. His hand went immediately to his inside pocket. It was still there – but had its contents been ruined by the soaking? The corner tore off as he pulled. He grasped the remainder firmly between his fingers and removed it.
oooo“I said what’s your name?” said the girl.
oooo“Dumas,” he replied distractedly.
ooooThe envelope was soggy and opened easily. The plastic ID card appeared none the worse for wear, and the numbers and signature on the cashiers check, having been printed by machine, were easily legible and would be negotiable if he could keep it in one piece until it dried. The synopsis on Russell Church was another story. The ink had liquefied and run together like the northern lights. Few words were discernible. Fuller’s notebook was ruined.
oooo“Surname or Christian name?”
oooo“Surname,” Dumas replied thoughtlessly. Which raised a question – How had the man in the green car known who he was?
oooo“You’ve been in the river, haven’t you? Come on,” said the girl. She took off her floppy felt hat and placed it in her lap. She was surprisingly attractive in an undernourished way, tangled strands of flame red hair framed her startling eyes. “You can tell me. What were you doing in the river?”
ooooDumas held the papers over the vent. “I fell in.”
oooo“Fell in? Fell in where?”
oooo“The river – you just said – ”
oooo“No, no,” said the girl. “I mean where did you fall in from?”
oooo“Westminster Bridge.”
oooo“Then you didn’t fall in, did you?”
ooooOf course, it was impossible to fall in from Westminster Bridge, one would either have to jump or be pushed – or compelled. At his age, he’d hardly be larking about on the railing as he’d seen young men sometimes do to impress their companions. He might even have done it himself in his carefree youth; the realization that he’d never had a carefree youth occurred simultaneously.
oooo“Did you?” the girl insisted.
oooo“Tell me something,” said Dumas. “What’s a young lady like – ”
oooo“You’re not going to say it, are you?”
oooo“Say what?”
oooo“‘What’s a nice young lady like me doing in a place like this?’”
ooooIt was exactly what he was going to say. “I don’t know whether you’re particularly nice, or not,” he said with a feeble smile.
oooo“There!” said the girl, standing. She and her laundry rose as ensemble. “You’ve got a lovely smile. Why did you jump off the bridge?”
oooo“Why are you sitting in an underground station with all those clothes on?”
oooo“Would you rather they were off, then?” she replied coquettishly.
oooo“Oh,” said Dumas, his smile dissolving. “I see. I . . . ”
“See what?” said the girl sharply, throwing her hat against the wall. “See bloody what!?” Her light green eyes flashed with an inner fire. “You think I’m a prostitute!”
ooooDumas wasn’t prepared to deal with an irate female. “I’m terribly sorry if I’ve misunderstood you, miss.” He folded the papers. “No offense meant. Please forgive me. Good evening.” He entered the station.
oooo“I’m a model!” the girl shouted after him.
oooo“Of course,” said Dumas over his shoulder. “I’m sure you’re a very good one. Best of luck to you.” Approaching the ticket barriers he automatically reached for the Oyster transit card he kept in his watch pocket. It was gone. The rest of his pockets came up empty as well. He went to the ticket window. “Russell Square, please.”
oooo“Single or return?” said the clerk without looking up from his book.
oooo“Single, please,” Dumas replied, withdrawing a cold, damp five-pound note from his pocket and placing it on the shelf.
ooooThe clerk handed him the ticket, took the water-logged note, tucked it in the appropriate drawer and handed him his change without once taking his eyes off what he was reading.
ooooDumas inserted the ticket in the turnstile and, passing through, retrieved it on the other side.

ooooDuring the ride he was oblivious to everything about him as his addled brain struggled to make sense of events. He changed automatically to the Piccadilly Line at Leicester Square and next thing he knew, emerged from the Russell Square tube station into an oasis of calm that, despite clawing cold, seemed lightyears removed from all that had happened.
ooooFor a moment he just stood there, staring through the steam of his breath at Bernard Street, the neighborhood he’d traveled through so often, for so many years. It was as if he’d never been there before, the configuration was familiar – no doubt number 20 would be where he’d left it – but, as he walked, he became aware, for the first time, of the numberless details that comprised those familiar surroundings, the substance of a world he’d only known in passing. How long had that Tesco been there?
ooooThe approach to his flat was framed by trees he’d never noticed and buildings whose purpose he’s never considered, a tableau bound by shadows that gave them a sinister aspect. The sight of a bobby rounding the corner ahead provided a curious comfort.
oooo“Dumas!” the shrill, frantic cry sliced through the night and skewered him in mid-step. “He’s going to shoot!” A surfeit of adrenaline shot straight to his brain, prompting his reflexes to an instantaneous response of which he’d have been incapable an hour earlier. He threw himself down a set of basement stairs to his right and, after slamming into some empty metal dust bins, came to rest in a heap. At once the thick darkness was punctuated by tiny explosions of sparks and the strange thud of impact as the bullets sought him in the shadows. The gunshots themselves made no sound.
oooo“Here, here! What’s all this, then!” said the bobby, shining his torch down the steps. “You there – come up here at once.”
ooooDumas scanned the street, there was no sign of the redhead – at least not the redheaded man. The redheaded girl from Waterloo Station, however, was much in evidence, running and calling out at the top of her lungs. Backlit by a streetlight, her wardrobe billowing about her, enveloped in the steam of her breath, she looked like nothing so much as a banshee. But there was no doubt it was she.
oooo“What do we have here, then?” intoned the constable. He shined the light at the girl.
oooo“Is he all right?” she cried.
oooo“All right? Why shouldn’t he be?” said the bobby. He turned the beam once more on Dumas who had collected himself and was climbing up the stairs. “He’s just had a tumble.”
ooooShe ignored the constable. “Are you all right, Dumas?”
oooo“Yes, thanks to you,” Dumas replied, brushing off his soggy clothes.
oooo“Dumas?” said the bobby. “Sir? Is that you?” He shined the light into Dumas’s face. “Why, whatever were you doing down there, sir?”
oooo“As you said, I had a tumble,” said Dumas, trying to be as cool as possible, despite the lump that had formed in his throat.
oooo“But – that man was shooting at . . . !” the girl began in animated protest.
oooo“It’s so dark along here, you know,” Dumas interrupted. “And I’m afraid my eyesight isn’t what it once was.”
oooo“I understand, sir,” said the bobby, who knew Lord Dumas to be the most temperate and circumspect of men. “But what’s all this about shooting?”
ooooDumas took the officer by the elbow and drew him aside. oooo“She’s a bit troubled,” he whispered.
oooo“Here! What are you saying?” said the girl.
oooo“Just you wait there, miss,” the bobby cautioned. “Go on, sir.”
oooo“I made the mistake of speaking to her while I was waiting for my train,” Dumas explained. “You know what happens if you pet a stray dog?”
oooo“I do indeed,” said the bobby with a smile. “I do indeed. Here miss, you can’t go following this gentleman about – ”
oooo“No, officer – ”
oooo“Following him!” said the girl, indignantly. “I wasn’t following him – I was following the fellow with the gun! How was I to know – ”
oooo“What fellow?” said the constable.
oooo“Shh, shh,” said Dumas, pulling the constable aside once more. “She’s been going on about this for a while now.”
oooo“She has?”
oooo“All in her imagination, of course,” said Dumas. “But I don’t see any harm in playing along, do you? Leave her to me, constable. I should be able to get her some help.”
ooooThe officer reviewed the situation for a moment, skepticism evident in the series of low grunts in which he editorialized. “Well, that’s up to you, your lordship,” he whispered confidentially after a moment. “So long as you don’t forget that stray dogs bite, and that one – ” he added, considering the apparition, “well, I shouldn’t put it by her to scratch your eyes out, into the bargain.”
oooo“I take your observation to heart,” said Dumas. “Good evening, constable.”
oooo“Sir,” said the constable, touching a forefinger to the rim of his helmet. “You behave yourself, miss,” he added, leveling the same finger at the girl in warning. He walked away on his rounds.
oooo“Hey!”
oooo“It’s all right,” said Dumas, grabbing the girl firmly by the arm as she prepared to run after the bobby.
oooo“But – aren’t you going to tell him?” she said. “That man was shooting at you!”
ooooDumas quickly scanned the length of the street. “I know,” he said. “And the longer that policeman stays here asking questions, the more likely one of us is to get in the way of another bullet. Come along.” Pulling her behind him, he jogged to his flat, two doors away, and herded her up the steps before him. “We’ll talk inside.”
ooooThe girl, whose wits had been overpowered by events, found her tongue at the top step. “Listen. I don’t know what’s going on here – and I don’t know what you take me for – or maybe I do. Well, I’m not that kind of girl,” she protested.
oooo“Nor am I that kind of man,” Dumas said, opening the door.
oooo“Oh,” said the girl. “You mean you’re – ”
oooo“Nor that kind,” said Dumas, ushering her inside. He closed and bolted the bright blue door behind them.
oooo“Then what kind are you?”
ooooHe stopped for a moment at the bottom of the stairs. “Not long ago I would have told you, with relative confidence, that I was a gentleman, and that would have sufficed,” he said, half to himself. “Now – I’m damp, bone-cold and, frankly, scared out of my senses.”
ooooThe girl ran her hands along the wall. “Where’s the light switch in here?”
ooooHe took both of her hands in his and pulled her toward the stairs. “We can turn the light on upstairs.”
ooooShe resisted, her eyes glistening as she looked up at his silhouette in the smear of light in the hallway. “He was shooting at you, wasn’t he?”
oooo“A redheaded man?”
ooooShe nodded. “I think so. He had a cap on. American, I think.”
oooo“As American as Irish stew,” said Dumas. “Yes. He was shooting at me.”
oooo“Why?”
ooooDumas remembered some of Fuller’s last words ‘within twenty-four hours time you’ll be suspecting even me, if you’re doing your job.’ It was true. All of a sudden, as absurd as it seemed, he found himself suspecting the girl. Was it just coincidence that she happened to be at Waterloo? Of course, reviewing events, it must be, but . . . and it had been less than an hour. Who wouldn’t he suspect in twenty-four hours time?
oooo“Why are you looking at me like that? What’s gotten into you?”
oooo‘I’ll tell you what’s not getting into me,’ Rhodes had said. ‘Bloody ebola.’
oooo“Come upstairs, we’ll talk about it over some tea.”
oooo“I hate tea,” said the girl, following him of her own volition. “Do you have any hot cocoa?”

Chapter Three: Pawn to Knight

ooooShe’d been in the room three days. She was sure of it. Despite the darkness and the fitful naps – despite the absence of any external stimuli whatsoever, not a train whistle or a siren, even so much as the tick of a clock – she sensed that three days had passed.
ooooHer wrists had grown numb from struggling against the plastic restraint that bound them, though she could feel the blood, crusted and congealed, on her fingers and hands. It was her shoulders and chest that hurt most from the strain of her arms having been wrenched behind her for so long. Every itch and ache was magnified a thousandfold for want of a simple scratch or rub. That was the luxury she missed more than anything, more than eating . . . she’d been spoon-fed a bowl of something the day before – equal parts fish soup and dishwater; it must have been the day before. Or bathing . . . she hadn’t bathed since the night before she was abducted from the research tent, and that had been to stand briefly in an indifferent spray of reddish-grey water from the solar shower bag.
ooooOne thing she knew, she was a long way from Kenya. The Land Rover she’d been stuffed into had driven east, through the foothills of the Eastern Rift – the memory of cold corrugated steel of the cargo bed pounding against her cheeks was a vivid one – then over a hundred miles or so of open country to a makeshift airstrip where she was loaded aboard a single-engine bush-hopper.
ooooThey’d flown in circles for ten or fifteen minutes until she was completely disoriented, then off in a beeline for the final destination with two stops for fuel; it was night when they landed.
ooooFrom that point, she was conveyed overland in a truck or jeep of some kind and, eventually, packed into the bow of an open boat, a fishing boat, judging by the smell. Not salty or briny, though. Just fishy. Fresh water. For the next two hours an overburdened outboard puffed away, water lapped against the sides of the boat, and once or twice she imagined whispers.
ooooUpon landing, she was dumped onto the floorboards of another vehicle and covered with a canvas tarp. The terrain was hilly and their course was erratic, going from highways, to dirt track roads, to places where it seemed there was no road at all, then back onto a highway again. Finally, exhausted beyond description, she somehow fell asleep. She awoke when the vehicle came to a stop. She had no idea how long she’d been out as rough hands pulled her to her feet and propelled her up many flights of stairs. She was surrounded by sounds she hadn’t heard in nearly two months – those of a city.
ooooScarcely a word had been spoken throughout the operation.
ooooThe blindfold had become embedded in her cheeks and soaked with cold sweat that stung her eyes whenever she opened them. But they hadn’t gagged her. Seemingly they were in no fear of her being heard.
ooooIn the course of the journey, they had allowed her to relieve herself three times, but it wasn’t enough. Her underwear was soiled and, despite years of what she laughingly called ‘hygiene deprivation’ in the jungle, she found the acrid smell of herself deeply offensive and embarrassing. No one had spoken to her on those occasions. She didn’t even know if it was a man or woman – men or women – who stood watch over her as she subjected herself to the mandates of nature.
ooooNow she found herself in what appeared to be a proper bathroom. The floor was tiled – she could feel the smooth, cold surface and its pattern of tiny squares through the thin fabric slippers she’d been given to wear – and the toilet was a proper one though the seat had apparently been removed. Having grown up the only girl in a house full of boys, it was a familiar feeling. Night after night she’d stumbled to the bathroom, half asleep, and nearly fallen in because someone forgot to put the seat down.
ooooThe only thing worse was when they neglected to put it up in the first place. She smiled in the darkness. Funny how she’d begun thinking about things she’d thought forgotten. Things that, at the time, seemed unimportant, but now seemed the essence of life.
ooooShe even remembered her mother, as clearly as if she were still alive, and suddenly she wasn’t Dr. Patricia Thompson, Phd. anymore, she was plain Patty Yaffe, a five year-old standing alone at her mother’s grave in the soulless gray of a Minnesota springtime, long after everyone else had gone.
ooooHer father and brothers waited by the car not knowing what to do with their own sorrow, let alone hers. They just waited and wept inside themselves, like men do, and scuffed aimless patterns in the dusting of snow with their dress shoes.

ooooThe hallway was covered with carpet that stank of mildew and squished beneath her feet as she walked to and from the bathroom. In contrast, the room in which they kept her was dry and bare except for the small rug they sat her on. There was no heat and, since she was allowed only her shirt and underwear, she shivered continually in the bitter cold as she tried to sleep leaning back against the wall or bent over with her head on her knees.
Lying down was out of the question. Her back and neck ached unbearably, and every bony joint – heels, knees, hips and shoulders – had been rubbed raw despite the carpet.
ooooThe sound of the door opening woke her from a troubling dream: she was in a laboratory, dressed in her bright orange Racals, performing an autopsy on a macaque that had suddenly crashed and burned. The monkey’s insides were a mass of runny, uncongealed blood and one organ was hard to distinguish from another, except the spleen which was hard as a rock and three times its normal size. Just as she removed it, the monkey woke up, screaming like a human child, lunging at her with his sharp canine incisors.
ooooWith one hand she grabbed it by the neck and struggled to hold it to the table while, with the other, she searched frantically for a syringe of T-61. At last she found it and injected it straight into the animal’s heart – but her finger got in the way. The needle went through the outer and inner gloves and deep into the skin. Instantly she withdrew it, but it was already too late. Now the Racal suit – purpose-built to keep the virus out – had become a prison that held her in. She gagged and puked, tearing off the suit in bits and pieces as she ran for the UV chamber.
ooooEbola was the theme of her life, waking and sleeping. Her husband couldn’t understand the curious attraction she had to the dangerous research, especially since it woke her with nightmares, night after night. He couldn’t understand, and she couldn’t explain – even to herself.
ooooNone of her nightmares, though, included being kidnapped with two tiny phials of pure serum – scrapings from the walls of hell.
ooooShe wondered if her kidnappers really knew what was in those phials; and what had they done with them?
oooo“You are no longer any use to us,” said a man’s voice in a deep, almost cartoonishly thick Slavic accent. “I have come to kill you.”
ooooHer heart, held in place by the force of will and slender threads of hope, collapsed in the cavern of her chest. A pool of tears suddenly welled in her eyes and poured silently down her cheeks.
ooooThe sound of the speaker’s hard-soled shoes echoed loudly from the bare walls as he stepped closer. She heard his knees crack as he bent over her, so close she could feel his breath on her face, and smell the onions. “Too bad,” he said. “I’d rather not kill women – they have so many other wonderful uses – but, one can’t always have one’s way.”
Something was laid on her hand and dragged along her fingers behind her back. It was metal, cold, smooth and heavy. “This is the pistol I will shoot you with,” said the man. She felt the stock and the trigger and the barrel. “I will put the barrel to your temple, and pull the trigger.”
The weight was removed from her fingers and, several seconds later, she felt the cold steel on her lips. He traced her face with it, bringing it to rest on her temple.
oooo“You will hear a click when I pull back the bolt,” he said. “That is the cartridge being injected into the chamber. The second click will happen when I pull back the hammer. The third click, only I will hear. You will be dead.”
ooooShe heard the first click.
oooo“I could do it all at once,” he said. “Click, click, bang! so fast you couldn’t tell the difference.”
ooooShe heard the second click.
oooo“But I am not one to rush things. Americans and the Jewish rush things.”
oooo‘The Jewish,’ what Palestinians called their Occupiers in lieu of Israelis, which would confer a recognition of national legitimacy. Could she be in Palestine? Gaza? The West Bank?
ooooShe heard the third click.
oooo“Oh!” said the man in mock surprise. “Nothing happens! Perhaps something is wrong with the clip. Let us try again.”
ooooThe hideous game was replayed two more times, at the conclusion of which she lost control of all her bodily functions. The gunman laughed and she heard the distinctive whine of the film eject on an old Polaroid camera. “We’ll try again tomorrow,” he said, and left the room.

ooooShe was determined to stop crying, no matter what. She wouldn’t give them that satisfaction. Nevertheless, she burst into an unrestrained fit of convulsive sobs that shook her to within a half inch of madness.

ooooShe hated herself for being so weak. She’d read about the mind games captors play with their victims – sensory deprivation, starvation, constant threats of death and violence, raising hopes with one word and dashing them with the next. She’d read transcripts of the files Coalition troops had found in Saddam’s palaces. Nightmares in analytical black and white. But the knowledge hadn’t prepared her for the experience. In only three days she had reached the end of herself, and here she was, crying in the dark and wetting herself in fear; inviting death.
ooooThree days. She’d imagined herself a lot stronger than that. The thought reminded her of a movie she’d seen once as a teenager about a young woman’s life in a Nazi concentration camp. She’d survived for months. Years. What had she had that Dr. Patricia Thompson, Phd. did not?
ooooThe question came with an answer: God.
ooooPatty Yaffe had had God, too. He had stood there looking into her Mother’s grave with her with His hand on the shoulder of her heart. She sensed she wasn’t really alone, only lonely for the someone who had been the sun at the center of the tiny orbit of her life. Dr. Patricia Thompson had no God, though. He hadn’t made it through med school. Unless, as she had heard, a person’s god is that which possesses them. In which case ebola was her god: a merciless god to which she’d sacrificed everything: her family, her children, her dreamtime and, now, her life.
ooooBut it wasn’t to be ebola that took her, after all. God with a capital ‘G’ was only three clicks away.
ooooShe’d only hear two.

oooo“All we know is two vials of the serum are missing,” said the general. He was staring out the window across the south lawn at a parade of demonstrators. oooo“EA2C.”
oooo“I beg your pardon?” said the President.
ooooGeneral Freeman, a straight-backed black man in his mid-fifties, turned from the window who had recently been elevated from his position on the Joint Chiefs to the position of Director of Homeland Security. “I was just reading a banner someone draped over the fence. ‘EA2C,’ it says.”
oooo“Earth Rights International,” said the President.
oooo“Sir?”
oooo“That’s their motto – ‘EA2C: Earth at all Costs’.” He rose from the desk and stood beside the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, and together they watched as security removed the banner. “You could dress half the homeless in Washington with the cotton that goes into those banners.”
ooooFreeman smiled. “Maybe we could recycle them.” He paused. “Earth Rights?”
ooooThe President walked away from the window, sat on the edge of his desk, and began absent-mindedly flipping through family photos on his phone. “Sort of a loose coalition of green groups that appended themselves to the Occupy movement in its heyday. Didn’t like the way things turned out, I guess, so they split to form this outfit. More nuts per square foot than a pecan tree.
oooo“Just another band in a long, loud parade. All complaint, no solution.”
oooo“Yes, sir.”
oooo“They bear watching.”
ooooThe general nodded. “Funny – here they are worried that the human race is ruining the planet, and somewhere out there is a woman with two phials of serum that could wipe us all out courtesy of mother nature herself.”
oooo“Mother Nature modified,” said the President. “I preferred the good old days when the capacity for universal annihilation was the exclusive province of presidents and premiers. Assad, for instance. He may have been a despot, but Syria’s chemical weapons were under lock and key while he was in power. Now…we can’t account for half their stockpile. Now this.” He stood and began walking clockwise around the Great Seal in the carpet, his hands thrust in the pockets of his jeans. “Of course, this whole plague scenario has become the nuclear nightmare of the generation, hasn’t it? It’s as if we’ve been conditioned to accept as inevitable that it would come to this.”
oooo“The question is: what has it come to?” said Freeman. “If she’s gone Palin on us, what does she want? Why hasn’t anyone heard from her?”
oooo“What’s her story?”
ooooFreeman shrugged. He withdrew his iPad from its leather carrying case, opened a file and read. “I’m sending this to you.” He tapped the tablet against the President’s cell phone. “She comes from a good home. Fairly stable.”
oooo“Fairly?”
oooo“She was raised by her father. Her mother died when she when she was very young.”
oooo“Of?”
oooo“Some form of cancer. I’m not sure which.”
oooo“So, she goes into medicine,” the President observed. “The same way those with mental problems go into psychology, those with spiritual dilemmas go into the ministry…”
oooo“And who goes into politics?”
ooooThe President flashed a brief smile. “Those desperate for validation. Back to the Doctor…”
ooooThe General consulted his iPad. “Studied microbiology, specifically. Good education. Highest honors in her field. Technically, she’s on the staff of the Fogarty International Center – part of the National Institutes of Health, but she’s worked with the Centers for Disease Control and USAMRIID as their ebola specialist – strictly freelance. This latest stint was funded by The World Health Organization and a few independent foundations.”
oooo“Purpose?”
ooooThe general read from the screen. “‘To study the transmission of filoviruses from simians to humans.’”
ooooThe President spun slowly on his heels, stopped, and began walking in the opposite direction. “Married? Children?”
oooo“Both. Her husband’s a doctor too. A pediatrician. They live in Colorado Springs – have two kids; Albert and Helen.”
oooo“Albert and Helen? Not names you hear often these days.”
oooo“No, sir. Apparently they named the boy after two of their idols – Einstein and Schweitzer. Thompson’s mother’s name was Helen.”
oooo“Mm. Any chance she’s just lost?”
oooo“Not likely, sir,” said the general. “One of her assistants was found unconscious, too. He hasn’t a clue what happened. And it’s not likely she would have been out wandering around with the serum.”
oooo“Anything on the assistant?”
oooo“Hailu Ibrahim. Nothing concrete, yet. He’s Kenyan – a post-grad student specializing in primate pathology. Mid-twenties. That’s about all.”
oooo“What about terrorists? Could she have been kidnapped?”
oooo“That was the first thing we thought. But if they’re terrorists, they’re awfully strange ones,” the General replied, frustration evident in his voice. “No word for three days? When they’re holding the trump card to beat all trump cards? Any group I can think of would be making demands faster than we could write them down.”
oooo“Something just occurred to me,” said the president. “What if she was kidnapped – out there in the jungle somewhere – and one of the phials broke en route to . . . wherever?”
oooo“I’ve got to admit, that’s one hypothesis I haven’t heard yet,” said the general, raising his eyebrows.
oooo“Think about it,” said the President. “As I understand it, the reason we haven’t been run over with these ‘slate-cleaning’ diseases before is they’re too deadly, right? They kill their hosts in these remote areas, before those individuals can get among the general population, where the virus could set up a beachhead. What if that happened?” He warmed to his hypothesis. “There’s violence – a struggle or a fight – or just those rough jungle roads – I mean, it wouldn’t be hard for a vial – I’m assuming glass . . . ?”
ooooFreeman shrugged.
oooo“Let’s assume. So it breaks or cracks – a cork comes loose, or however it is they seal the damn things.”
ooooFreeman nodded slowly, thoughtfully. “Sounds a little B-movie, but not impossible.”
oooo“Wouldn’t take much, would it?”
oooo“No, sir. Direct contact of any kind would be fatal within thirty-six to forty-eight hours.”
oooo“Things like that happen all the time,” said the President. “People get blown up with their own pipe bombs, Molotov cocktails go off in people’s faces . . . that type of thing.”
oooo“Still,” said Freeman, “if she was abducted, it’s because the kidnappers know what’s in those vials – and have at least a clue what they’re capable of. They’d be awfully careful.” He shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t share your optimism.”
oooo“You call that optimism?” said the President. “Anyway, you’re not supposed to be optimistic. You’re supposed to expect the worst, and prepare for it – meanwhile,” he added with a sad smile, “the fewer people who know about this, the better.”
oooo“Agreed.”
oooo“Not that it makes much difference. These walls have ears.” The President stared at the vents in the ceiling above the windows. “I’ve only been in office a few months, and I’ve already started my first cover-up.”
ooooFreeman could only imagine what it was like for the President to be leader of the free world as the result of the freak chain of events that had taken the lives of his predecessor, the vice-president, and the speaker of the house against impossible odds; heart attack, plane crash, cancer. Leaving the fourth man in line to grapple with the Ford Syndrome; unelected, no constituency, no mandate, no popular backing of any kind. The man was a cipher; a placeholder with all of the pressures, but none of the power inherent in having won a majority.
oooo“We don’t call this a cover-up, sir,” said the general. “No one in the Administration’s done anything wrong . . . yet.”
ooooThe President laughed.
oooo“We call it a ‘cover-on,’” the general continued. “Which is where we hope it stays.”
oooo“I tell you this much, the woman you described to me,” said the President, waving his cell phone, “doesn’t sound like someone with an agenda.”
oooo“Maybe she just got a bad case of PMS,” the General suggested.
oooo“And decided to bring the world to an end?”
oooo“The First Lady doesn’t suffer from PMS, does she sir?”
oooo“No.”
oooo“My wife does. There are definitely days I wouldn’t remind her of the whereabouts of the red button.”
ooooThe President laughed, then fell into a silent study of his stockinged feet. “That doesn’t matter, though, does it?” he said after a while. “She loses either way, this Doctor Thompson.”
ooooFreeman retrieved his cap from the chair, put it under his left arm and snapped a salute. “Our job is to minimize the fallout. It’s all we can do.”

oooo“Listen!” said the redheaded man anxiously. “I’ll get him. I’ll get him!”
oooo“How!” yelled a skinny man whose head was clean-shaven. “It’s too bloody late!” He kicked a folding metal chair against the wall. “He’s probably on the phone to Whitehall right now – or Number 10.
oooo“I can’t believe you’d be so bloody careless!” He slammed the table with the palms of his hands.
oooo“It wasn’t for lack of trying,” said the redhead, leaning back in his chair with his hands behind his head. His insouciance, however, was forced and transparent. Sweat beaded on his upper lip.
ooooThe skinny man’s eyebrows formed a single, black ledge of malice over his eyes. “No. Considering you blew up half of London. Well, it’s too late for that now, isn’t it Connor? Too bloody late – and, since a blind rat could pick you out at a thousand paces, you’d best get back to Belfast by morning, and disappear.
oooo“And take Kenny with you.”
oooo“Dumas didn’t see me! I had nothing to do with it!” said Kenny.
oooo“Says who? You do as you’re told!”
oooo“But we can still do him,” the redhead protested, dropping the chair to the floor.
oooo“Do him? Why? It’s too late!”
oooo“But he didn’t tell that cop.”
oooo“Why should he tell a rupie? You think he didn’t run inside and call one of his friends in the Yard – or at MI-5?”
ooooThe redhead hadn’t thought of that. “We could still do him,” he said, under his breath.
oooo“Bloody fool,” said the bald man. “If I hear you’ve so much as blown your nose in public in the next twelvemonth, it’ll be the last thing you do. Do I make myself clear?”
oooo“Oh, come on, Morrison. What are we supposed to do for a bloody year?”
oooo“I suggest you spend time praying word doesn’t get back to McGilvery,” said Morrison. “Or boredom will be the least of your worries.”
oooo“But we got Fuller,” Kenny argued lamely. “He’s not going to bother McGilvery any more.”
oooo“Nice quiet job it was, too,” said Morrison sarcastically. “Just the sort of thing we want now, isn’t it? London hasn’t seen that much excitement since the Blitz.” He struck Kenny across the face. “Get out of my sight, both of you.”

oooo“Why didn’t you get back in the car when I told you?” said Kenny, once they were safely out of earshot.
oooo“Shut up, I’m thinking!”
oooo“We could’ve used more of that earlier.”
oooo“Shut up!”
ooooThey walked on in silence. The long, stone-flagged corridor, lined with empty rooms, echoed the scuffs of their shoes like a beginner’s softshoe. oooo“I’m going to do him.”
oooo“Who? Dumas?” said Kenny, incredulously. “You’re daft. Morrison will kill you – and if he don’t McGilvery will!”
oooo“Think about it,” said Connor. “It’s Friday night. If his lordship rings up Whitehall, he’ll be lucky to get the janitor. Everybody else is out of town over the holidays.”
oooo“What about the P.M.?”
oooo“That’s what I’ve been thinking,” said Connor. “He’s in Canada, isn’t he?” He let these considerations worm their way into Kenny’s thoughts. “So, if we do Dumas, we won’t have to go into hiding for a year, will we? We can stay right here and do some good.
oooo“We’ll do him,” he said animatedly, his agitation manifesting itself in odd twitches and ticks in his limbs and eyes. “Then we’ll wait a couple of days somewhere out of the way – down to my cousin’s in Chiswick, and see what Whitehall does. If nothing happens, we’re in the clear!”
ooooKenny, lumbering and bearlike, was much more comfortable following orders, however disagreeable, than being innovative, still – against the notion of spending a year in Belfast with his drunken step-dad and perpetually bereaved mother it seemed a good plan. “Alright,” he said at last. “What’ve we got to lose?”

Chapter Four: The Furies

oooo“It’s KS, isn’t it?”
ooooThe doctor studied the pulpy red mass just above Calvin’s left ankle longer than he had to. The whole examination was a charade, an exercise in medical impotence. In a few months, or a year, Calvin would be dead, just like all the others. Hundreds of them. He lowered the patient’s leg gently to the table.
ooooTry as he might, he couldn’t make himself forget that patients were people.
oooo“Dr. Gonzalez?”
oooo“Yes,” Gonzalez replied. “Kaposi’s sarcoma.”
oooo“Well,” said Calvin as he rolled down his pants leg, “it’s not a surprise, is it?”
ooooCertainly not. Gay. Pathetically effeminate. A heroin addict. The only surprise would have been if, having courted AIDS so ardently for so long, Calvin had failed to earn its deadly favors.
oooo“What now?” said Calvin as he got down from the examination table.
ooooThe doctor removed his rubber gloves and automatically stuffed them in the biohazard container. “I think you know.”
ooooCalvin knew.
oooo“I have to ask,” said Gonzalez. “What are the names of the people who have had sexual contact with in the last two years?”
oooo“Two years!” Calvin giggled. “Dear heart, if I’d been writing them down – I was about to say something silly,” he said. “This is serious, isn’t it? They’ll probably all die.”
oooo“Probably,” said Gonzalez as he hoisted a leg up on the counter, folded his arms and leaned back. “Eventually.”
ooooCalvin buttoned his shirt. “I haven’t a clue about most of them,” he said. “It’s a terrible way to go.” Nobody knew that better than Gonzalez. Numberless times he’d seen fine, healthy young bodies slowly dissolve before the onslaught of diseases that AIDS invited. The signs were all familiar . . . grotesque white nodules under the tongue and the lining of the mouth, lesions, scabs, and putrid open sores around the testicles and rectum, dark red blotches around the eyes and on the neck and rib cage. The lethargy. The bulbous eyes of fear in sunken sockets, the thinning hair – the body’s purging itself, ineffectively, as the patient slowly, but inexorably becomes a living corpse and, painfully, fades into the grave.
ooooNeither of them said anything for a minute. “Thank you for not preaching to me,” Calvin said finally. “I know you want to.”
ooooGonzalez shook his head. “No, I don’t.”
oooo“You don’t! Well, that’s a first, isn’t it? I’ve been coming to this clinic for a year and a half now, and you’ve always had your little sermon ready – how I’m committing suicide with my lifestyle. I thought it came with the medication. And suddenly you don’t have anything to say?”
oooo“What do you expect from a Catholic clinic, Calvin?” said Gonzalez. “It’s part of the treatment.”
oooo“And you’ve always been such a good Catholic boy!”
ooooGonzalez demurred. He knew what was coming, Calvin’s growing agitation was palpable.
oooo“Well, where’s my sermon!” said Calvin, punctuating the words with a deranged laughter. He put one hand on his hip and began parading around the room. “What would the Pope say if you let this little queer go home without his sermon! ‘Homosexuality can be overcome, like a birth defect’, that’s what you said, isn’t it? ‘You can get off the needle, Calvin, if you want to bad enough.’ Go on, doctor. Go on and say it!”
ooooGonzalez hung his head as Calvin became more and more frantic. “What if I stop sleeping around, doctor? What if I stop. I know! What if you lock me in a nice, clean antiseptic room somewhere – hold my hand through the horrors. I’d be clean then! Clean! Wouldn’t I? There must be some place I can go. I’ll do it! I can. I can do it!”
Calvin was in Gonzalez’ face, screaming and crying and laughing uncontrollably. “Where’s my sermon?”
ooooGonzalez raised his eyes and stared steadily at his patient. “It’s too late for the sermon,” he said flatly.
ooooCalvin stood staring for a moment then, as the bones in his legs turned to aspic, he sank to the floor at Gonzalez’s feet frantically clasping and re-clasping his hands. “Give me the sermon, sweet Jesus! Give me the sermon!” His plea trailed of into deep, cough-laden sobs.
oooo“I could arrange for you to see a priest.”
ooooCalvin stopped sobbing instantly and looked up at Gonzalez with tear-filled eyes. “A priest?” Once again he burst into a sob-heavy soliloquy of laughter and self-pity. “That’s a bit out of the frying pan, isn’t it? The first man who had me was a priest, Doctor. Did you know that?”
ooooPriests, football coaches, teachers – was there anyone left out there who wasn’t diddling children? If there had been any of that going on in Puerto Rico, Gonzalez hadn’t known about it when he was a boy. So often he thought of San Juan and the purity of the poverty he’d grown up with; a simple a want of material things. But the poverty infecting the world that swarmed around him now sprang from corruption of the soul – a society surrendered entirely to its appetites, and being consumed by them – and Gonzalez had no instruments sharp enough to cleave it.
ooooCalvin agitated the edge of a sheet between his fingers. “I was always such a clean boy,” he whispered.
ooooFor a while the second hand of the clock on the wall took up the conversation in measured reminders that life was passing by.
oooo“I’m going on a trip with my friend,” he said once the crying had subsided. “We’re going away.”
oooo“Where?” said Gonzalez.
ooooCalvin laughed and shook his finger. “Oh, no. I’m not telling you. You’d call him up and tell him to keep me from leaving the country.”
oooo“You’re flying somewhere?”
oooo“Uh-uh!” said Calvin, cocking his head to one side and smiling. “I’m not saying. But it’s very important – my friend – he’s very important. People know him. You’d know him!”
oooo“I can’t give you the certificate, Calvin.”
oooo“I don’t need one. Like I said – my friend is very powerful. You’d know him.”
oooo“I don’t think that likely,” said Gonzalez, looking at his watch. “I’m afraid I’ve got other people to see, Calvin.” He wrote out a prescription. “Take this and come see me next week, all right?”
oooo“I can’t,” said Calvin, taking the prescription and reading it. “I told you, I’m going away.”
oooo“Two weeks, then. Will you be back by then?”
oooo“Maybe I will,” said Calvin teasingly. The tears had crusted on his cheeks and an unsteady madness had settled in his eyes. “Maybe I won’t – you might just have to wait your turn.”
oooo“I’ll do that,” said Gonzalez, ushering Calvin to the door where he stopped and looked at him. “I’m sorry, Calvin,” he said. For a moment all the neuroses that possessed the boy fell away and the full sadness and utter abandonment of his soul swam to the surface of his eyes. Just as quickly it sank from sight, drowned in the caricature he’d become.
oooo“I’m going to get a second opinion,” he said, then, sweeping the waiting room with his eyes he gestured grandly. “If Dr. Gonzalez says you’re going to die – get a second opinion!” He pranced to the door, giddy with the attention he’d drawn to himself. “Oh, and doctor,” he said as he stood with the door open. “You do know my friend. He’s a very powerful man.
oooo“Good-bye everyone!”
oooo“A very powerful man with AIDS,” Gonzalez said to himself. He’d done everything he could for Calvin. He scanned the clientele: junkies of every description, male and female prostitutes, the abused and their abusers sitting side-by-side, shaken by the demons for whom they’d made themselves a home in a symbiosis of mutual destruction. And always the children, feasting on the detritus of decay. He raised his hands and stared at them for a moment, then folded them briefly. “Jesus,” he whispered.
oooo“Next?”

oooo“Anyway,” said the girl, “he came in just as you went off toward the ticket-taker. Has hair like mine, that’s why I noticed him. Do you like red hair?”
oooo“I can’t imagine you without it,” said Dumas. A shower and dry clothes had made him feel infinitely better, and his heart had slowed down enough so he could hold his tea cup steady.
ooooThey were sitting in the dark in front of the three bar fire, the girl on the floor, obscured by her wardrobe, held a cup of steaming hot chocolate to her lips and sipped at it perpetually.
oooo“I saw he had a gun,” she continued, “with a silencer – I knew that’s what it was, just like in the movies! He was putting it in his pocket straight away he came in. So, I followed him. I didn’t want to miss anything, you know? I didn’t even know you were on the same train until I saw you at Russell Square. He followed ‘til you were well in the shadows – and I was following him to see what was up – then he took out his gun and pointed it at you and – well, I screamed.”
oooo“Thankfully,” said Dumas with a smile.
oooo“Didn’t stop him from shooting, but if he’s any kind of shot at all he’d have had you for sure if I hadn’t. He gave me the dirtiest look. I half expected to be shot myself, but I guess he didn’t think I was worth a bullet, or maybe he’d just run out. Anyway, the cop was making such a row by that time – he just ran away.”
oooo“Back down the tube?”
oooo“I don’t know. I wanted to see if you were okay.”
oooo“I wonder if he saw I was okay,” said Dumas.
ooooThe girl sipped and shrugged. “I dunno.”
ooooDumas appraised her covertly. “What’s your name?”
oooo“Heather,” said the girl, a curious smile playing on her lips.
oooo“Is that your real name?”
oooo“It is today.”
ooooDumas acquiesced. “As you wish. Where are you from?”
oooo“Guess.”
oooo“Not England.”
oooo“Surely not! Nobody’d take me for a Pom.”
oooo“Australia?”
oooo“Nor an Aussie. They’re half wallabee, and that’s the bit with manners.”
ooooDumas laughed. “Then my bet is you’re a Kiwi.”
oooo“Too right,” said the girl. “Have you ever been to New Zealand?”
oooo“I’m afraid I haven’t had the pleasure.”
ooooShe grew quiet and thoughtful, staring through the electric fire at places in her mind. “Lovely country.”
oooo“I’m sure it is.”
ooooShe raised her eyes. “It is.” She looked back at the fire, resting her chin on her knee. “I was born and raised there.”
oooo“Which island?”
oooo“North. Near Wellington. You know where that is?”
oooo“Yes, southern tip of the north island, if I’m not mistaken.”
oooo“Right you are! Well done. P’rhaps you should be on one of those quiz shows on the telly.” She was talking into her clothing, and he had to strain to make out some of the words. “Stokes Valley, actually – that’s where I’m from. Twenty minutes east of Wellington by train. Did you ever see Lord of the Rings?”
oooo“Tolkein’s?” said Dumas, wanting to be sure.
ooooThe girl nodded.
oooo“I read the books.”
oooo“It’s a book?” she said. “Well, I don’t know about that, but the film was made in New Zealand . . . some of it near me. I almost got a job as an extra.”
oooo“I see.”
ooooThey were quiet for a while.
oooo“Aren’t you going to ask me what I’m doing in London?”
oooo“Well, you said you were a model – I assume there’s not a lot of work for an ambitious young woman in that line in New Zealand,” said Dumas. “Am I right?”
ooooShe stared deeper into the fireplace. “Near enough,” she said. “I’m not really a model, though,” she added after a while.
oooo“No?”
ooooShe began rocking gently, touching her nose softly to her knees with each forward nod. “That’s what I wanted to be.”
oooo“No luck, then?”
ooooStill rocking, she raised her eyes and looked at him. “That’s my life in three words. I should have it put on a T-shirt.”
oooo“I’m sorry,” said Dumas. “You’re certainly very pretty enough, in my opinion. What I’ve seen of you – ”
oooo“You can see as much as you like for ten quid,” she said matter-of-factly, still staring at him.
ooooDumas reddened. “Oh, no! Honestly! I couldn’t – I thought you said you weren’t . . . ”
ooooHer eyes returned to the fire. “I always thought prostitutes were whores at heart. You know? I’m not. I mean – I won’t go with just anybody – I just wait for someone like you. Someone who looks lonely – and clean.”
ooooDumas studied her; living her life tucked in the corner of an underground station, wrapped in her cocoon of rags, waiting for her next meal to happen by. What would the poets have made of that?
oooo“But I’m not a whore at heart,” she said. “I’ve just got no place to sleep tonight.”
oooo“Surely there are shelters.”
oooo“Shelters! Oh yes,” said the girl, her eyes flashing. “They want it free, there – men and women! Not bloody likely, pardon my French. I’d sooner toss myself in the Thames like you did!”
oooo“I see,” said Dumas. He sipped his tea and let the quiet fold about them once more. Quiet was what he needed more than anything, quiet and the time to sift through everything, sort it out. One asinine idea kept bobbing to the surface of his thoughts, despite his efforts to hold it under – the ludicrous notion that the fate of the world somehow rested on his shoulders; but no, that implied an act of bestowal, a conferring – and he hadn’t been entrusted with anything, it had simply been dropped in his lap. He wasn’t a hero. He was, like this girl, a receptacle.
ooooProvidence had made a desperate mistake.
ooooIn the past, it had infallibly equipped a lone warrior to stand in the breech at pivotal times in the course of human events, a Charlemagne, a Lincoln, Nelson, or Wellington – one man uniquely gifted to bend the flow of history to his will – against all odds – to ‘give the lion’s roar,’ as Churchill had said. This time, though, fortune, in its perversity, had outfitted Dumas for nothing so much as to fade into oblivion having successfully negotiated life without attracting attention. He was created to be ignored, tailored by life to be completely inconsequential and ineffectual. He wasn’t a hero or a warrior, just a single, frayed thread dangling at the end of an ignominious line.
oooo“What is it?”
oooo“I beg your pardon?”
oooo“You’re thinking so loud I can almost make it out,” said the girl.
oooo“Oh – I was thinking I would ask you to stay here. Not in my – not in the capacity you suggested, but . . . ” he added quickly, “as a guest.”
oooo“A guest? Here? With you?” said the girl, becoming more incredulous with each question.
oooo“Well,” said Dumas, casting a desultory eye around the darkened room, seeing many things for the first time in many years. “It’s not a very homey place, I’ll grant – but if it’s not an improvement on Waterloo Station, I’ll sell it and join you there.”
oooo“I like your smile,” said the girl.
oooo“Do you?” said Dumas, realizing it wasn’t an aspect of his physiognomy that got much exercise.
ooooShe studied him closely for a minute. “I’ll stay,” she announced at last. “Will we be sharing a bed?”
ooooOnce again Dumas flushed in the darkness. “Certainly not,” he said a little too quickly. “As I said – what I mean is – I have two rooms on the next floor that are never used – a sitting room and a bedroom, you’ll be much more comfortable there, I’m sure.”
ooooThe girl was quiet, she tilted her head. “You’re an odd one.”
ooooDumas harrumphed. “That’s me in three words.” He stood and held out a hand. “May I show you to your room, mademoiselle?”
oooo“I need a bath,” she said, taking his hand and standing. “And I don’t have anything proper to sleep in – this is all I have.”
ooooHe drew her a bath and supplied her with a robe and a pair of his pajamas. The effect, when last she emerged, was breathtaking. “My word!” Dumas said involuntarily as he stared up at her from the bottom of the stairs.
ooooShe spun a quick circle, her figure suggested by the light of the bathroom door that framed her. The pajamas, several sizes too large for her, came to rest sometime after she did. “What do you think?” she said, holding her arms out.
ooooDumas scrambled about to collect his wits. “I think,” he said in the most fatherly manner he could muster, “that whoever it is who hires models is an idiot.”
oooo“Doesn’t hire them, you mean.” She held out her hand to him. “Come say good-night?”
ooooHis feet betrayed his every instinct and carried him slowly up the stairs, as if they were made of iron, and her outstretched hand a magnet. Taking his hand in hers, she led him to the bedroom where she pulled the duvet aside and climbed into bed. Still holding hands, he sat down beside her.
oooo“You’re sure?” she said, patting the mattress.
ooooShe had opened a tiny window and he closed it quietly. oooo“Quite,” he said softly. “Thank you.”
oooo“Thank you,” she said.
ooooHe bowed from the waist.
ooooShe squeezed his hand slightly. “Why does that man want to kill you?”
oooo“I’m a loose end, I’m afraid.”
oooo“What do you mean?”
oooo“I saw – something he didn’t want me to see.”
oooo“What was it?”
oooo“Let’s leave it at that, shall we? No need to put you in danger.” He squeezed her hand one time quickly, then let it go as he stood up. “Is there anything you need?”
ooooShe shook her head and looked at him carefully, the worry evident in her eyes. “Will he try again?”
oooo“I rather think not – our constabler will be most observant the rest of the night, I’m sure, what with people falling down stairways and all.” He smiled softly. “Good-night . . . Heather.”
oooo“Good-night,” she said, sinking under the covers. “It’s Daphne!” she called when he was halfway down the stairs.
oooo“Good-night, Daphne,” he whispered to himself.
ooooAn apprehensive silence followed him to the foyer. “It’s Janine, actually,” she called softly.

ooooA persistent knocking woke him from his sleep to a cobalt-blue dawn. He was surprised to find he’d slept at all, much less as deeply and dreamlessly as he had. His body, on the other hand, complained bitterly as he dislodged himself from the wingback chair and stumbled toward the door.
oooo“Who is it?”
oooo“Chief Inspector Stephson, Scotland Yard, for Lord Dumas.”
ooooDumas retied his robe and opened the door. “Chief Inspector? What can I do for you?”
oooo“Lord Dumas?” said Stephson, a man about Dumas’s own age, though occupying roughly twice the space. He was wearing a crisply pressed brown mac against the rain which, judging from the pavement, had already come and gone. His light brown hair was closely cropped and generously flecked with silver, as were his mustache and prominent eyebrows, from beneath which he regarded Dumas with a penetrating, unblinking gaze. As he spoke he unleashed clouds of steam on the crisp morning air.
ooooDumas nodded.
oooo“May I come in?”
oooo“Do you have some identification?”

ooooStephson produced a small wallet and handed it to Dumas.
oooo“Of course,” said Dumas, standing aside as the inspector entered, closed the door behind them. He returned the wallet. “Please,” he said, gesturing toward the first floor.
oooo“Who is it?” Janine called down the stairwell. “Dumas? Is that you?”
ooooThe Chief Inspector flashed a deprecating glance at Dumas as they climbed the stairs.
oooo“An Inspector from Scotland Yard, Heather!” Dumas called.
oooo“Chief Inspector,” Stephson corrected.
oooo“Of course,” Dumas replied. “My niece,” he added as the bedroom door slammed shut, “from New Zealand.”
oooo“We don’t have a record of your having any nieces,” said Stephson flatly.
oooo“You have a file on me?” said Dumas, surprised. “How tedious for someone. Well, she’s the daughter of an old school chum – in town trying to make her way as a model. I’m her godfather, actually,” said Dumas matter-of-factly, “but she’s always called me uncle.”
oooo“She called you Dumas,” Stephson observed.
oooo“Very distressing that,” Dumas replied. “Last time I saw her she was a little girl – it was always ‘uncle’ in those days.” He tossed a hapless glance up the stairs. “Too sophisticated for all that now, I suppose.
oooo“Won’t you take a seat?” He indicated the chair in which he so recently awoke, still warm with the residue of troubling dreams.
oooo“No, thank you, sir,” Stephson replied with a nod.
ooooDumas remained standing as well. “What can I do for you, Chief Inspector?”
oooo“You were at Westminster Abbey last night?”
oooo“Is that a question or a statement?” said Dumas with an aristocratic arch of the eyebrow. Despite republicanization there remained some subliminal benefit of title; it endowed its owner with a residual trace of authority that was useful from time to time, especially when dealing with officials and functionaries; if not for desk attendants.
oooo“We have information that you were granted special permission to be in the Abbey – doing grave rubbings, I believe?”
oooo“You’re information is accurate,” said Dumas, “as far as it goes.”
oooo“Sir?”
oooo“I do have permission. Last night, however I’m afraid I was fishing myself out of the Thames.”
ooooStephson sat down. “I beg your pardon?”
ooooDumas sat on the window ledge across from him. “I was in a celebratory mood last night – and got a bit in my cups, as a result.”
oooo“My information is that you’re disposed against drink, your lordship.”
oooo“Hence its profound effect on me, I suppose,” said Dumas with relative calm despite the knots in his stomach. “Before I knew it, I was attempting to negotiate the railing of Westminster Bridge for the amusement of some tourists.” He lowered his head and shrugged his shoulders. “I didn’t make it.”
oooo“You fell in the Thames?”
oooo“Decidedly.”
oooo“That’s a long fall,” said Stephson, trying to summon a neutral expression.
oooo“Did anyone see you?”
ooooHe crossed the room, removed his clothes from the radiator and handed them to Stephson. “They’re not terribly wet, any longer – just around the cuffs and ankles – there, you see. But the smell is unmistakable.”
ooooStephson held the clothes to his nose and sniffed. Apparently the evidence was ample. He passed the clothes back to Dumas, who returned them to the radiator. “Did anyone see you?” he repeated.
ooooDumas took a little time, it wouldn’t be good to seem too prepared. “Well, let me see – straightway I crawled out of the river at Festival Pier, I made my way to Queen Elizabeth Hall . . . ”
oooo“You swam all that way?”
oooo“‘No. I was propelled – entirely against my will – by several thousand gallons of fast-moving water.”
oooo“And you were seen there, at the Hall?”
oooo“Emphatically,” said Dumas, “by a most unpleasant young woman who refused to let me use the men’s room.”
oooo“Was there a concert at the time?”
oooo“No. A rehearsal. Ravel. From there I went to Waterloo Station – there was a beggar at the entrance – I stood there for a long time drying out. She would have seen me.”
oooo“Anyone else?”
oooo“I don’t believe so,” said Dumas. “I bought a ticket, but the clerk seemed more interested in a book he was reading than in me. I remember thinking it odd that he didn’t even look up when I handed him a damp pound, just slipped me the ticket and change and stuck the note in the tray.”
oooo“No one saw you on the train?”
ooooDumas puckered his chin thoughtfully and shook his head. “A good number, I should imagine; if they hadn’t the presence of mind to see I was dripping wet, the smell must have attracted attention. But no one I know, if that’s what you mean, or who is likely to know me. It was quiet when I got off at Russell Square.”
oooo“Then?”
oooo“Well, I’m afraid I tripped – and fell down some stairs a few doors up.”
oooo“Is that so?”
oooo“Painfully so, yes. The residual affect of the drink, I imagine. As a matter of fact, I seem to remember the constable on duty was good enough to extract me from among the trash cans.”
oooo“A constable, you say?”
oooo“Yes.”
oooo“I shall make a note of that.”
oooo“Please do.”
ooooThe Inspector rose from the chair. “I’ll be surprised if I don’t find a report that someone fell in the river from Westminster Bridge last night.”
oooo“I shouldn’t be, if I were you,” said Dumas. “Americans, you know? They probably thought I was a street performer of some kind. I’m surprised they didn’t throw coins at me as I drifted downstream.”
oooo“You must have been . . . quite drunk, your lordship,” said Stephson with an enigmatic smile.
oooo“As you observed, I’m not used to it.”
oooo“What were you celebrating, if I may ask?” Stephson inquired before Dumas had finished speaking.
ooooDumas stared at him for a moment, the dullness of his expression belying the feverish activity of his brain. “I beg your pardon?” he said.
ooooStephson’s eyes frisked his face. “I asked what were you celebrating.”
oooo“Having come into some money,” said Dumas, a vague image of Fuller’s check forming in his overwrought mind.
oooo“Indeed? A rich uncle pass on, then?” Stephson asked with the same inscrutable smile.
ooooIf he knew there was no niece, he knew there was no rich uncle. “No – I don’t mean come into it that way – an old investment in some American stocks paid off. Computers.”
oooo“How very fortunate.”
oooo“To be sure,” said Dumas, who knew nothing about stocks except that people sometimes made enormous sums of money at it. “In fact, it wasn’t even my investment – it had been made by my great-uncle Frederick, back in the early 70’s – ” he smiled. “I guess you could say it was a rich uncle after all, of course he never lived to know it. I’m the last of my line.”
ooooStephson nodded knowingly. “I guess that answers all my questions, m’lord,” he said with a slight bow. Dumas accompanied him to the head of the stairs. “Thank you so much for your time.”
oooo“Please,” said Dumas. “Don’t mention it. A bit of excitement for me, actually.”
oooo“My regards to your niece.” Stephson descended the stairs, stopped at the door and turned. “You know what I find odd, your lordship?”
oooo“What’s that?”
oooo“You haven’t asked me why I’m here – why I want to know if you were at the Abbey last night. That’s odd.”
oooo“Is it?” said Dumas. He could feel his face blanch, despite the sudden hyperactivity of his heart.
oooo“I find it so,” said the inspector. “Especially for someone of your class. Usually very quick to demand answers when they’re being . . . inconvenienced.”
oooo“Indeed?” said Dumas. “Curiosity has never been one of my shortcomings.”
ooooStephson studied the doorknob. “I’m wondering, m’lord – this place you fell down the steps, could you show me where it is?”
ooooDumas cinched the belt of his robe. “I’m hardly dressed for that. It’s just two or three doors down. In fact, I’m sure the bobby – the constable – could tell you better than I – as I said – ”
oooo“I’ll wait,” said Stephson, his face etched with determination. He opened the door. “The sun’s coming up. I’ll wait outside, if you don’t mind.”
oooo“Not at all. Not at all,” Dumas replied mechanically. “Not at all,” he repeated blankly, locking the door as Stephson closed it behind him.

oooo“Is he gone?” Janine was leaning over the banister on the top floor.
oooo“But not forgotten,” said Dumas. “He wants me to go with him.”
oooo“Where?” said Janine descending the stairs.
oooo“To the place where I fell last night – down the street.”
Distraught as he was he couldn’t help noticing how lovely she was, or how alarmingly well she complimented his pajamas. Her hair, no longer tangled, cascaded over her shoulders like liquid copper.
oooo“That’s good, then,” she said. “You can prove that fellow was shooting at you – you can show him the bullet holes!”
oooo“Bullet holes,” Dumas repeated. He hadn’t thought of that. Nor could he think of a way to explain it. “Janine,” he said, suddenly resolving on a course of action. “We need to get out of here.” He pulled on his trousers as he spoke. “Get dressed!”
oooo“Why? Where are we going?” she said as she bounded up the stairs. “Why don’t you want to show him the bullet holes!” She rounded the newel post and ran into the bedroom.
oooo“Because I can’t afford to be detained right now!” Dumas cried. He pulled on his shirt and shoes.
oooo“Detained!” said Janine, reappearing in the doorway of her bedroom. “Why should you be detained?”
oooo“To answer questions. It has to do with that fellow who was shooting at me last night – it’s a long story,” he said, adding to himself, “it would take longer to tell than it took to happen.” He put on a fresh jacket and overcoat, carefully removing the check and letter from between two pieces of paper towel where he’d pressed them, and placing them in his inner pocket. Then, he signed Russell Church on the ID card and tucked it into his wallet. “We’ll soon see what good this is.”
oooo“What?” said the girl as she ran down the stairs, once again engulfed to near-immobility by everything she owned.
ooooDumas held out his hand and ushered her toward the back door. “We must be quick, but don’t run. We don’t want to draw attention.” Another quick glance at Janine made that seem unlikely. The headline jumped into his mind: “Lord Dumas Escapes with Ravishing Redhead in Rags” – if he, possessing no imagination whatever, could come up with that, imagine what the Sun would do. At least the News of the World was defunct. Thank God for small favors He shuddered to think what his dear, departed ancestors would have made of such notoriety.
oooo“Where are we going?”
ooooDumas stopped and stared out through the smoky window of the rear door. The courtyard was surrounded to both ends of the block by townhouses like his and was, for the moment, empty. Soon, he knew, people would begin walking their dogs. Directly across from his door was the only break in the opposing wall, a narrow alley that gave out on Montague Street. From there it was a quarter mile, via a circuitous back route, to Euston Station. Three other stations were closer, therefore more suspect.
ooooHe turned to Janine. “Are you willing to trust me?”
ooooShe smiled. “Well, I’m none the worse for a night under the same roof,” she said. “Besides – it’s not like I’ve got a lot else to do.”
ooooThe door closed softly behind them.

Chapter Five: Descent

ooooThe green Morris Minor pulled to the curb a few doors down from Dumas’ townhouse.
ooooConnor pointed excitedly. “That’s it! There! 121.” He removed a pistol from the glovebox, screwed the silencer into the barrel and jammed a clip of bullets into the butt of the handle.
oooo“That’s not him, is it?” said Kenny, with a nod at a ramrod-backed individual who stood on the curb outside Dumas’ flat, his arms folded behind his back, inspecting the dawn with an expression that suggested he’d seen better.
ooooThe man glanced at his watch.
ooooConnor regarded the man worriedly. “No.”
oooo“He’s watching the place,” said Kenny. “You know what he is – you can tell by looking at him.”
oooo“You know nothing,” Connor complained. “You shut up a minute. It’s a coincidence. He’ll push off in a minute.” His stroked the gun barrel nervously.
ooooFive seconds later Kenny’s patience had been exhausted. “He’s law, Connor. And not any bloody bobby, either. Morrison was right, Dumas called somebody directly he got inside – someone with some pull, from the look of that bloke. They’ve got him under guard.”
oooo“It’s just a coincidence!” Connor objected.
oooo“My left foot,” Kenny pronounced, his anxiety rising markedly. “And you know what they’ll be looking for? This car!” Immediately he threw the shift into reverse and backed quietly out the street, toward the square.
oooo“Wait!” Connor snapped. “Where are you going? What are you doing?”
oooo“We’re getting out of here – a year of mamma’s cookin’ beats what that bloke’s got in mind by a long chalk.”
ooooConnor’s face was stamped with disbelief. “Stop! Stop!” he cried, waving the gun at his companion; sweat stood out on his brow.
ooooOnce around the corner, Kenny stopped the car and glowered at Connor with eyes of fire. “You put that thing down, me boy, or I’ll feed it to you.”
ooooHesitantly, Connor lowered the weapon. “We can do him, too!” he argued. “We’ll do him, then his lordship – then back to Belfast to lie low for a bit and none the wiser. What do you say?”
ooooKenny’s glower turned quizzical. “And what if there’s another one inside? And another ‘round back? and a van full at the end of the street?”
oooo“The more the merrier.”
oooo“You’ve gone off your head, lad,” said Kenny. “Politics is one thing – but if you intend to go wading through the official population of London with that pop-gun, you’d better count your bullets.”
oooo“He’s seen us!”
ooooHe’s seen you,” said Kenny, snatching the pistol in the unguarded moment. “You push off.” He reached across Connor and opened the door.
oooo“What are you doing?” said Connor in disbelief. “You can’t leave me here!”
oooo“Can’t I?” said Kenny. “You’re what they call a loose cannon, me boy. Out you get.”
ooooConnor got out. “At least let me have the gun!” he rasped.
ooooI’ve enough trouble watching me front,” said Kenny, pulling the door shut. Seconds later the Morris Minor sped down Southhampden Row. Once safely out of range, Kenny threw the gun out the window and it rattled on the pavement. Running into the street to pick it up, Connor stood fuming for a moment in impotent anger until a police car drifted into view on the other side of the square. He jammed the pistol into his pocket, jogged across the street and stood in the shadow of The Duke of Bedford’s statue, keeping it between himself and the car as it drove by, also down Southhampden Row. He stepped from hiding, his hands thrust deep in the pockets of his overcoat. “Well, well, seems you were right, Kenny me boy! They’re onto the car!” he said, laughing. “And you with them grenades! They’ll want their pound of flesh – and have fourteen stone to choke on!”
ooooHe took the Red Sox cap from his pocket and set it on his head then, with one last glance and a whispered curse at the solitary figure outside Dumas’ flat, struck off across the park down Montague Place, turning north on Malet Street in front of The Senate House toward his destination – Euston Square Station.
oooo
ooooStephson tired of waiting. He rapped sharply on the door. “Lord Dumas!” he called. “Are you ready?” There was no response. He rang the bell. “Lord Dumas!”
oooo
The Levant
oooo
ooooThe long, desperate silence was finally broken by an explosion, muffled, but nearby. Then another, and another. The building trembled and seemed to sway beneath her. Plaster was falling from the ceiling and landing on her head and shoulders in powder and small chunks.
oooo“What is it!?” she cried. She strained to hear a reply, but there was none. Another explosion, this one much closer, seemed to lift the building off its foundation and slam it, to earth. The door swung open, slowly, loudly. “Who’s there? What’s going on?”
ooooNo reply. In the distance she heard people yelling. “Who’s there, please? Can you hear me!” She could feel the cool breeze that brought with it the smell of wet concrete, old smoke, charred wood, cooked onions, stale cigarettes and gasoline – like the aftermath of a fire – but she heard no breathing. Not the slightest indication of a human presence in the room. The door had come open by itself. Was this the chance she had been praying for?
ooooOdd; she had been praying, hadn’t she?
ooooSummoning her remaining strength, she wedged herself against the wall, pushed herself to her feet and stumbled toward the door – toward the breath of air – just as another explosion rocked the building; closer still this time, nearly knocking her off her feet. She stopped and waited. Debris rained down for several seconds after the initial concussion. Then, once again, everything was still.
oooo“Hello?” she said, just above a whisper. Making her way to the door, she swung it open with her slippered foot and leaned back against the frame, holding it in her bound hands. Cries went up outside somewhere, far below, apparently – and more distant than before; people running from the blasts. She deduced she was in a fairly tall building – she must have climbed eight or ten floors, at least – in a city under siege.
oooo“Beirut.” She mouthed the word silently. That explained everything; she was in a bombed-out hotel or office building of some kind. Her captors – accustomed to intermittent bouts of intensive shelling since the city had, once again, become a killing field – had probably been taken by surprise, leaving her alone while they sought shelter until the danger passed.
ooooShe was not a political person, but at the fringe of her awareness was the knowledge that an all-consuming magma of refugees – each infected with and determined to propagate its own unique brand of madness – spilled back and forth across the Syrian border as that country’s civil war overwhelmed the artificial boundaries that could no longer contain them.
ooooThese volatile ingredients – tumbling into a witch’s brew of sectarian, internecine, and political hatred – had reduced the once-proud city to compost and blood.
ooooTwice, as she made her way down the hall, she almost fell; her legs numb with disuse and her head spinning for want of food, water, and sleep. She had to be able to see where she was going. As she proceeded, she dragged her shoulder and head against the wall, hoping to find some protuberance. At last she found it, a nail or picture hook gashed her forehead. Standing on tip-toe, she got her mouth near it and felt it with her tongue. A nail. Carefully, she worked to hook the underside of the blindfold. It took several tries, but she succeeded in pulling the left side of the blindfold up over her eye.
ooooThe scene, though somewhat reddened by the blood that dripped from the wound in her brow, was much as she expected. She stood at a mid-point on a long hall that was littered with glass from the now-boarded windows and stucco that had peeled away from the cinder-block walls. Pipes had burst overhead some time in the past and soaked the rich, once-burgundy carpet, now algae-covered and heavily mildewed except in those places it had rotted through altogether.
ooooSeveral steps along the hall, on the right, was the bathroom where they had taken her. The tiny tiles were just as she imagined them, though much dirtier, and the seatless commode stood, unflushed, in a stall tucked into the corner. The huge vanity mirror, least needful of all the fixtures, especially now, was in excellent condition. She looked at herself for several minutes, in stunned disbelief. She was a filthy mass of bruises and welts, her underwear, once white, was nearly the color of her khaki shirt. The blindfold, which for some reason she assumed to be black, was in fact dark blue, with a thin gold stripe twisted through it. Apparently it had been torn from the curtains she’d noticed at the end of the hall.
ooooShe turned around and looked over her shoulder. Her hands appeared much worse than she’d expected, covered in layers of blood that had been freshened every day by a new flow from her wrists.
ooooShe was suddenly seized by the realization that it had been fully five minutes since the last explosion – perhaps longer. If the shelling was over, her captors may be on their way back already. The blindfold was working its way down again. She rushed back to the nail and – working the fabric down this time, kept at it until it fell around her neck.
ooooNewspapers, Coke bottles, wine bottles, pillows and blankets were strewn about a little lobby at the end of the hall. Cigarettes still smoldered in the ashtray, pointing to the hasty departure of her jailers. But it was a loaf of bread and a slab of cheese in the middle of a three-legged coffee table that commanded her attention. She began to salivate faster than she could swallow.
ooooLeaning against the bread was a long, black-handled kitchen knife with a serrated blade, the answer to another, more pressing prayer. Dropping to her knees, she backed up to it and nearly had it in her grasp when, maneuvering the final half-inch, her right foot hit one of the legs of the table and sent the whole arrangement tumbling to the floor. She lay down and rolled deliberately over the knife, clutching it between her fingers, rotating it carefully until she had it firmly in her grasp, then sat up and began sawing at the hard plastic of her restraints, but after several painful minutes, it was clear she hadn’t made any progress.
ooooShe went back to the bathroom, where she could at least get glimpses of the operation over her shoulder. The pain in her wrists was indescribable, but like the drowning swimmer who has no choice but to pull for the surface, no matter how far away it may be, she kept at it until, with a ‘snap’ that shot through her entire being, the cord severed and her arms dropped to her side, her muscles giving them a strange, almost weightless feeling as they contracted to their normal shape.
ooooThe knife fell to the floor.
ooooSlowly, as if in a dream, she turned and, raising her hands, looked at them – not directly – but at their reflection in the mirror. As if those mangled, blistered caricatures of wrists belonged to someone else. She reached instinctively for the tap and turned it. Nothing happened.
ooooOf course, there was no running water in hell.
ooooShe heard voices – distant, but somewhere in the building – and getting closer. She retrieved the knife from the floor. She’d not be taken from behind this time, nor stuffed in a stinking burlap sack like a trapped animal. She would fight to the death. She’d confront her captors face-to-face.
ooooUnless she could escape.
ooooShe ran to the lobby and, scooping the bread and cheese from the carpet, prepared to backtrack to the far end of the hall where a broken sign declared ‘SORTIE’. Quickly she scanned the area for anything else that might be of use. She grabbed a pack of cigarettes and matches and stuffed them in her shirt pocket, wrapped one of the blankets around her and draped the other over her head and took an unopened bottle of Diet Coke from among several on the table. It was too much to carry. She cut open the seam of a foam-rubber filled pillow, tore out the stuffing, and filled the remaining bag with her treasures.
ooooIt was as she gathered these things together she noticed the vials standing side by side in a plastic silverware holder that had been placed precariously on top a false half-wall that bisected the lobby – twin angels of death haloed in a golden ignorance. But she recognized them for what they were: silent sentinels of the final holocaust. Who removed them from their nitrogen container? Why? They couldn’t possibly know what they had done.
ooooHer first thought was to take the vials – her second thought was of the open wounds on her face, hands, wrists and legs, any one of them an invitation to infection. As were her lungs, eyes and mucous membranes. She wouldn’t touch them, not for any price. She’d seen a hundred monkeys crash and burn.
ooooThe voices were closer. Now and then she could make out a word among Arabic epithets laced with nervous laughter.
ooooThere was no choice; she left them. One thought comforted her as she ran to the end of the hall and up the stairs: if these fools were going to unleash ebola, Beirut, once again politically quarantined from the rest of the world, was the perfect place to do it. Nobody came, nobody left. The filovirus would sweep through the population in days, erasing the distinction between men. There would be no Maronite Catholics in Beirut. There would be no Sunni or Shiite Muslims. No Syrians or Lebanese, Hamas or Hezbollah, Christian or Druze. There would be only ebola: faithless, faceless – dancing to its death in their blood.
ooooThe words of the big sign on the roof were no longer legible, the lights that formed the letters had been used for target practice during lulls in the fighting, but the shape of the logo was familiar; Holiday Inn.
ooooFrom the door that opened onto the roof, after an exhausting climb of six floors up rubble-strewn stairs, she dragged herself to the abandoned remains of the air-conditioner housing, removed the access cover and crawled inside. There she feasted, drank, smoked , slept – and waited for darkness.
oooo
England
oooo
ooooAn icy fog had snared Flight 497 at Shannon Airport. As a result, it was an hour late arriving at Heathrow. Once on the ground, the passengers were told they had to remain in the plane until the tower cleared them for debarking.
ooooA harried young man from first class made his way to the galley and confronted two flight attendants aside as he did so. “Excuse me – what’s the delay?”
ooooThe older of the two women, whose name tag identified her as Inez Hudson, took him in at a glance. “Just a little trouble at the gate, sir – would you please return to your seat.”
oooo“I’m with Senator Wingfield,” said the young man, boxing his tiny, thin-rimmed glasses further up his nose and sweeping a lock of black hair from his forehead. “The Senator has to be in London in – ” he glanced at his watch “fifty minutes, forty-nine minutes – for a very important meeting.”
oooo“Tell the Senator I’m sure he’ll be there in time,” said Hudson. “Does he have ground transport waiting?”
oooo“Of course, but it’s getting late.” said the aide, peering out the porthole. “I suppose we’ll have to order a chopper now.”
oooo“They should the trouble cleared up any minute now.”
oooo“Why not let us off anyway? – we can have the baggage forwarded.”
ooooOnce again the attendants held a hasty conference with their eyes. Hudson shrugged. “Against company policy, security. I’m sure you understand. Meanwhile, Mr . . . .?”
oooo“Cumio,” said the young man.
oooo“Mr. Cumio. Please return to your seat and tell the Senator it’s a privilege to have him aboard.”
ooooCumio headed back to his seat.
oooo
ooooA moment later there was a soft rap at the cockpit door.
ooooThe captain’s voice responded through the intercom. “Yes?”
ooooHudson pressed the button on the intercom and spoke. “Jack, Senator Wingfield would like to speak with you.”
oooo“Thank you, miss,” said the Senator, taking her place at the intercom. “You go on about your business now.” He pressed the button. “Captain?”
oooo“What can we do for you, Senator?” said the captain.
oooo“Open the door.”
oooo“I’m afraid we can’t do that, Senator.”
oooo“If you don’t, I’ll have your wings, Captain, I guaran-damn-t it. I know you can see me on video. You see I’m alone – unarmed,” he held his jacket open and turned a slow circle. “I need to talk to you. Now.”
ooooFor a moment a muffled conference could be heard through the bulkhead, during which they considered the fact that the stewardess hadn’t used any of the code words that would have warned them of danger. Once again the intercom crackled to life. “Please step away from the door,” said the captain. “My co-pilot’s coming out to do a security check.”
ooooWingfield complied.
ooooThe bulkhead door opened just enough to accommodate passage of the co-pilot, a slim woman of thirty-five or so. She quickly closed the door behind her and stood before it until it latched. She extended her hand. “Pleased to meet you Senator. I’m Jessalyn Cooper.”
oooo“The pleasure’s mine, Ms. Cooper.”
oooo“I’m sorry about this, Senator, but I’m sure you understand the need for . . . ”
oooo‘Of course I do.”
oooo“Thank you. Now, would you please step into the galley and remove your jacket?”
oooo“No problem.” He did so.
oooo“We’ll need to pat you down. I can have one of the male attendants . . . ”
oooo“Just get on with it.”
ooooCooper conducted a thorough search as the flight attendants pretended to busy themselves making coffee.
oooo“And they say Brits aren’t outgoing and friendly,” said Wingfield as he put his coat on. Cooper smiled sheepishly and stepped to the intercom where she said a few words in code. The door opened. Watching for any unexpected or suspicious activity, she took the Senator by the elbow and fed him through the door. She followed immediately, then shut and bolted it behind her.
oooo“Good evening, Senator,” said the captain. “Now, what can we do for you?”
ooooThe Senator smiled with his mouth while his eyes surveyed the cockpit and the pilots’ name tags. “What you can do for me,” he said calmly, “is get the hatch open in the next three minutes and let me out, if you please,”
oooo“As the flight attendant told your aide,” said Cooper, “There’s a problem at the gate, whether I please or not. We’re working on it.”
ooooThe Senator leaned forward and looked out the window. “Tell that ground-crewman to plug his headphones into the plane,” he said.
oooo“What for?” asked the Captain.
oooo“Just do it,” said the Senator, turning his head, but not his eyes, which still stared outside.
oooo“Listen, Senator – if you think you can come sashaying in here throwing your weight around and . . . ”
oooo“Just do it, Jack,” said Cooper.
ooooJack folded his hands and leaned back.
ooooThe Senator, who had been bending at an awkward angle, dropped to one knee, across which he draped an arm. “Jack,” he said in the homely style that had gotten him elected to the Senate four times, “I need your help. Now, I’m on an official mission for the US government . . . ”
oooo“Then why didn’t you use government transportation?”
oooo“Simply trying to save the taxpayer a few bucks, Jack. Taxpayers always come first, you know. Now, so I don’t have to show you what a disagreeable S.O.B. I can be, would you please ask that gentleman to hook up to the plane.”
ooooJack’s arms remained resolutely folded.
ooooThe copilot gestured to the ground crewman who put on his headphones and plugged into the plane’s external input.
oooo“Good,” said the Senator. “Now, would you please tell him to open the hatch now, there is a United States Senator aboard who has an appointment with the Prime Minister.”
ooooCooper did as she was instructed while Jack fumed.
ooooWithin two minutes the door swung open, steps were rolled into place and the Senator and his aide were escorted across the tarmac by uniformed security guards.
oooo“I’m sorry, sir. We’re not ready to disembark regular passengers yet,” said the flight attendant gently restraining the nervous young black man.
oooo“But I want to get out, too,” said Calvin. “Why can’t I get out?”
oooo“Please, sir. Would you return to your seat until we’re at the gate?”
ooooCalvin glared out the door. “Why did you let them out?” he said. “Why can’t the rest of us go out the same way?”
oooo“That’s Senator Wingfield,” said the flight attendant, closing the door. “He has an appointment with the Prime Minister. Do you?”
ooooCalvin hung his head, turned away and minced back up the aisle toward tourist class. “The Senator has an appointment with the Prime Minister,” he parroted. “They let him off because he’s a Senator. You’d think they’d do as much for a queen!” He winked at some passengers who had been watching the vignette with amused interest.

Chapter Six: Watcher

oooo“A million people! Surely not!” Stojan Cardinal Vikmiroviç had recently been appointed to the Holy See from his diocese in Croatia. His mental image of a teeming throng was the crowd that gathered mornings in the market square outside Zagreb Cathedral, in the old days, – four or five thousand, at most. Even that had been a big adjustment for a young man from a small farming village on the banks of the Drava. But a million people. “All at once! All in the Square!”
ooooTariscio Bertone, Cardinal Secretary of State, was more stoic, but no less excited. “It’s to be expected. People know the Pope is ill – I think they sense this Christmas will be his last – so the mass will be well attended.”
ooooIt was Bertone’s custom to walk the periphery of Vatican City each morning. This was his domain, the wife for whom he had forsaken all others. He had studied her like no one else and, as a result, knew all the stories, all the legends, all the whispers in the Vatican Secret Achives; all the history supposed by man and known to God. He’d spent more time staring at the Sistine ceiling than had Michelangelo, and was more intimately familiar with the grain and texture of every stone in the piazza than Bernini could have hoped. They, after all, had simply been the builders – he was a resident and caretaker; Cardinal Camerlengo, the right arm of Santissimo Padre himself.
ooooThe Cardinal had joined the Curia at the tender age of twenty-five and, now seventy-eight, took deep satisfaction in the awe of the sixty-nine year-old ‘youngster’ as he accompanied him from wonder to wonder around the walls and through the City to which he had devoted his life, and of which he was so much a part.
oooo“But a million people!” said Strojan incredulously. “Can the piazza accommodate so many!”
oooo“Heavens no!” said Bertone. He gestured widely to the city beyond the walls. “They will spill into the streets – all of Rome will come to a halt. That night,” he said with a happy, holy fire igniting in his aged eyes, “the world will be reminded of Christ. This pope,” he added, nodding toward the papal apartments, “This pope can preach – like a Protestant!”
ooooStrojan’s Italian was not good. He still had to translate things in his mind, so it took awhile, sometimes, for him to respond to things that were said. This time, he wasn’t sure that he’d heard correctly, and if he did – how to react?
ooooThe Cardinal laughed at his joke, and at Strojan’s perplexity. Strojan laughed, too.
oooo“It will be grand,” said Strojan, the fire spreading to his eyes as well. “Grand!”
oooo“Please God,” said the Cardinal, “he will live until that night. That is all he wants, now.”
ooooStrojan whispered a prayer and crossed himself.

oooo“There is such a thing as the luck of the Irish, after all,” Connor said to himself as he pushed through a Saturday crowd, mostly tourists on their way from the two-star hotels that trimmed Hyde Park’s northern border like a Mardi Gras necklace to the bargain tables at Harrod’s for some last-minute shopping.
ooooHe had spotted Dumas just as the latter was entering Euston Station. “And the bag lady, in the bargain,” he added. “Two for one.” He withdrew a stiletto from a pocket of his great coat and, concealing the action in the folds of a wrinkled copy of that morning’s Sun, pressed the button that sprung the blade. A train was approaching. He would stand behind them and, as soon as the doors opened and the people crushed in, stab each of them two or three times in quick succession, push their bodies inside, step back and let the train carry them away. ooooSimple plans were best.
ooooJanine, pricked by some atavistic instinct as the doors opened, chose that moment to scan the crowd. Instantly, she identified Connor not six feet away. Her eyes went from the telltale red hair projecting in all directions from under his baseball cap, to his hand, and the tip of the blade peeking from the pages of the paper. “Get in, Dumas!” she shouted above the noise of the loudspeaker and the drone of voices all about them. She shoved him onto the train and into the mass of bodies that already occupied the space.
ooooFor a moment it seemed the redhead had been thwarted, but at the last second he crammed himself in over the muffled protests of those around him. He took no notice, instead he fixed Dumas with a malevolent grin and stared holes through the heads of the intervening passengers. The girl was whispering her warnings in Dumas’ ear. It wouldn’t help. The look of helplessness and panic in his victim’s eyes in their desperate glances filled him with something almost like joy.
He intended to edge a little closer when the doors opened at Warren Street, but more people got on than off and he was forced back; but for quick work on his part a solemn oriental woman would have impaled herself on the stiletto.
ooooAt Oxford Circus the doors opened and a number of passengers got out, allowing a few brief seconds of movement before more people got in. “This way!” said Dumas, pushing Janine ahead of him toward the far end of the car.
ooooConnor, taking advantage of the same ebb and flow, forced himself a little closer, not once taking his eyes from his quarry. Dumas had stationed himself in front of the door and was whispering to the girl. Connor shuffled closer still, determined to bring an abrupt and bloody end to Dumas’ aggravating lucky streak.
ooooThe train stopped at Green Park and Dumas and Janine jumped out the moment the door opened. Connor, trapped in the middle of the compartment, had to fight his way back to the door by which he’d entered. He lost sight of his quarry in the crowd for half a second as he stepped onto the platform and, at that instant, Dumas and Janine bolted from the crowd and leapt back onto the train as the doors closed.
ooooConnor’s eyes were drawn to the sudden movement, but it was too late. He kicked an ash can in disgust and slammed his knife shut against a tiled column. “You’re out of bloody lives, Dumas!” he bellowed after the train, waving his fist defiantly over the heads of commuters. “I’ll find you!”

ooooIf nothing else, Fuller was a planner of the first order. Dumas followed his instructions to the letter and, within twenty minutes after entering the Barclay branch at Sloane Square, had half a million pounds, less five thousand reserved against immediate expenses, deposited to his account.
ooooDumas silently thanked whatever benevolent star was guiding him that the names of the Westminster bombing victims hadn’t yet been released.
oooo“Thank you very much for your custom, Mr. Russell,” said Scopes, shaking Dumas’ hand as he gave him his business card. “This is my personal card. I’ve taken the liberty of putting my home number – here.” He pointed at a number penciled neatly above his name. It had a Northwest prefix. “Please, feel free to call if ever I can be of assistance. Mr. Fuller often calls upon me.”
oooo“Thank you, Mr. Scopes,” said Dumas. “I’m sure I’ll find his trust in you well-founded.”

ooooDumas, justifiably wary of the underground, hailed a cab.
oooo“Where to, gov’nor?” said the driver, a short, round man of advanced years. The name on the license was Herbert Fernando and he spoke deferentially with a thick Tamalese accent as he studied his passengers in the rearview mirror. “Miss?”
oooo“I can’t say I know, exactly,” said Dumas. “Where would a young lady go about getting herself a new wardrobe?”
oooo“Me?” Janine asked. “You’re going to get me some new clothes?”
oooo“Hm,” said the cabby, stroking his chin. “Marks and Sparks?”
oooo“I don’t mean to be indelicate, Janine,” said Dumas. “But, if you wish to – continue helping me?”
oooo“I do,” said Janine, as solemnly as a wedding vow.
oooo“Very well, then you’ll need clothing that’s – ” ooooShe cocked her head and widened her eyes, drawing him slowly across the coals. “That’s more – that’s less – ” he fiddled nervously with his tie. “That’s more – appropriate to – this sort of thing.”
oooo“Selfridge’s?” said the cabby.
oooo“Miss Selfridge’s!” Janine amended. “That’ll do nicely.”
oooo“I didn’t know there was such a place,” said Dumas.
oooo“I’d be surprised if you did,” said Janine. “They turned me down for a window dresser’s job not a fortnight after I got to London.”
oooo“They have – appropriate clothing. That is,” he reddened, “all the, ah – everything you need?”
oooo“Oh, yes. Very posh.”
oooo“Miss Selfridge’s it is, then,” said Dumas.
ooooFifteen minutes later, they alighted at 400 Oxford Street. “Would you be so kind,” said Dumas, handing the driver a twenty pound note, “as to pop ‘round my tailors – Junket & Fitch on Jermyn Street – and pick up two suits they’re holding for me.”
oooo“What name shall I say?”
oooo“Church – no,” said Dumas, thinking quickly, but not effectively. “Dumas – Anthony Dumas. Return here and wait.”
oooo“Very good, sir,” said the cabby.

ooooDumas had read Pygmalion and seen romantic movies in which the heart of a gentleman of his years was unexpectedly commandeered by a young woman. It was, therefore, with a curious detachment from reality that he nodded and winked and smiled as she spun, and twirled, and paraded before him in an assortment of outfits he scarcely noticed beyond the fact she did wonders for them.
ooooHow she hadn’t been taken on as a model was more than he could fathom. So captivated was he that, within minutes, he was transported to an uncharted realm of himself, lightyears removed from ebola and death and the pestilential Irishman.
oooo“This is going to cost you a fortune!” Janine exclaimed as the clerk totted up the purchases.
ooooWhile a great deal of government money had been squandered on young women through the ages, thought Dumas, none had been invested more wisely. He smiled.
oooo“Where now, gov’nor?” asked the cabby, after lavishing almost speechless attention on Janine. Having acquitted his errand in a timely fashion, he had returned to wait outside with a patience of which only a London cabby with the meter running is capable.
oooo“Whitehall,” said Dumas without hesitating.
oooo“Whitehall?” Janine echoed. “What’s there?”
oooo“Everything,” said Dumas, half to himself. “Or nothing.”

oooo“May I help you, sir?” said a uniformed guard at the desk.
ooooThe Norman Shaw buildings, overlooking Victoria Embankment, just across the street from Parliament, had been home to Scotland Yard at the turn of the century. Today, it could be a gentleman’s club, the sort of place where footfalls made no sound and Jeevian butlers spirited themselves about, becoming corporeal only when needed.
ooooThe decor had been designed by Victorian men, for Victorian men, the dominant feature being the walls and their rectangular islands of mahogany segregated by pillars of satiny black marble. Engraved in an arc of granite beneath a row of tiny ornamental windows over the door were the words ‘In Service to the Queen,’ the only hint this was a government building.
ooooDumas approached the desk with his heart in his throat. He had no idea what would happen when he presented Russell Church’s ID, but it was all he could do.
ooooThe guard studied the card intently for a minute, then ran it under an ultra-violet lamp. “Very good, sir,” he said after what seemed hours. “Here you go.” Reaching under the counter he produced a small electronic box, much like those used to validate credit cards. Dumas took the proffered card and swiped it through the slot in the machine. Nothing happened.
oooo“Other way ‘round, sir,” said the guard without smiling. Good of him.
oooo“Of course,” said Dumas. He turned the card around and passed it through again.
oooo“That’ll do,” said the guard. He studied the computer screen. “Thank you, Mr. Church. You may go in.”
oooo“Where might I find Fuller’s office?” said Dumas, outwardly, at least, assuming the calm imperiousness of his class.
oooo“Surely you’ve heard, sir – Mr. Fuller – ”
oooo“Precisely why I’m here,” Dumas interrupted. “You must appreciate, Mr. Fuller was in possession of certain documents that – well, it wouldn’t do to risk the chance of a Metropolitan official giving some of them a second thought . . . ” He lobbed a confidential glance over his glasses.
oooo“Yes, sir. Of course. Top of the stairs, to the right – through the maid’s closet.”
oooo“The maid’s closet?”
oooo“That’s right,” said the guard, leaning close. “Did you know Mr. Fuller personally, Mr. Church?”
oooo“I’d hardly say that,” Dumas replied. “I hadn’t seen him in years.”
oooo“Ah!” said the guard, nodding. “Ah! Well, there you are. Mr. Fuller was – well, he made himself a hard man to find. Cold War chap, you know?” He leaned closer still. “Very cloak and dagger.”
oooo“Thank you,” Dumas nodded. He held out his hand to Janine. “Come along, dear.”
oooo“Oh, no sir, I’m afraid that’s not on,” said the guard, interposing himself between Dumas and Janine. “She’s welcome to wait here, but she can’t go inside.”
oooo“Why? She’s my daughter, for heaven’s sake,” Dumas objected, dazed by his heretofore hidden talent for lying on the spot.
oooo“I’m sure she is,” said the guard noncommittally.
ooooPerhaps he should have said granddaughter.
oooo“But unless she has level seven security clearance, she’ll have to wait here.”
oooo“But . . . ”
oooo“Oh, you go on, daddy,” said Janine. “But hurry along, please – you know how quickly I get bored.”
oooo“Yes,” Dumas stuttered. “Quite. Well . . . ” he proceeded across the lobby toward the staircase in fits and starts, half expecting the guard to stop him at any minute. There was little danger of that, however, since Janine had engaged him in conversation. He heard her giggle as he climbed the stairs. She was thanking the guard for saving her from “having to go banging about some musty old office.”
ooooAt the first landing was another lobby, a replica of the first, but with a lower ceiling and made more hospitable by a scattering of plush furniture of oxblood leather. Hallways lined with heavy doors in ornate wooden frames branched off to either side. He turned down the one to the right.
ooooImmediately he found himself caged in a network of bars that had appeared, soundlessly and seemingly from nowhere, ahead and behind. A bright red light was flashing from a panel in the wall. Over the light was a small screen in which a crawling text appeared.
ooooDumas squinted at the letters, but couldn’t make them out. A few seconds of fumbling produced his reading glasses. He put them on and studied the text again.
oooo‘Level three security area. Insert ID card. Time remaining :17.’
ooooA heart-stopping search of his pockets turned up his new Travelcard, a receipt for women’s clothing from Miss Selfridge’s, and the key to his flat, before his fingers, blindly groping of their own volition, tumbled into his watch pocket and came up with the prize.
ooooThe timer reached zero as he inserted the card into the slot. Instantly it was rejected. “Card not recognized. Please re-insert.’ The counter dispensed another five seconds.
oooo“What do you mean, ‘card not recognized’,” Dumas mumbled, studying the card as if it had betrayed him. Then, remembering what had happened the first time he’d used it, he turned it around and followed instructions.
The bars disappeared like apparitions and the red light turned soft green. Dumas choked back his heart and struggled to put down the riotous uprising of surplus adrenaline setting fire to his veins. He studied his surroundings for a moment.
ooooThe first thing he noticed was a small, unmarked slot in the wall at the head of the passage. That is where he should have inserted the card. Secondly he saw a nearly invisible array of tiny lights set into the wall on either side. “Electric eyes,” he whispered. Arranged no more than two inches apart, they extended from floor to ceiling. As to where the bars had come from, or where they had gone, a quick visual inspection turned up no evidence. “Remarkable,” he said treading softly down the hall, wiping a curtain of sweat from his brow. “Maid’s closet.”
ooooThere were no names on the doors, only numbers, and the only door without a number was nondescript in the extreme and set into a shadowed recess of an angled wall at the far end of the hall. It opened easily revealing a profound, disinfectant-scented darkness. His fingers brailled across the wall, found the light switch and flipped it on.
ooooDumas had once heard that a carpenter’s home is that which is in most need of repair, and a plumber’s in most need of plumbing. The same principle applied to maid’s closets, in his experience. This one was too neat. All the bottles, arranged in descending order on shelves to either side, were full. The mops and brooms were new and there was no residual soap or water scaling on the buckets. Most telltale, however, was the layer of dust that had settled on the Hoover.
As far as he could tell, there was no other door or opening of any kind, and a thorough search of the walls turned up nothing that looked like a knob, or a latch, or a slot into which he could insert the card.
ooooHe stood in the center of the room with his knuckles on his hips. “Open sesame,” he said. There was no magic left in London.
ooooThe only irregularity in the walls were two vertical supports against the rear of the closet – supports that had no business being there. The one on the right was immovable, built in; probably an integral part of a now nonexistent wall. The support on the left, however, was hollow. A pattern of small, almost indiscernible scratches marked the woodwork at about shoulder height. Dumas took out his house key and stuck it in the narrow slit between the wall and the support. A switch tripped and the side of the support nearest him swung away from the wall, uncovering the slot he’d been looking for. As he inserted the ID card he thought how paranoid Fuller must have been to go through all this bother to get into his own office.
ooooThe wall between the pillars slid away to the right, exhibiting a small, cramped room with two greasy windows overlooking a paved courtyard at the back of the building. The room hadn’t been cleaned in a very long time, yet its smell was not unpleasant, a mixture of leather, good tobacco, brandy and after shave. The residue of the man.
ooooAn array of electronic equipment was crammed into a bookcase between the windows directly behind an oversized oak desk. The room itself occupied an irregular wedge between the walls of the offices to either side and was asymmetrical, indicating it had been created long after the original Victorian structure, a supposition supported by the fact that ornate wainscoting and baseboards disappeared into the walls on either side. What had once been one huge room had been bisected, trisected and quadrasected over the years until only traces of the original remained. An apt metaphor for the British Empire. The thought sprang to mind unbidden, tugged at his aristocratic heart in passing, and went away.

ooooA huge map of the British Isles covered the northern wall and it, in turn, was festooned with a lot of colored pins. Overlaying the map, also affixed by pins, was a gallery of snapshots, some taken at considerable distances, all taken covertly. One, in particular, a redheaded man, got his immediate attention. He removed it, turned it over and read the writing on the reverse aloud. “Connor, Andrew Alan, 34. IRA. Class 4. 414 Bismithy Lane, Belfast. Parents: Andrew, Sr. and Colleen, deceased. Brother, Shane, Boston, US, sister, Jermyne, killed ‘73 riots. Aged 11. Known associates, Kenny Galfarthing, 37, Patrick Morrison, 29, 79 York Road regulars.”
oooo“York Road,” he said aloud, slipping the digital printout into his pocket. “That’s opposite County Hall.” He noticed the picture had occupied the lowest position on a numbered totem of photos each which it was connected by a red thread which was tied off at each successive pin. The next two pictures in the sequence turned out to be of Galfarthing and Morrison.
ooooGalfarthing, he recognized, had been the driver of the green Morris Minor. He took that picture, as well.
ooooA laptop computer sat open on the desk. He tapped the mousepad and the screen sprang to life with six video windows. On two were wide shots of the houses of Parliament, both of which were presently empty. The others were apparently government offices, all of which looked familiar, but that might be said of almost any office. People walked through some of the frames, but none were engaged in anything more interesting than sharpening pencils or cleaning.
ooooBeside the laptop was a control panel with six buttons and a joystick which, for no other reason than that is was there, he twiddled. Immediately the view in one of the unknown screens changed. The joystick controlled the camera. Zooming in on a particular feature, he suddenly realized what he was looking at.
oooo“Good God! It’s Number 10!” Reflexively he snatched his hand from the control and shut the cover of the laptop. Who knew what secrets Fuller had been privy to? What if the superior of whom Fuller had suspicions should come across this set-up? Something told Dumas that Fuller’s surveillance shouldn’t become common knowledge. He couldn’t take the laptop outright; he’d never get it passed security. He could remove the hard drive, but he didn’t know how. He re-opened the cover, shut down the software connection, conducted a quick universal search for files with the indicated extension, deleted them, and emptied the trash. Apart from smashing the unit with a hammer or tossing it out the window, these steps pressed the boundaries of his technical knowledge. They’d have to do.
ooooIn any event, the computer didn’t seem to be connected to the telephone, hence was not the answering machine that was the object of his search.
ooooAtop the desk a black plastic ‘out’ basket held six letters addressed to the City’s preeminent newspapers: the letters Fuller had threatened Rhodes he would mail. They were stamped. Fuller wasn’t one to issue empty threats.
ooooDumas tucked them in his jacket pocket, intending to destroy them as soon as possible. Whatever his sins, Rhodes was now answering to a higher court.
ooooThe first drawer he opened contained a small, snub-nosed automatic pistol with a silencer welded to the barrel. Dumas stared at it for a moment dumbly, as Englishmen are disposed to do when confronted by private firearms. He hadn’t handled a pistol since his army days. He picked it up and ejected the clip. It was fully loaded with soft-nosed shells. He shoved the clip home with a click, and aimed the gun at the remaining pictures on the wall. How different things might have been if he’d had a weapon last night. It wouldn’t have been any use to Fuller and Rhodes, of course, but it might have saved George – and delivered Andrew Alan Connor to his Maker.
ooooHe shuddered. Twenty four hours ago, he would have been incapable of such a thought, but the information fate had charged to his keeping had radically altered his mindset. With the fate of the species at risk, mustn’t anything less be expendable? He put the gun in the outside pocket of his greatcoat.
ooooThe next drawer yielded the final secret, a small gray and white digital answering machine Fuller had used to monitor his calls. According to the LED display, there were four messages. He sat down in Fuller’s chair and pressed ‘Play’.
oooo“Fuller.”
oooo“Mr. Fuller,” said a heavily accented voice. “I have a proposition for you.”
oooo“Who’s speaking, please?”
oooo“Listen carefully,” said the caller.
ooooThis was the first call. The voice detailed the threat and the conditions exactly as Fuller had outlined them to Rhodes.
oooo“I will ring you again,” said the caller, in closing. “With instructions as to where you must take the item. Good-day to you, Mr. Fuller.”
ooooThe line went dead. Dumas took a piece of paper from the desk and wrote down the name, then there was another beep and another message.
oooo“Avery, this is Peter. My people tell me the call originated in Paris, though it was bounced around a bit before it got to you. Also, Washington faxed me a photo of Dr. Thompson. My sources say someone fitting her description was spirited into Beirut a few days ago, by Hamas, or the Islamic Jihad.”
oooo“Do you think they’ve moved her?” said Fuller.
oooo“Can’t say,” Peter replied. “Depends what they want from her. If you could give me a little something to go on . . . ”
oooo“Thank you,” said Fuller. “I’ll be in touch.” He hung up.
ooooAnother silence followed, then another beep and another message.
oooo“Mr. Fuller?”
oooo“Speaking.”
oooo“You have been expecting my call, I believe.”
ooooFuller didn’t respond. A bell chimed in the background on the caller’s end of the line.
oooo“Mr. Fuller?”
oooo“Yes.”
oooo“You understand the seriousness of the situation?”
oooo“Yes.”
oooo“I hope that is true. The item of which we spoke? The exchange will take place under the obelisk in St. Peter’s Square, 9:00 local time, Christmas Eve. Understood?”
oooo“Yes. Let me give you my cell…”
oooo“There is no need. This is the last time we will talk.”
ooooFor the final time the line went dead. Dumas replayed the message in his mind. The chime in the background was a carillon – church bells, in a city of churches. But, there was something distinctive about them. He was about to listen again when he saw a small electronic device stuck in a niche beside the answering machine. It was the same color and design, but he didn’t know what it was. He tucked it in his pocket.
oooo“What are you doing here?” said a woman’s voice. This one was not on the answering machine. Dumas remained outwardly calm, though his insides felt they’d just come through a plane crash. He pressed “clear all messages” on the recorder, pushed in the drawer and looked up.
ooooThe woman was attractive in a clinical, unapproachable way. She wore blue jeans, a black and white houndstooth jacket and red turtleneck. Her hair was fixed at the back with a braid of some kind. “Ms. Miller?” he ventured.
ooooShe was taken momentarily off guard, but quickly returned to her theme. “You have the advantage of me. Who are you and what are you doing here?”
ooooHe stood up, placing his right hand in his greatcoat pocket as he did so. “My name is Russell Church, Ms. Miller. Fuller has told me a lot about you.”
oooohe woman stared at him hard for a moment. “Rhodes was to be Russell Church,” she said.
ooooHow did she know?
oooo“Rhodes is dead,” Dumas replied, nearly at his wits end. “I was the backup.”
ooooShe studied him again. “I don’t believe you,” she said at last and turned toward the door.
oooo“Ms. Miller!” said Dumas sharply, drawing the gun and pointing it at her. “I don’t have the time to convince you, right now.”
ooooMiller’s hauteur dissolved like sugar in hot water and she seemed to go limp inside. “What are you going to do?” she stammered, glancing from Dumas to the gun and back. “What . . . ?”
oooo“I’d like you to come with me – somewhere we can talk,” said Dumas as calmly as possible as he rounded the desk. The last thing he needed was an hysterical female, he was near enough to hysterical himself. He returned the gun to his pocket. “Just come along with me, and we’ll go have tea somewhere.”
oooo“Tea?”

Chapter Seven: Choices

ooooWhat were they going to do with the vials? Even as she tried to sleep the question kept poking at her conscience. Maybe she should have taken them with her—but how? She couldn’t bring herself to touch them. Just being in the same room with them was bad enough. Why had they removed them from the nitrogen? Why did they leave them there—warm, waiting, breeding? Had they opened the vials already? If they were fool enough to take them out of the nitrogen, they were fool enough for anything.
ooooThey didn’t know what they had. They mustn’t. Someone else was behind it. Someone who knew enough to separate themselves from the crime—and the ebola, leaving idiots to preside over the end of the world.
ooooThe words sounded foolish as she thought them, until she thought about them. An airborne killer with an extraordinary hang time—if just one infected person walked through a major city, any city—an airport, a bus station, a train station—that’s all it would take.
ooooAnd she had created it.
ooooShe finished the cigarette and ground it out angrily on the concrete floor. She needed sleep. Sleep and clean underwear. Clean underwear and a bed. Bed and . . .
ooooShe was half asleep when the thought hit her like a thunderbolt. It shocked her awake, jump starting her heart and making her temples throb. It couldn’t be. It was ludicrous. Monsterous! But—what other solution was there?
ooooLook at it logically. Coldly. What’s at stake? The human race. The whole hopeless human race. Millions of men, women and children. Children.
ooooHer children.
ooooWere there children in Beirut? There must be. And women. Decent women longing for normal lives. Decent men wanting only to worship God, build a home, provide for their family. But, if their deaths bought salvation for the rest of the species?
ooooTheirs and hers.
ooooIt wasn’t as if she wouldn’t share their fate. But, she wouldn’t wait for the ebola to take her. She’d come back up here when the deed was done—and jump off. Head-first into the rubbled remains of Avenue du Paris.
ooooBut was Beirut really isolated enough to contain the virus? She was only peripherally aware of the renewed violence, though there was ample testimony to it, even in her brief crawl across the rooftop she’d seen that. Fires smoldered in every direction. Perhaps they’d been burning for days.
ooooFire.
ooooFire would kill the virus! She wouldn’t have to spill it—if she could burn it—burn down the hotel!
ooooShe picked up the matches and stared at them for a moment. She’d need fuel of some kind, the building was concrete—and it had been virtually stripped of anything flammable: furniture, linens, draperies—everything but the wallpaper and carpets, and mildew rendered them fireproof.
ooooStill, it was an option. Better than wiping out the whole city—herself included. Images of her children leapt to her mind. Maybe she could get out at night—down to the street, and find some gasoline. Five gallons would do it. One gallon. One would be enough. If she could find a car—she could siphon gas, she’d done it as a teenager. Just a gallon. Or two.
ooooBut what if she couldn’t burn the hotel? What if she just burned the vials? If she could douse them with gas. No, the liquid would expand too fast and explode the vial before coming to a boil and killing the bug. Billions of atomized angels of death, super-animated by the heat and blown into the air. It was plan ‘A’ all over again.
ooooShe would just walk back down and surrender. Presumably her kidnappers would be out looking for her, leaving maybe one or two behind. Why more? She’d drag herself into the lobby and give herself up, make them think she was nearly dead. Weak. That wouldn’t be hard. Then, when they reached for her, she’d throw herself at the vials; grab them—and if she couldn’t she’d just knock them down. That’s all it would take. Then, while her jailers were freaking out and wondering what to do, she’d come back up here and . . .
oooo“Miss Thompson,” said a familiar voice, that of her tormentor. “You have had a nice holiday, then? N’est pas? Now it is time to go. We must travel.”
ooooFor a moment there was silence, but she couldn’t hear it for the throbbing in her ears. They’d known she was there all along. Once the realization caught up with her, her heart fell through the floor of her soul. She dragged herself to her knees like one of the living dead and pushed the cover to the roof with a loud crash. In the instant before her eyes had a chance to get accustomed to the light, she heard the faux click of a digital camera. A black bag was shoved over her head, and her hands were tied behind her back. Not as tightly this time, and with a cloth of some kind, but the pain in her muscles as they contracted again into that position was unbelievable.
oooo“What do you want from me!” she screamed. “Leave me alone!” She pulled back and away, but to no avail. Immediately severe hands laid hold of her arms and shoulders and pushed her forward. “What do you want?” she cried.
oooo“You’re going to go on a trip, Dr. Thompson,” said the man with the cartoonish Russian accent.
oooo“I’m not going anywhere with you!” she screamed again, turning and pulling back, with the same results. She stumbled and nearly fell as they pushed her over the threshold of the rooftop door.
oooo“Take care you don’t fall, Doctor,” said the voice, calmly sardonic. “I wouldn’t know how to explain such injuries to your children.”
ooooShe stopped in her tracks. “My children?” she said dumbly. It was as if he’d reached inside her mind and extracted her most precious thought. “What about my children?”
oooo“Albert and Helen, I believe,” said the man. “Ages fourteen and twelve. Birth dates, fourth April and sixteenth September, am I right?”
ooooStill stunned, she didn’t reply.
oooo“We know, you see?” he said. “They go to school at Pike’s Peak Middle School in Colorado Springs. Such a long way away, is it not?”
ooooSomeone pushed her slightly, and she lurched forward, down the steps.
oooo“They are not lonely, though,” the man continued. “No, no. Not lonely at all. We have people watching them for you. Watching them very carefully. In fact . . . ”
oooo“You leave my children alone!” she cried, tears pouring down her cheeks in torrents. “Don’t you dare!”
ooooOnce again, she was pushed forward, not by the speaker. Not this time at least, he was on her right side. She’d been pushed from the left.
oooo“In fact,” resumed the speaker as if she hadn’t spoken, “Helen has a Christmas recital this afternoon at the Dancing Bear—that is a school, I believe? Yes? And Adam is playing this morning with his friend Michael Hammock.”
ooooThey walked the rest of the way in silence. She knew by the smell of the toilet when they were back on the familiar floor—near her room—down the hall from the lobby. In a single motion she felt her hands come untied and she was shoved into the room, the door slamming shut behind her. She ripped the sack from her head, leaned her forehead against the door and pummeled it with both fists, venting all her anger, fear, and utter helplessness.
ooooOnce she had screamed herself hoarse and the overflow of her wrath had subsided to weak, helpless sobs, the man spoke. “You will see behind you a tub of hot water,” he said through the door. She turned slowly. There it was, a real tub had been brought in and deposited in the center of the room, and it was full of clear, clean water with wreathes of steam rising from it. “And in the corner are clean clothes—brand new, from the best shops on Ben-Gurion Boulevard—”
oooohey were there, as he said. Two handsome pantsuits draped carefully over the box and the tissue it came in, underwear, hosiery, shoes.
oooo“Tel Aviv,” said the man, the malignant smile evident in his voice. “I do all my shopping there! I trust our tastes agree.”
ooooShe lifted the suit from the box and held it to her, careful not to soil it with blood. No man had bought this. It was lovely, and she knew it would fit. There was a woman among her captors. But the attractions of fresh clothing paled beside those of a hot bath. She removed her clothes, which only vestigial modesty had prevented her from disposing of long before, and, without another thought, lowered herself into the hot, soothing water, that stung her wounds with healing.
oooo“You get nice and clean,” said the man outside the door. “Tonight, we are going on a journey—and you will want to look your best.”
ooooHe laughed as he walked down the hall. “She doesn’t answer,” he said. “She doesn’t want a trip—she’d rather stay here—in luxury! eh? Ah, women! Maalesh.” She noted the ubiquitous Arabic epithet. So he wasn’t Russian, he was an Arab. She didn’t care. Anymore than she cared where they were taking her. The bath had been perfumed and the thick, luxurious fumes were curling up inside her brain, lulling her to sleep.
ooooOnly in the Alice in Wonderland world of an Arab economy could such an anomaly have materialized in the midst of such devastation. That made it no less real; no less a balm to flesh and sinews that had been afflicted beyond endurance.

oooo“Yusef managed to get in touch with Kitan,” said Freeman. “He can’t get close to them—but he knows where they are—and he knows they’ve got Doctor Thompson.”
oooo“Then they still have the phials,” said the President. He was pacing the oval office alone as he listened to Freeman on the speaker phone.
oooo“Seems so,” said Freeman. “No accidents in the jungle, I’m afraid.”
oooo“Do we know who they are?”
oooo“Not al Queda. Yusef’s heard some Somali warlord was involved in the actual kidnapping. If he knew what he was doing, or why, is a matter of speculation. Could have been a work-for-hire. Those guys are strapped for cash since the bottom fell out of the piracy business and the African Union clamped down on Mogadishu. There were a couple who escaped. We don’t know much; who this warlord might be. Nobody we know of. But they’re not happy with the treaty.”
oooo“Somebody’s leading them—” said the President sharply. “This took some savvy—and some planning.”
oooo“Yes, sir.”
oooo“But why haven’t we heard anything?”
ooooFreeman shrugged. “Who knows? They must be waiting for something.”
oooo“You’re sure no one’s heard anything? The Élyseé Palace, Whitehall? The Bundestag? Nobody’s heard anything?”
oooo“Not that I know of. You’d probably know before I did.”
oooo“Have you spoken to Fisher at the CIA?”
oooo“Yes, sir. Nothing yet.”
ooooFor a few seconds the secure line hissed while Freeman waited.
oooo“Freeman?” the President said finally.
oooo“Sir?”
oooo“Any ideas?”
oooo“You don’t want to know, sir.”
oooo“What the hell kind of answer is that?”
oooo“You want it straight out?”
oooo“Go ahead.”
oooo“I think we should consider the option of bombing Beirut,” Freeman said flatly.
oooo“What!? You’ve got to be kidding! You mean blow up the hotel? What about Thompson?”
oooo“No sir, I mean drop a nuclear bomb on Beirut.” It hadn’t been as antiseptic or analytical as it sounded. Freeman had been awake all night, wandering the darkened streets of Alexandria like a specter in his overcoat and slippers, turning over the options, but he’d been briefed on the potential of this new strain of ebola. There was no time for finesse. The only course was the last resort. Every second counted— and now they knew where the vials were. If they were moved, they might not be found again until it was too late.
ooooIt was one of those situations that seem to evolve all by themselves—the fates go crazy, and demand a horrible offering, the same kind of terrible mercy that Truman knew—the sacrifice of many, for the benefit of all.
ooooAs he waited for the President’s inevitable reaction, he looked around the kitchen. Sunlight filtering though the windows splashed warm gold into the reflections of copper pots and pans that hung on a rack above the kitchen island. Pictures of his grandchildren dotted the refrigerator and the faint smell of spaghetti sauce hung in the air. And here he was, in his plaid flannel pajamas, talking to the President of the United States on the dedicated line—an ancient Princess Slimline, perhaps the last functional model of its kind, that hung on the wall over the corkboard—recommending the nuclear annihilation of the capitol city of a sovereign nation.
oooo“Why not a bunker-buster? Just take out the hotel.”
oooo“The Sadaam Effect: it might not be there. We don’t think they’ve left Beirut, but it could be a mile or two of the hotel. Besides, there’s no assurance a bunker-buster would eliminate the ebola. It might even spread it. A nuclear weapon would wipe it out.”
oooo“And everything else.”
oooo“Yes, sir.”
ooooThe anticipated tirade of righteous indignation never came. The President drew a deep breath. “I called Dr. Cavallo at the CDC, as you suggested. He came to see me last night, after he left you. He showed me the video.”
ooooFreeman was quiet.
oooo“I wish you could see my hands now—they’re still shaking. To see the effects of that disease on a human being—I’ve had nightmares before—when I was in Enduring Freedom, one of my buddies—not someone I knew, really, but . . . he fell in front of me. I picked him up and—he exploded in my arms. He . . . ”
ooooA long silence followed, Freeman knew the President’s military record, that he’d won the Distinguished Service Cross for extraordinary bravery not because his “buddy fell in front of him”, but because he had made his way over a tenth of a mile of open country in Helmund province —under withering enemy fire—to rescue three wounded troops whose Hummer had been overturned by an IED; he single-handedly held more than fifty enemy at bay until the gunship arrived. Of the three, two survived. Maybe a feat on par with that of Master Sergeant Hollenbaugh, but impressive.
ooooHe heard the President sniff several times before he finally spoke again. “It’s one thing to be blown up—I mean, it’s terrible, but it’s instant. I can’t imagine being consumed from within by this thing . . . women and children . . . It’s like something out of Alien. ”
oooo“Yes, sir,” said Freeman.
oooo“They’ll be hell to pay,” said the President. “The international community will crucify me.”
oooo“Yes, sir.” said Freeman.
oooo“The nuclear fallout could kill millions.”
oooo“Yes, sir.”
oooo“I’ll be impeached—if not assassinated.”
ooooFreeman didn’t reply.
ooooThere was another long pause. “I’d really hoped to make a difference, Freeman,” said the President.
oooo“You’ll have saved billions of lives, sir.”
ooooThe President laughed a short, ironic laugh. “And every last one of them will curse me to the grave.”
oooo“Yes, sir.”
oooo“Can we do it?”
oooo“We have a nuclear submarine in the eastern Atlantic—the Poseidon.”
oooo“How long would it take them to get in range?”
ooooFreeman consulted his watch. “In seven hours she’ll be within range to deliver within acceptable parameters, they could deliver the warhead in under fifteen minutes from that distance. It would be all over before anyone knew what happened.”
oooo“Accuracy?”
oooo“Pin-point, sir. The Poseidon’s warheads have both computer and video control. The computer guidance systems take readings from geosynchronus satellites to triangulate the longitude and latitude—within fifty feet on a bad day. Failing that, there’s a manual override. A video camera in the missile’s nose lets the controller drive weapon home.”
oooo“A video game,” said the President rhetorically. “Seven hours—that’s two o’clock.”
oooo“Yes, sir.”
oooo“We’ve got to minimize this thing—centralize it as much as possible. We can arm a small warhead, right? I mean I know there’s no such thing as a small atomic explosion but—we don’t have to go overboard, do we? And use whatever method is going to drop it right on top of that hotel. Let’s assume it’s still there.”
oooo“They’ll do their best, sir.”
oooo“What’s the danger to the surrounding area, Jerusalem, Tel Aviv—Damascus, Amman?”
oooo“Depends which way the wind’s blowing,” said Freeman. “There’s going to be fallout. I’m gathering weather intel now. I’ll let you know.”
oooo“This is impossible—this whole thing. Every time I open my mouth—I hear these insane words come out. This whole sick scenario is playing out like something from the Bible,” said the President. He sighed deeply. “I have to meet a group of Girl Scouts in an hour.” Pause. “Position the Poseidon,” he said. “Tell them to arm one warhead. They’re to be ready for my instructions at 2:30 p.m., our time.”
oooo“Yes, sir.”
oooo“Get me that weather information.”
oooo“Yes, sir.”

ooooThe President hung up the phone and pressed the intercom.
oooo“Yes, Mr. President?”
oooo“Jeri . . . ” he hesitated.
oooo“Sir?” said Jeri, her voice suddenly concerned. She’s been with him since his first year as a junior congressman, fifteen years ago, and could tell by the tone of his voice that something was terribly wrong. “Mr. President? Are you all right? Would you like me to come in?”
oooo“No,” said the President. “Set up a press conference for three o’clock this afternoon—and get a line on every president and prime minister you can think of who’ll take my call—especially Israel, Jordan, Syria—if there’s anyone in charge there this week—and Turkey. I want to know where they’re going to be at 2 o’clock our time this afternoon—better yet, have their ambassador’s here at two.”
oooo“May I say why?”
oooo“Tell my wife I won’t be able to join her for breakfast,” said the President. He pressed the intercom again and was left alone with his thoughts.
ooooAt least he’d outlasted William Henry Harrison. One thing was sure, he wouldn’t be forgotten. Unfortunately.
ooooHe steeled himself to meet the Girl Scouts.

Chapter Eight: Lot’s Wife

oooo“What do you make of this, sir?” The speaker was a dark-complected man in his mid-to-late twenties, surrounded by an array of complex surveillance and security equipment in a windowless room in the bowels of Whitehall. He pointed at what looked like a bar graph on one of the screens.
oooo“What is it this time, Angry Birdies?” said George Goodge, a spare, balding man with a prodigious silver mustache, thick glasses and deep gray eyes which he employed now, tossing a perfunctory glance at the screen as he leafed through his mail with his feet on his desk. “What am I looking at?”
oooo“This signature was entered at Avery Fuller’s office.”
oooo“So?”
oooo“It’s his thumbprint.”
oooo“Whose?”
oooo“Fuller’s.”
ooooGoodge’s feet dropped to the floor and he stared at the screen. “Can’t be.”
oooo“I’ve checked it three times.”
oooo“Check it again,” said Goodge. “Dead men don’t leave fingerprints.”
oooo“Here’s Fuller’s print,” said the young man, calling up another electronic signature. It was identified by Fuller’s name, code name and access number. “And here’s the magnetic signature that was used to get into his office.” He superimposed one on the other.
oooo“They match?”
oooo“At sixteen points. Statistically, they’re 100% identical.”
oooo“That’s only sixteen of a possible…”
oooo“…hundred and fifty ridge points, yes, but six to ten matches satisfy most examiners.”
ooooGoodge squinted at the monitor, as if narrowing his field of vision would somehow distill meaning from the squiggles. “Sixteen?”
oooo“Sixteen.”
oooo“Call Harrison at Special Branch,” said Goodge, rising and making for the door; his mind suddenly cramped with ghoulish possibilities. “Do you know how the body was identified?”
oooo“Fuller?” said the younger man. “Haven’t a clue.”
ooooThe door slammed shut.
oooo
ooooAs Dumas, holding his captive firmly by the arm, ushered her briskly across the lobby, she glanced a covert appeal at the guard but, as his attention was focused on Janine, she was no more than a familiar smudge in the background. Without really looking, he smiled and nodded. “Sir. Ma’am,” he said, and continued keeping things secure. Janine, having grown into her role as femme fetal of the piece, made her good-byes and fell in silently beside them, but Dumas could hear a chorus of impending questions.
ooooJust as they reached the door, he felt Avril’s muscles tense. Sensing the battle that was going on in her mind, he squeezed her arm sharply and warned her with his eyes. A second later they were walking north on the Embankment.
oooo“Who’s this?” said Janine once they were outside.
oooo“Avril Miller,” said Dumas. He was flushed with anxiety and his breath came out in hasty clouds as he scanned the area. A red, double-decker tour bus rolled slowly in front of Big Ben. “Come on.”
oooo“Let me go!” Miller snapped. “I’ll go along. You needn’t drag me.”
ooooDumas let her go. “If you try to get away, I’ll have to shoot you,” he said. The words felt so silly on his lips, it was all he could manage to keep a straight face.
ooooJanine’s eyes widened in disbelief. “You’ll what!” She stopped where she stood.
oooo“Not now. I’ll explain everything—we’re going to get on that bus—I’ll tell you then. I’ll tell you both.”
oooo“You’ve got a gun?” said Janine, her eyes watering with cold and confusion. “Why didn’t you use it last night when that bloke was shooting at you?”
oooo“I didn’t have it last night,” said Dumas. “If you come along, I’ll tell you everything.”
oooo“Someone was shooting at you?” said Miller, perplexed. “Who?”
oooo“This redhead,” said Janine.
ooooDumas herded them women toward the zebra crossing. “Andrew Connor.”
ooooJanine put her hands on her hips and warmed her words with the steam of her breath. “I thought you didn’t know who was shooting at you.”
oooo“I didn’t, then,” Dumas defended. “I do now.”
oooo“Andrew Connor? Was shooting at you?” said Miller. “Why?”
ooooDumas looked from the tour bus, to the Thames in which he’d so nearly drowned only hours ago. Everything continued surreal, even the thoughts that squeezed through the defenses of his mind seemed to have been born in a some phantasmagoric realm entirely foreign to him. A stranger’s heart beat in his chest, compelling him to considerations and deeds of which he’d not have imagined himself capable a day ago.
oooo“Because I’m a witness,” he said. “I saw him kill Fuller and Rhodes.”
oooo“You were there?” said Miller in a stunned whisper.
ooooJanine was dangling at the edge of her comprehension as the man in whose company she had slept so soundly the night before assumed an unexpected, deadly dimension. “Killed who? You saw someone get killed?!”
oooo“Why didn’t you report it?” said Miller.
oooo“I’ll explain on the bus,” Dumas said, taking each of the women by an arm and pushing them toward Boedicea’s statue, where the bus had come to a stop.
oooo“Here, this is a private tour, mate,” said the conductor as they climbed aboard. “You have to buy tickets at the start, like everybody else.”
ooooDumas surveyed ‘everybody else’; owing to the weather which—though much calmer than the previous evening—continued inclement, there were four people on the bus.
oooo“We board in front of the National Gallery on the hour. That’s in Trafalgar Square.” He pointed in the general direction of Trafalgar. “If you take this road . . . ”
oooo“My daughters and I won’t be able to join you later,” said Dumas.
oooo“Well, then—I’m afraid . . . ”
oooo“Will this do?” said Dumas, thrusting a fifty pound note at the conductor and pushing the women aboard.
ooooThe conductor, a man of about forty with an abundance of curly brown hair, thick glasses and an oversized red cap, stared at the fifty pound note and blinked, then at Dumas who was directing the women up the spiral stairs and blinked again. “The tour’s half over,” he stammered.
oooo“Then take this,” said Dumas, handing him another fifty pound note, “and keep it going another hour, would you be so kind? Just drive around—anywhere.”
ooooThe conductor was left standing with a fistful of money, but apparently an acceptable deal had been struck; as they sat down at the rear of the empty, open upper deck, the bus pulled away from the curb.
oooo‘Good lord!” said Janine.
ooooDumas followed her eyes to the buildings of Parliament. In the brief glimpse that was allowed before the bus turned onto Westminster Bridge and the tower of Big Ben intervened, he saw the car court strewn with rubble and a gaping hole in the middle floors of the tower wing. The area had been cordoned off and was overrun with the various strata of officialdom in all its uniformed glory. “My word!” he gasped.
oooo“The Abbey’s just as bad,” said Miller. “But you know that already, don’t you Mr . . . ?”
oooo“I was there, too,” said Dumas softly, nodding toward Parliament as it receded behind them. At the far end of the bridge they turned south on York Road.
oooo“Now,” said Miller, summoning all that remained of her wits, “would you kindly tell me what’s going on?” said Miller. “What’s this all about?”
ooooDumas studied her deeply for a long, awkward time. “First, I want to know something.”
oooo“You have the gun,” said Miller, reddening.
ooooHe ignored the comment. “How did you know Rhodes was supposed to be Church?”
oooo“Who are you to ask anything of me?” Miller demanded. Her voice trembled with fear and suppressed anger. “And why in blazes should I tell?”
ooooDumas looked her directly in the eye. “Because I overheard Fuller and Rhodes speaking in the Abbey,” he said. “And, if what they said is true—something unspeakably horrible is about to happen to the human race. Millions of lives are at stake.”
ooooAgain, he almost laughed as the words left his mouth; how many actors of B-movies had mouthed them, or similar sentiments, through the years? The difference was, this was not a movie. This was real, and the look in Miller’s eyes as the import of what he said struck home erased all doubt. As she stared at him, something about her seemed to wither. The anger seeped away. “Ebola,” she whispered.
oooo“You know?”
ooooMiller hung her head and knit her fingers and, for a long while said nothing. Aware that she was deliberating, Dumas waited. By the time she spoke they had turned onto Tower Bridge and were heading toward the City.
oooo“You must tell me who you are—I must know I can trust you, with what I’m about to say.”
ooooHe had to trust someone eventually. “My name is Anthony Dumas.”
oooo“Lord Dumas?” she said.
ooooHe was surprised. “You’ve heard of me?”
oooo“Security,” Miller explained. “Of course I’ve heard of you. We keep records on all MPs.”
ooooDumas almost felt sorry for her. “How very tedious for you.”
oooo“Lord Dumas!” said Janine. “You didn’t tell me you were nobility.”
ooooDumas smiled ruefully. Twenty four hours ago his duty to the family and the ancestral home commanded all his attention. Now, it didn’t even deserve a place in his thoughts.
oooo“Well, I’ll be blowed,” Janine sighed. “Fancy that!”
ooooAfter re-crossing the river, the bus came to a stop on Minories Hill, in front of the Tower of London. The conductor’s thin voice droned it’s historical soliloquy through a rusty speaker tucked under a nearby seat. The trio leaned closer together, as much for warmth as to keep from yelling over the narration.
oooo“Two weeks ago, I was assigned to keep an eye on Fuller,” said Miller.
oooo“I beg your pardon!”
oooo“There’s been some terrible problems with leaks—at all levels. Things that are Level Five one day, are page one next.
oooo“My boss—that is, Fuller’s boss—Foreign Secretary Richard Scott, well—he’s a very—he objected to Fuller’s methods—I think that’s why he began to suspect him. He resents the degree of autonomy Fuller enjoys as head of Special Branch and his . . . unorthodoxy, shall we say? His not being accountable, really, or constrained by any of the customary chain of command.”
oooo“But, if Scott is Fuller’s boss . . . ”
oooo“In name only,” said Miller. “On paper. To know Fuller at all is to know he’s—that he was—his own man. Anyway, he told me—Mr. Scott did—to keep an eye on Fuller.”
oooo“Meaning?”
oooo“Surveillance.”
oooo“Meaning?”
oooo“The usual thing,” she replied, looking elsewhere.
oooo“Meaning?” Dumas insisted. He wanted this reduced to its lowest common denominator.
oooo“I didn’t think he was doing anything wrong,” Miller said suddenly, challenging Dumas with her eyes. But she couldn’t hold his gaze. Once more her head fell. “I bugged his office. His car. His apartment—everything.”
oooo“He was right about you, then,” Dumas thought aloud.
oooo“Who was?”
oooo“Fuller. He didn’t trust you.”
oooo“How do you know?”
oooo“He told Rhodes—Rhodes asked if there wasn’t somebody who could be trusted, even his secretary. Fuller said he wasn’t sure.”
ooooMiller was about to become indignant then, considering her situation, repented of it. “I was doing what I was told.”
ooooDumas let the statement lie. “Fuller was worried about the leaks, too. That’s why he asked Rhodes to meet him at Westminster.”
oooo“Or that’s what he wanted Rhodes to think,” said Miller. “What if he suspected someone was onto him—that he was being bugged—so he’d want to meet in a neutral area.”
oooo“You think he knew he was being bugged?”
oooo“Probably,” said Miller. “Fuller was the most paranoid man I ever met. You say he didn’t trust anyone at headquarters. I shouldn’t be surprised if he was suspicious of his own left hand.
oooo“He swept his office for bugs on a regular basis.”
oooo“Perhaps the distinction between paranoia and common sense,” Dumas observed, “is a fine one.”
oooo“This specially extended tour of The City of London and its environs is made possible through the courtesy of one of our patrons. Please be reminded that light refreshments are available at the front of the lower level. We are now turning down historical Threadneedle Street, where—”
oooo“He jammed us pretty effectively, but I did manage to pick up odds and ends,” Miller continued. “Then, a few days ago, I heard the word: ebola.”
oooo“You know about it, then?”
ooooShe nodded. “Enough. I read a book—a factual account, shortly after the outbreak of what they called the ‘flesh-eating virus,’ do you recall that? Having to do with caves in jungles where man is encroaching for the first time—and stumbling into these primordial cesspits of viruses. The descriptions were—very vivid.”
oooo“What did you tell the Secretary?”
oooo“Nothing,” said Miller. “I was going to—but, I couldn’t make it out. I think what I’d overheard must have been Fuller’s side of a telephone conversation, there’d be long pauses in between statements, and his was the only voice I heard. I didn’t feel it would do much good to burst in on the Secretary babbling incoherently about ebola and, well, I didn’t. I was going to bide by time and see if I could turn up something else that would make it all sensible.”
oooo“But how did you find out about Rhodes being Church? Even Rhodes didn’t know anything about it ‘til they spoke at Westminster.”
oooo“I found out that someone was trying to set up a false identity—running through complex computer codes like a rabbit through the cabbage, dodging into files all over the place from England to Africa. I began tracing the activity, and turned up a brand new individual . . . ”
oooo“Russell Church,” said Dumas.
ooooMiller nodded.
ooooanine was looking from one to the other of them with eyes that widened to accommodate what her ears couldn’t handle.
oooo“Who is the likely recipient of such an identity—one that gives them Level Seven access—which only Fuller, the Home Secretary and the P.M. have? Someone who’s going under cover. Inside.
oooo“I confess, I hadn’t a clue who it might be—I couldn’t think of anyone Fuller would trust that much—until I heard about the explosion this morning. Rhodes. There was someone he could trust ‘til the end of the earth.”
oooo“Because of Rhodes’ secret,” said Dumas, replaying the conversation he had overheard.
ooooJanine was unable to contain herself any longer. “What secret? Who’s Rhodes?”
ooooMiller suddenly looked at her as if she’d just arrived from another planet. “And who is this?” She was looking at Janine, but addressing Dumas.
oooo“She’s the beginning of a rather long story, I’m afraid,” said Dumas. “She saved my life. Let’s leave it at that, shall we? I have no reason not to trust her.”
oooo“Well thank you very much, your lordship,” Janine whispered in mock awe. “So bloody kind of you, I’m sure.”
oooo“I didn’t mean it the way it sounded,” said Dumas, his voice rising in frustration. “Listen, it’s just not on, all this talking ‘round the bush—and threatening to shoot people. Here!” he resolved on the spur of the moment, removing the pistol from his pocket and thrusting it at Miller. “I’m sure you’re much more at home with one of these than I am. Take it. Shoot me, if you like!”
ooooMiller pushed the weapon away, knocking it out of his hand. It hadn’t settled on the floor before Janine swept it up and was pointing it at the more prominent area landmarks. “Is this thing real?” she said, with the wonder of a child on Christmas morning.
oooo“Very real,” said Dumas, grabbing the gun from her and returning it to his pocket. “And loaded. Listen, I’m sorry—I just want you to trust me—and there’s no time for all this song-and-dance, and having to explain things even I don’t understand. I thought . . . I needed to show you could trust me.” He shook his head and looked helplessly about the neighborhood. There were dark circles under his bloodshot eyes and his frequent blinking betrayed his fatigue. “Childish,” he said, half to himself, half to whatever malevolent muse concocted the course of history. “I’m not the man for this job.
oooo“Listen, both of you.” The bus lurched left onto Mansell Street. By the time it came to a stop again at the Whitechapel Art Gallery, Dumas had divested himself of as much of his burdensome information as he felt comfortable sharing.
oooo“I’m incredulous!” Janine said on the exhale. “I hope that means what I think it means. Sounds vulgar. Anyway, it’s what I feel? I don’t believe it.”
ooooMiller cupped her face in her hands and her shoulders shook as if she were crying, but she made no sound.
oooo“This virus—is it really bad, like AIDS or something?” said Janine.
oooo“Much worse, I’m afraid,” said Dumas. As the tour resumed he stared blankly around him at an area of London he’d never seen before. “Much, much worse.”
ooooAt that moment the familiar aural patina of London was rent by an eerie wail, an atonal yodel of some kind that drew their attention to a large brick building on their left.
oooo“Jamme Masjid,” said Miller, who had been silent and sullen since Dumas had completed his story. “The mosque. The muezzin is calling the faithful to prayer.”
ooooThe bus came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the street and presently footsteps on the metal stairs preceded the conductor to the roof. “I am sorry,” he said, with a slight bow. “Our driver, Ahmed—is Muslim. He prays five times a day. We’re usually back in Trafalgar by this time, you see.”
oooo“That’s perfectly all right,” said Dumas. “How long is—how long do his prayers last?”
oooo“Oh, not long, sir,” said the conductor, much more solicitous than he had been at their first meeting. “Five minutes. Ten if he’s eaten a sausage or had a beer. Takes him longer to repent or whatever it is he does. No more. Are you comfortable? Can I get you anything? We have . . . ”
oooo“I’m cold,” said Janine. For the first time in their acquaintance Dumas noticed that all expression had left her face. Her voice was flat. She didn’t know the words for what she was feeling. “I want to go below.”
oooo“Yes,” said Dumas, collecting his wits. “Yes, of course. I’m terribly sorry for keeping you up here—come along. Conductor? Would you show the ladies down the stairs?”
oooo“We should hire only Christians,” the conductor editorialized as he took the women by their elbows and handed them down the stairs. “They only pray in emergencies.”
ooooAt that moment another sound wove itself into the tapestry: a brace of bells chiming the hour, every third gong rang queer, as if from a broken bell. Dumas froze on the steps. “Where are those bells coming from?”
ooooThe conductor poked his head up into the open and listened. “Christ Church Spitalfields, down there,” he said, nodding and pointing simultaneously, “at the other end of Fournier.”
oooo“A god on every corner,” whispered Dumas.

Chapter Nine: The Faith of Shadows

Beirut

oooo“What are you, a Jew?” said the raven-eyed woman as she shook an orange in Rajik Kitan’s face. “It is a sin to charge such prices! Do you not read your Koran ‘Allah is cognizant of all your actions’—’it is good to be charitable in public!’”
ooooKitan waved a hand and smiled. “‘But, to be charitable in private is better, and will atone for some of your sins,’” he quoted. “I am much too sinful to waste an act of charity, so I do all my giving in private.”
ooooThe woman turned to another who had come up to the pushcart. “Kitan has the heart of an infidel and a Jew,” she said, as she said every day. “He drinks the blood of his people.”
oooo“Me?” Kitan replied, laughing. “Then my people must have poor blood, indeed—look at me!” He held his hands out and spun around. “I put stones in my pockets to keep from blowing away in the wind!”
ooooKitan’s fruit was the best in the city, and always had been; before the bombings, during the bombings, and after the bombings. Every day, for as long as anyone could remember Kitan, his donkey, Jacques, and the old blue cart had occupied the corner of Rue Salaam, outside the French Embassy, as much a part of the curious rhythm of life among the rubble as the taxi drivers who, every day, had to find new routes through the ruins. His apples and oranges, arranged in neat pyramids, were individually wrapped in purple tissue paper and polished to an irresistible shine that reflected passersby. His figs, dates and pistachios, too, were displayed to perfection. No one knew where he got the produce, or how, complaints aside, he managed to keep such reasonable prices. But it was widely suspected that much of the produce originated on the plain of Sharon. No one said as much, though, to do so would have rendered it unclean, unless it was stolen, in which case it could be called the spoils of war.
ooooBesides, there were no other fruit-sellers like Rajik Kitan.
oooo“One day,” said the first woman, as she gently tucked the last of her purchases into a worn net bag, “I will come to buy my fruit—and there will be nothing left of you, Kitan, but a lump of coal on the sidewalk—and I will know you have been visited by the wrath of Allah, bless his name!”
ooooKitan laughed, the other customers laughed and the woman walked away along a well-worn path through the rubble, pleased with her purchases.
“Every day,” Kitan said under his breath, but loud enough to be heard by those who clustered ‘round his cart, “I am visited by Allah’s wrath — and there she goes!”

ooooLater in the day, as he polished the apples, he smoked his hookah and appeared relaxed and contented. Only a careful observer would have noticed that his gaze often drifted, beneath the overhanging shrubbery of his eyebrows, toward the hotel on the opposite block—a ruined monument to western capitalism—the Holiday Inn.

ooooPatricia Yaffe-Thompson picked up the blindfold as if it was part of the wardrobe. There was a comfort, she felt, in the fact that her captors didn’t want her to see them. It suggested that they intended to let her live.
ooooIt felt good to be bathed, to feel the new underwear against her skin—cool, clean and soft. Her hair, which had hung in matted tangles, was loose and clean. She felt blond again.
She folded her arms, rested her haunches against the tub and waited.
ooooIt was a long wait. A hole in the plywood that covered the window pushed a finger of sunlight slowly across the floor, becoming weaker as it rose up the door and fading altogether before reaching the ceiling. Soon it was night. The only sound was her stomach churning. Her heart beating. Her eyes blinking.
ooooAt irregular intervals she’d pace around the tub. Sit. Rise. Look at her wrist as if there was a watch there; but there were only scars. Every sound, however distant, drew her eyes to the door. As time dragged on, she became increasingly nervous. Was this simply another move in the game; part of an elaborate, carefully orchestrated accompaniment to madness?
ooooA faint knock jolted the darkness. She hadn’t even heard footsteps. “Dr. Thompson?” said a woman’s voice softly. “Dr. Thompson?”
oooo“Yes!” said Thompson, crossing to the door, leaning against it, speaking into the crack. “Who are you?”
oooo“Come,” said the voice. A key turned in the door and it opened admitting a wavering shaft of light. The speaker, a boy, not a woman, held a burning torch.
oooo“Where are we going?” she said.
ooooThe boy handed her a folded piece of paper, pointed at it and nodded.
oooo“You don’t speak English?”
ooooThe lad had glossy black hair and a ready if nervous smile. He shook his head. Dressed in faded blue jeans, a red, white, and black Chicago Bulls sweatshirt and Reeboks, he could have come from any street corner in America. But he didn’t speak English.
ooooThompson opened the paper and held it in the light. Her heart began to race as she read:
oooo“Go with the boy. He has your valise with the vials wrapped in cotton and ice. You are to bring them.” She stared into the shadows in the hall and could make out a suitcase on the floor at the boy’s feet and the aluminum Panaflex case in which she had kept the serum in his free hand.
oooo“They removed them from the nitrogen,” she whispered in disbelief. “They’re mad.”
oooo“Mad,” the boy parroted with a smile.
oooo“Cotton and ice,” she said, taking the case and staring at it. “What possible good do they think that will do?”
ooooThe boy said nothing.
ooooShe continued reading: “In the suitcase is a change of clothes, two thousand Euros. Also there is your passport, with a new name. You are Dr. Joan Ketchum. The boy will take you to a plane which will fly you to Kosovo, from there you must make your way to the Basilica of St. Peter’s in Rome by the hour of nine o’clock Christmas Eve. At that time an Englishman and an Arab—his prisoner—will meet you at the obelisk. You will give the vials to the Englishman one minute after he has released the Arab.
oooo“You will be watched at all times. You must speak to no one. You will not give anything to anyone. You will not receive anything from them.
oooo“If you fail in this, your children will die.
oooo“Allah is merciful and forgiving, may he keep your steps.”

ooooKitan knew all the squatters who had taken up residence on the first ten floors of the Holiday Inn; most of them were regular customers, and he could tell them from the others, the group who kept the upper floors to themselves, and bought their produce elsewhere.
ooooThey had all left shortly before the sun set, driving off in a black van, and the woman wasn’t with them.
It made no sense.
ooooQuickly and methodically, in order to avoid suspicion, he packed up his stand, fed an apple to his donkey as he hitched it to the cart and, as always, left three oranges on the sidewalk as an offering for the children of the night.
oooo“They have left her alone?” he said aloud. He nudged the donkey and it started off through the rubble with a practiced tread.
ooooHe guided the animal down the street to the hotel and the shadows of the glassless lobby. He was unsure what to do. Had they killed her? But, to bring her all the way from Africa, just to kill her in Beirut, that was foolishness. Maybe she had angered them. Maybe she had died of a heart attack—Americans are always getting heart attacks. Every possibility that presented itself to his imagination ended with the woman, dead or wounded, somewhere on the upper floors of the hotel.
ooooThere were two options, he could go home, call Yusef on the radio and await instructions, or he could go in and find her. Two options—but only one choice. As long as there was a possibility she might be alive, he had to try to find her.
ooooHe pulled the donkey and the wagon off the sidewalk into the lobby and tied them behind a small mountain of gutted television sets that had been discarded in a corner.
ooooA faint light emanated from the stairway, probably from a fire in a brazier on the floor above, attested by the pungent aroma of roasting lamb and onions. Kitan tip-toed across the lobby on a sea of broken glass and fallen masonry. Once at the bottom of the staircase, he looked up just in time to see the wall of the landing above illuminated by a halo of light from a candle. Someone was coming down the stairs.
ooooHe withdrew to the shadows behind the reception desk.

London

oooo“What do you think of it, Michael?” said the Senator. He surveyed the Savoy’s Foyer approvingly. It was his home away from home and he heartily enjoyed the residual class distinction that compelled uniformed doormen and head waiters to bow and avert their eyes. The pianist’s flawless interpretation of Beethoven’s Opus 81 went all but unnoticed above the genteel tinkling of tea cups and quiet conversation.
ooooMichael had spent most of the year in a daze. Selected straight out of Harvard law, from a field of hundreds, to serve on the Senator’s staff, he had taken liberalism with his mother’s milk. His saints were FDR, JFK, and Keynes and he revered Wingfield as an apostle in their image—the personification of their legacy: the only remaining light in the sea of Neanderthal darkness that had swept conservatives to a majority in both houses in the last election. And here he was, personally selected to travel with this icon to everything he hallowed.
ooooAll of the applicants for the position of his personal assistant had had the same reverence, but Wingfield selected Michael Cumio because he liked the way he had of pushing back the rebellious lock of hair that kept falling across his eyes.
“Too Baroque for me,” said Michael. “Impressive, though.”
ooooWingfield raised an eyebrow. “It was much more so before last year’s renovations,” he said. “You have to acquire a taste for some things.”
oooo“I don’t think I’ll ever acquire a taste for Baroque,” Cumio laughed. “Or that music, come to think of it. I like jazz. Frankly, I’d never have figured you the tea and crumpets type.” He glanced at his watch. “Shouldn’t you be getting ready for the meeting?”
oooo“What meeting is that?” said Wingfield. This was his first trip with Cumio, and he was beginning to wonder if he misjudged him. The thought was discomfiting. They would have dinner in the Grill where testosterone flowed freely.
oooo“With the Prime Minister,” said Cumio.
oooo“That’s tomorrow.” Wingfield finished his coffee. He summoned a waiter.
oooo“But, you told the pilot . . . ”
oooo“How long have you been in Washington now, Michael, a year?”
oooo“Almost.”
oooo“And you still don’t understand the use of power?”
ooooMichael flushed slightly. “Well, I thought—it’s one thing if you have a meeting with the Prime Minister . . . ”
oooo“Power is what you use to get things done,” Wingfield interrupted. “Do you think I’ve been an effective legislator because I’m a nice guy? Not so. I fully subscribe to the theory that the end justify the means.” The headwaiter arrived. “Book me a table for two in the Grill at eight-thirty.”
oooo“Certainly, Senator,” said the headwaiter and backed away.
ooooCumio squirmed in his seat and smiled a nervous smile that Wingfield found attractive. “Machiavellian, perhaps,” said the Senator. “But I learned a long time ago that it takes power to get things done in Washington; use it or lose it. And if you don’t have it, you’re a political eunuch. Well, I may be a lot of things,” he said leaning forward, “But I’m no eunuch.”
ooooIt was as if a smiling Budda had reached out and smitten one of his worshippers. Cumio stared at the table, pushed the lock of hair from his eyes and boxed the glasses up his nose.
ooooWingfield had breached the etiquette of politics, saying in bald words that which was usually communicated only in the Second Sentence: the implication, the allusion, the veiled threat, the tacit agreement and inuendo that was the lingua franca of power; the oil without which the wheels within wheels of its mechanisms would grind to a halt.
ooooToo many cocktails.
ooooOnce the blood had left his cheeks, Cumio looked up. “What about the environmental conference? Opening ceremonies are at five. We’re—you’re expected.”
ooooWingfield expelled a wine-soaked sigh. “I’ll be there,” he said. “Have the car ready had 4:30. I’m going to take a nap.” He resisted the urge to add, ‘care to join me?’ His young man was not the companion he had hoped for.
ooooCumio inhaled deeply and deflated loudly, coming to rest on his folded arms as Wingfield swept out of the room. The vibrating of his cell phone startled him. He unhooked it from his vest pocket and stared at the display, the return number had been relayed to him by the embassy. “The White House?”
ooooAs he ran across the lobby Cumio wondered what the President could possibly want of Wingfield. While many in Washington—through long battles—develop friendships, or at least a grudging admiration for those on the opposing side of the ideological divide, in the case of the President and Wingfield a mutual loathing had emerged that transcended simple politics.
ooooIt was one of Wingfield’s speechwriters who had fed the “Accidental President” epithet to the press, and Wingfield loved it, often referring to the President as “A.P.”
ooooWhatever the President wanted the Senator for, it was important.

ooooThe phone rang on the wall of the production booth. Sandy Merchison, her eyes riveted on the array of monitors in the darkened room, groped for it with her free hand. “Merchison,” she said. “More red,” she added, the last comment directed at the overwrought oriental girl who was manipulating the chroma levels on the news graphic.
oooo“Make the page turn slower. Give it another second.”
ooooThe caller was speaking. “What?” said Merchison. “Bradley? Is that you?” Bradley answered in the affirmative. “What have you got? What’s it about?”
ooooThere was a pause. “Come on, Brad,” said Merchison. “There’s got to be someone there who can give you a handle on this. We’re talking about Washington.”
ooooAnother pause followed during which Merchison became more and more aggravated. “I don’t like this, Bradley. Get out there and get me the handle. I want to know what he’s up to, you understand? I’m not going to be left hanging out there with a lot of dead air after the press conference, looking like a blithering idiot.” She slammed the phone down.
oooo“Is that enough red?” said the oriental girl meekly.
oooo“Sandy,” said an agitated man in a white shirt, bow-tie and suspenders, sticking his head into the room and affixing himself to the door post with both hands. “I tried getting in touch with Wingfield. His people say he’s in London for that environmental conference. I can’t track down a cell phone number for him.”
oooo“He hates cell phones,” said Merchison, rubbing her forehead. “Last best hope,” he sighed. “Bradley’s getting nowhere, either.” She raised her eyes. “How can this be, Peter? How can the President be the only one who knows what the press conference is going to be about?
oooo“The news isn’t all bad, though,” said Peter.
oooo“What have you got?”
oooo“General Freeman met with the President this morning at seven o’clock,” Peter smiled.
oooo“Freeman!” said Merchison, her eyebrows twisted into question marks. “Military. Foreign? Where, do you think? Have we heard anything from the bureaus?”
oooo“Nada.”
ooooMerchison stomped the floor with her fourteen-thousand dollar Manolo Blahnik shoes. “The threat level is still orange. Somebody out there’s sleeping at the switch. Rattle their cages. Drag their carcasses out of bed and tell ‘em to get on the phone! We’ve got two hours ‘til we pick up the feed from the Oval Office and heads are going to roll if I don’t know what this is all about before then. Capiche?”
oooo“Capiche!” said Peter.
oooo“Did the President keep to his schedule this morning?”
oooo“To the second. I’ll make those calls.” Peter was halfway down the hall when Merchison called after him. He stopped and turned.
oooo“Did you put someone on Freeman?”
oooo“The Ragman,” Peter replied.
oooo“Good,” said Merchison, drawing back into the production booth before Peter could reply.
oooo“Not so good,” Peter said to himself. “He lost him.” He continued down the hall. In the twenty years he’d known him the Ragman had never lost anyone. Freeman must be taking extraordinary precautions. Why? What was up?
oooo“Oh, Pete!” said a young black woman, nearly colliding with him as she bolted out of the elevator. “Is Merch still up here?”
oooo“She’s in Graphics B,” Peter replied. “Why? Got something?”
ooooThe woman spoke over her shoulder as she hurried down the hall. “The President’s requested a special meeting of the U. N. Security Council tonight at seven.”
oooo“He’s coming here? To New York?”
oooo“Must be,” said the woman. “This is where they keep the U.N., isn’t it?” She dodged into the production studio.
Peter stepped into the elevator. It was impossible not to put two and two together. Only a credible terrorist threat could cause all this upheaval. Had to be. But not from any of the usual sources. His bureau people were good. They’d know if something was up. Had to be terrorists, then. Al Queda or some other collection of fanatics out there had finally got the bomb. Then again, if the Iranians had decided to flex their new-found nuclear muscle . . .
ooooThe door opened. He stayed in the elevator and it closed. After deliberating for a few seconds, he pushed the button..

oooo“I was born for satin!” Calvin exulted as he swam through the sheets, rolling back and forth across the Queen Anne canopy bed. He stopped suddenly, sat up and grabbed the phone. “Yes. Concierge? This is room 52. Have there been any calls for me?”
ooooHe coiled the white cord around his ebony finger as he listened to the response. “Yes, I know you said . . . ” He uncoiled his finger. “I’m expecting a very important call.” He set the phone in it’s gold and ivory cradle, lay back on the bed and surveyed himself carefully in the full-length canopy mirror. “Poor Calvin,” he said, tears welling in his eyes. “Satin is for coffins.” He wrapped the sheets around him and cried.
ooooThe phone rang. He sat up, wiped the corners of his eyes on the sheet, sniffed, waited two more rings and answered. “Calvin speaking.” He paused. “Well, it’s about time, I was expecting you to . . . ” Pause. “What? You said . . . !” Pause. “Well, what’s so important? How am I supposed to get there by myself?” Pause. “I don’t know where it is.” Pause. “Yes, it’s a lovely hotel.” Calvin looked around the room, tying the phone cord in knots around his nervous fingers. “I don’t see why we couldn’t have stayed at the same place. We always did before. I have something you tell you.” Pause. “But it’s important!” Pause. “Yes, I’ll take a taxi. You only left me fifty pounds. That’s all that was in the envelope.
oooo“You don’t have to worry, you know. I’m not going to run away.” Pause. “Oh, don’t be cross. Please. I’ll wait. I’ll wait!” He swung his feet to the floor, straightened his back and crossed his legs. “Yes. I understand. I’ll be there if you . . . ” Pause. “Yes, if you can get away. It’s not far, is it? No, I won’t forget, Natural History Museum.” Pause. “Yes, Exhibition Road entrance, Earth Galleries.” Pause. “I have my little badge, yes. It’s a terrible picture. Don’t worry, will you?” He giggled. “I’m wearing my new denim outfit. You won’t know me, I’ll be so butch. What?” Pause. “Yes, yes. You have to go. Big important you.”

Chapter Ten: The Cobra’s Head

London

oooo“Are you warmer now?” said Dumas. He patted Janine lightly on the on the shoulder. They had gotten off the bus at Jamme Masjid and were walking toward Christ Church on Fournier, whose narrow 18th century townhouses were like a million others in London, except for their distinctive colored doors and oversized attic windows.
oooo“Warm enough to be hungry,” Janine replied. “These smells are driving me crazy.”
oooo“The Bengalis are getting ready for the market tomorrow,” Miller explained.
oooo“Bangalis?” said Janine.
oooo“Indians,” said Dumas.
oooo“They’re all here,” continued Miller. “Jews, Muslims, a few Orientals—but mostly Bengalis there along Brick Street. You haven’t had sweets until you’ve . . . ”
oooo“This is where the second call came from,” Dumas interrupted, gesturing at the church. They had walked the length of Fournier, crossed the street and were standing on the northern corner at the intersection of Brushfield and Commercial Street.
oooo“The church?” said Janine.
oooo“Nearby, somewhere. I could hear the bells on the tape in Fuller’s office.”
oooo“There are more churches in London than there are Christians,” Miller observed. “What makes you think it was this one?”
ooooDumas dug his hands a little deeper into his pocket and smiled. “Very distinctive carillon. Fuller said the call was made from a cell phone.”
oooo“So all we have to do,” Janine surmised, “is find an Arab with a cell phone.”
oooo“As long as we’re dealing in stereotypes,” said Miller, “finding an Arab with a cell phone is roughly the equivalent of finding a Japanese with a digital camera.”
ooooDumas sank to a graffiti-covered bus bench and hung a blank face out to gape at the neighborhood. “You’re right,” he said. “It’s bloody useless.” He raised weary eyes to his companions. “I’m out of my depth, ladies,” he confessed. “I haven’t the foggiest idea what to do next.”
oooo“I do,” said Miller, hailing a cab. “We take the whole story to Secretary Scott, as you should have done in the first place.”
ooooThe remark animated Dumas. He jumped to his feet. “No!”
ooooA cab pulled to the curb.
oooo“What do you mean? You said yourself . . . ”
oooo“Fuller said no one could be trusted,” said Dumas as a cab pulled to the curb.
ooooMiller opened the passenger door. “Yes, but surely he didn’t mean Secretary Scott!”
oooo“He suspected a leak at COBRA.” said Dumas. He and Janine were still on the curb. Miller was in the back seat of the cab with the door still open.
oooo“What’s a cobra?” said Janine.
oooo“Seems his suspicions were rampant and indiscriminate.”
oooo“Where to, ma’am?” said the driver.
ooooMiller was struggling. “I could leave now,” she said.
ooooDumas shrugged and nodded.
oooo“What’s a cobra?”
oooo“It’s a committee of the Home Office – dealing with terrorism.” Dumas explained hurriedly, suddenly realizing how cursory his knowledge of that powerful and semi-secretive division was and wishing he’d listened more carefully during cabinet briefings.
oooo“I could go tell the Secretary—and let him worry about it. I don’t believe for a minute that . . . and you said yourself you haven’t a clue!”
oooo“All I know is what I know,” said Dumas.
oooo“Where does madam wish to go?” said the cabby.
ooooDumas’ attention was diverted by the driver’s accent. He bent down for a look at him. “I say. You’re Arab, aren’t you?”
oooo“Very observant,” the driver replied. “But I know my way around London, if that’s what worries you.”
oooo“Get in,” said Dumas, giving Janine a quick tug. She got in, as did Dumas.
ooooThe driver assumed a thick cockney accent. “That’s better. Where to, mate?”
oooo“Nowhere,” said Dumas. “This is fine, so long as we’re out of traffic.”
oooo“I beg your pardon?” said the driver, dropping the accent.
oooo“No,” said Miller. “I beg his pardon. What is it now, Lord Dumas? I know you appreciate the seriousness of the situation. You must do, given the jeopardy you’ve place yourself in.”
oooo“We can sit here as long as you like,” said the driver. “But it’s going to cost you a quid a minute.” He flicked the meter lever, folded his arms and leaned back disinterestedly.
ooooMiller continued. “You’re not Joan of Arc, you know. God hasn’t deposited this information with you like some kind of divine revelation because you’re the only one in the world who can do anything about it. It was a fluke. An accident. Don’t perpetuate the folly by imagining anything’s up to you.” Dumas was studying the driver in the rear view mirror. “Are you listening?” Miller continued. “Come with me to the Secretary—we’ll tell him your story, and he can bring the resources of half the world to bear on the problem.”
ooooHe resisted the temptation with effort. “The resources of the world haven’t proven much use in the war on terrorism thus far, have they? Look at Afghanistan. Iraq . . .” said Dumas. The driver flashed him a quick glance.
oooo“And you can get back to your grave rubbings,” Miller continued, ignoring him.
ooooDumas looked hard at Miller, in a way that made her uncomfortable. “Too many graves,” he said.
oooo“Beg pardon?”
oooo“There will be too many graves—unless we do something. It’s up to us.” He turned his attention to the driver’s identity card. “Your name is Mohammed?”
ooooMohammed nodded once. “Not an exclusive honor, but an honor nevertheless.”
oooo“To be sure. To be sure. You are from?”
oooo“Weaver Street. A quarter mile that way.”
oooo“Oh, you’re not . . . ”
oooo“English as steak and kidney pie, but without the kidney,” Mohammed replied with a smile. “Not halal, you know.”
ooooDumas was perplexed. “But, the accent.”
oooo“I lived in Riyadh for many years,” Mohammed replied. “As long as the meter is running, I will be happy to give you my life’s story—you will find it a long and colorful life.”
oooo“Do you know any terrorists?”
oooo“Oh, please!” said Miller, reddening with indignation.
ooooMohammed’s smile dissolved, and his eyes flashed with offense. “You assume I know terrorists, because I am Arab?” he said. “That is so typical of your sort. Get out of my cab!” He started to get out himself, presumably to assist them, but Dumas laid his hand on his arm.
oooo“No, no. It’s not like that at all,” he apologized. “I know I’m terribly—I don’t know how to go about this sort of thing. I didn’t mean to cause offense, I assure you. But, I’m trying to find a fellow—a particular fellow. It’s very important.”
oooo“A terrorist?”
oooo“Yes.”
oooo“Why not try the Irish?”
oooo“Please,” said Dumas. “It’s very important.”
oooo“How important?” Mohammed replied, raising one eyebrow and rubbing his thumb and forefinger together. “This is the Information Age, you know. Knowledge is a commodity.”
oooo“You know something, then?”
oooo“I don’t believe this,” said Miller under her breath. “Do you seriously imagine you can just go about the countryside pulling over cabbies and get this kind of information? Whitehall spends millions of dollars on satellites and trained personnel to . . . Oh, never mind. This is too absurd. Wave a few quid at this fellow and he’ll tell you anything you want to hear.”
Dumas took out his wallet and withdrew a fifty pound note, folded it in half and held it in the air.
oooo“Ah, Christopher Wren!” said Mohammed, the smile returning to his face. “One of my favorite fellow-countrymen. The lady is right,” he took the fifty pounds. “I will tell you anything you want to hear—but it will be the truth.”
oooo“If it is,” said Dumas, “there’s much more where that came from.”
ooooMohammed shut off the meter.
“That mention of steak and kidney pie’s made me hungry,” said Janine. ooooThe cabby leaned over the seat and rested his chin on his arm. “What do you want to know?”
oooo“Be careful what you say,” Miller cautioned. She opened the door. “I have to find a ladies’. Don’t go anywhere without me, will you?”
oooo“Oh, you would have to say that,” said Janine. She slid across the seat and got out on the curb. “You wouldn’t have an extra Christopher Wren for me, would you? I could murder a pasty.”
oooo“A vegetable pasty, given the neighborhood,” said Dumas with a smile. counting out three pounds in change. “That should do the job.”
ooooThe women closed the door and left. “That one,” said Mohammed, nodding after them. “Bit frosty, ey?”
oooo“Not the redhead, surely,” said Dumas, watching the women as they crossed the street and disappeared around the corner.
oooo“No, no. The other!”
ooooDumas was reflective. “She’s had a very hard day.”
oooo“Ah.”
oooo“And—it’s more than likely she’s right about you.”
oooo“You think so?”
oooo“It’s highly unlikely you can tell me anything that will be of use. You must admit—highly unlikely.”
oooo“What you don’t ask, you will never know,” said Mohammed. “London is a great city, but the neighborhoods are very small. One hears things. Who is it you’re looking for?”
oooo“I don’t have a name, I’m afraid.”
oooo“No name! You want the impossible, then. That could cost you another fifty pounds.”
ooooDumas massaged his forehead with a worried hand. “Seeing as I can’t trust the most likely, I suppose I must trust the least likely.”
oooo“Pardon?”
oooo“I’m going to tell you something that—that I wouldn’t believe if I were you. Nevertheless . . . ”
ooooAs he recounted the events of the last eighteen hours for the third time—edited for his audience of one—it seemed more than ever the ravings of a madman. He fully expected a map of incredulity to spread across the cabby’s face at any time. But instead, he nodded, said “Mm, hm,” a couple of times, and listened with patient concern.
oooo“I heard about that—the explosions.”
oooo“You believe me, then?”
oooo“Well, to a point I must,” said Mohammed thoughtfully. “The names of the victims have never been mentioned—just government officials, but you know them, or seem to. That says something for your story.
oooo“And this sickness . . . ”
oooo“Ebloa.”
oooo“Ebloa. It’s true? There is such a thing?”
oooo“Yes.”
oooo“But, you don’t know where it is?”
ooooDumas shrugged his shoulders. “That’s why we need to find this fellow. He’d know.”
oooo“The one who placed the call?”
oooo“Yes.”
oooo“Is there anything you else you can remember about the call—other than the bells. Anything distinctive about his voice? Arabs are like the English—there are many different dialects.”
ooooDumas replayed the conversation in his mind and shook his head. “I’m not very good with accents, I’m afraid.”
oooo“Did this fellow have a name?”
oooo“He’d hardly leave his name, as I said . . . ”
oooo“No,” said Mohammed. “You misunderstand. The fellow in prison—Do you know his name?”
oooo“Yes!” said Dumas, canvassing his pockets. “I’d forgotten. I wrote it down.” He produced the paper and handed it to the driver, who stared at it a long time. “What is it?” said Dumas. “You recognize the name?”
oooo“Farhan al-Sa’di,” said the driver flatly. “Yes.” He folded the paper slowly and handed it back. “And it tells me two things.”
oooo“Which are?”
ooooMohammed raised his black eyes and fixed them on his passenger. “First, that you are not lying,” he said. “And second—you have every right to be worried.”
oooo“You know these people?!”
oooo“I know of them,” Mohammed replied. “They would do such a thing.” The hard look in his eyes acquired a softer edge. “But remember, all Jews are not moneylenders, neither are all Arabs terrorists.”
oooo“Indeed not,” said Dumas. “I didn’t mean to imply they were.”
oooo“No,” said Mohammed with a quick smile. “You have been very careful. It’s just that, we all tend to get painted with the same brush, you know?
oooo“My father is an imam, a very devout man—it was he who insisted I go to madrasa in Riyadh; Muslim school. It sickens his heart the things that are done in the name of Allah. ‘As for these unbelievers, neither their riches nor their children shall in the least save them from Allah’s wrath. They shall become the fuel of Hell.’ My father believed the greatest infidel is a Child of the Book, who denies its wisdom, and ignores its injunctions.”
oooo“He was a wise man,” said Dumas. “I wish he was with us now.”
ooooMohammed smiled broadly. “Didn’t Jesus say the Son and the Father are one? Well, here am I.”
oooo“Samuel,” said Dumas.
oooo“Pardon?”
oooo“Samuel the Judge—when called by the Lord said ‘here am I.’
ooooMohammed tilted his head out of the sun and looked carefully at Dumas. “So he did,” he said. “And here we are.”
ooooThey shared a moment of silence, then Mohammed spoke. “It’s possible I know the man you’re looking for. His name is Javad Nasari—but he calls himself el-Sayf Allah. The Sword of God.”
oooo“He’s in London?”
oooo“Sometimes,” said Mohammed. “He comes and goes.”
oooo“How can we find out?”
ooooDumas started when the door opened and Janine climbed in, followed closely by Miller. “Want some crisps?” said Janine, thrusting a bag first at Dumas, who declined, then at the cabby, who accepted.
oooo“It won’t be difficult,” said Mohammed. “There is a restaurant on Brick Lane.”
oooo“Then, let’s go there,” said Dumas.
oooo“Listen,” said Miller. “It’s obvious you’re out of your depth . . .”
oooo“Admittedly,” said Dumas.
oooo“The harder I think about it, the more determined I am that I’m right. We should go down to the Secretary at once and tell them the whole story. I mean—Fuller’s doubts notwithstanding—I don’t see who else we can trust. There’s nothing we can do on our own, and if we did, there’s a chance it would be treasonous.”
oooo“Fuller may have been a cautious man, Ms. Miller . . . ”
oooo“Overcautious,” Miller corrected.
oooo“Do you think so? Given the fact that he’s dead—I’d say not cautious enough, wouldn’t you? And, as you have corroborated yourself, his suspicions of you were justified. Why not those of others as well?”
ooooMiller flushed slightly and didn’t respond.
oooo“Besides, Mohammed and I have been having a very interesting conversation.”
oooo“I trust you have, at a pound a minute,” Miller interjected skeptically.
oooo“Nothing of the sort,” Dumas replied calmly. “He’s taking us to a place now, where . . . ”
oooo“I beg your pardon, gov’,” said the cabby, “but you misunderstand again. This is not the sort of place—what I mean to say is, your presence—and especially that of the ladies, in this particular place, would not be welcome, nor loosen tongues. Understand? I shall let you off near the mosque, then go there alone, for coffee. I do this from time-to-time. I will not be suspected.”
oooo“And you’ll, what? Ask questions?” said Dumas.
ooooThe cabby threw the car into gear and pulled away from the curb. “I doubt that I shall have to,” he said. “‘He learns most who speaks least.’”
oooo“I think we should stay here,” said Miller, agitatedly, putting her hand on the back of the seat. “We should talk things over. It would be foolishness to proceed without some kind of plan. Something.”
oooo“We can plan better when we know a little more,” said Dumas. “As things stand, we have nothing to lose. Brick Lane, driver.”
ooooMiller protested hotly. “I really think we should wait here. Let’s think this through.”
ooooDumas, palpably feeling the minutes tick away, ignored her. “Brick Lane, driver.”

Chapter Eleven: The Pillared Saints

The Vatican

oooo“It’s snowing,” said the Monsignor. For a long time he had been staring out a tall window of the Pope’s third floor apartments in the Apostolic Palace overlooking the Piazza San Pietro, though only a small corner was visible over the colonnades.
ooooA modest white candle burned on the Pope’s bedside table, haloing his head in with a golden glow, otherwise two windows provided the only light in the room—a colorless wash that deepened the shadows and sapped color from those things bathed in its wintry starkness. A censer of frankincense burned on a simple oak table at the foot of the bed, draping the scene with a thin blue veil. An art-lover, opening the door at that moment, could be forgiven for wondering if he had stumbled upon yet another of Bernini’s supernatural masterpieces: a pope dying in bed—while a likely successor ponders the future in the near background.
ooooThe Monsignor, however, was not a pope-in-waiting, but one of his personal secretaries and the younger brother of an old friend, raised only two doors down from the yellow stone house on Schulstraße Street in Marktl where the Pope was born.
ooooThe Pope’s eyes opened, pale, blue and watery and sought the speaker. “Ah, Heinrich? I must have fallen asleep,” he said softly. “Snowing, eh?” He smiled. “‘Dressing the world in forgiveness’ a poet said. ‘Dressing the world—in forgiveness.’ Like Christ’s blood—shielding our sins from the eyes of God, eh?”
ooooThe Monsignor turned, his arms folded behind his back, his shadow spreading across the room, lost in deeper shadows. He had been crying, but his tears were invisible in the darkness, his voice steady and comforting. “Get out of bed, Joseph—it’s snowing!”
ooooThe Pope laughed weakly as his friend’s words washed the cruel century away and animated a hundred ghosts with memories long forgotten, now clearer than ever. “I remember. You would always tag along with your brother. ‘Come!’ you would say. ‘Come, everyone is sliding on the hill—I have a box. Come, Joseph! Before the snow is gone!’”
ooooHis eyes drifted to the candle. “Little did we know, Heinrich —that winter would last so long.”
ooooThe Monsignor came to the bedside and resumed the straight-backed chair he’d occupied most of the night and morning. “Your fever is down. Did you sleep well?”
oooo“Comme si, comme sa,” said the Pope with a wag of the head and a brief sparkle in his eye. “My hip doesn’t want me to get comfortable—a small share in Christ’s sufferings, eh? But I’m plagued by dreams.”
oooo“Dreams?”
ooooThe pope looked again at the candle. “Strange dreams, Heinrich. Like none I’ve ever had.”
oooo“Visions? Angels?”
ooooThe two men had been through a lot together. Survived a lot. If ever a man deserved sainthood, Heinrich thought, it was this Pope. A miracle was all that was needed.
oooo“Visions? Possibly,” said the Pope. “Angels? I think not.”
oooo“Tell me.”
ooooFor a long time the Pope remained staring at the candle, collecting his thoughts. “I dreamt I was walking through the Sistine Chapel, staring at Michelangelo’s wonderful ceiling, when all at once, the figures began to move. They separated from the painting—came to life! And with them, the chaos, the fury, the sounds of souls in torment and saints in ecstasy, the swirl of eternity—the pagan gods—Miriam, Moses, St. Bartholomew with his flesh in his hands—swirling, spinning around. Then I realized, they were after me. Almost too long I was in awe, unable to move—then I ran into the Sala Regia—the same again—and the Pauline Chapel, where Raphael’s visions joined the others—all coming to life—all descending upon me.
oooo“I ran to the gardens, and the statuary swarmed to life, the highest passions and basest horrors of three thousand years of men’s imaginings—through the museums, into the Basilica—I ran with the hoard in pursuit—down, down into the necropolis —all the way to St. Peter’s crypt.
oooo“All the time voices were calling to me—’Your Holiness— where is your cane?’ But I’d lost it.
oooo“There was nowhere else to hide. Even the dead around me are coming to life, their bones clattering like wooden chimes in the wind, black eyes burning in their sockets—I am just about to remove the lid.”
ooooHe stopped speaking for a moment, breathed deeply and stared even more intently into the flame. “It is so heavy. I struggle as eternity closes about me—finally the stone begins to move—and what do I find?”
oooo“Saint Peter?” Heinrich choked hopefully.
ooooThe Pope shook his head. “No—Constantine the Sixth. Poor, blind Constantine.”
ooooHeinrich exhaled a relieved laughter. “What would a Byzantine Emperor have been doing in St. Peter’s sarcophagus?”
ooooThe Pope’s mind was elsewhere. “I don’t know how I knew it was him, there were only bones. But, I knew. Poor boy. Blinded and imprisoned by his own mother.”
oooo“Irene. Yes. Terrible.”
oooo“Now, isn’t that a curious thing?”
oooo“Most curious. What happened then?”
oooo“Then? Nothing. I awoke.”
oooo“Mother of God!” said the Monsignor, crossing himself. “What does it mean?”
ooooThe Pope looked at his friend and smiled. “I have no idea.” His attention wandered and his sight drifted around the room. “I have heard it said that the dying can see the dead—as we become spirit, we perceive spiritual things. Heaven was opened for St. Istephen, even as they were stoning him to death.” He sighed.
oooo“I’m tired all the time, Heinrich. I should have taken up skiing, like His Holiness.”
ooooEven after years as Pope, he still referred to his predecessor, John Paul, as His Holiness.
oooo“It must be a vision,” the Monsignor insisted. “What else could it be?”
oooo“Bad chicken,” said the Pope with a feeble laugh. Again the two lapsed into a comfortable silence. “I have composed the text of the Christmas Eve Mass.”
oooo“You have?” asked the Monsignor, bewildered. He supposed his old friend’s mind was wandering again since he’d been with him off and on nearly forty-eight hours and hadn’t seen him write anything.
oooo“Up here,” said the Pope, tapping his forehead. “Not about the Nativity—”
oooo“No? On Christmas? What, then?”
oooo“The Return.”
ooooThe Monsignor nodded. “I see,” he grinned. “These dreams have made a Baptist of you!”
ooooThe Pope laughed. “Pentacostal, I think,” he said. “Any minute now I will burst into tongues and start lengthening people’s legs!” His gaze came to rest again on the candle, as the laughter and its accompanying cough died away. “Too often, I think, we forget the great hope. Christ will return. It will be a terrible day.”
oooo“Terrible?” the Monsignor remarked. “Wonderful, I should think!”
oooo“When was the last time you read The Revelation?” the Pope asked.
oooo“Not since seminary,” said the Monsignor sheepishly. He thought for a while. “Truth is, I always mean to study Scripture, but—what with one thing and another.”
oooo“One thing and another,” echoed the Pope. “Satan’s tools to keep us from God. Luther was right about one thing,” he sifted a German edition New Testament from among several on his bedside table, “we are all responsible for ourselves before God. Take this, Heinrich. Read it. It’s the story of this age.”
ooooHe blew out the candle. “Would you darken the windows, please, on your way out?” he said. “I’m very tired.”
ooooThe Monsignor bowed, closed the shutters and went to the door. “If you need anything . . . ”
oooo“What would that be?” said the voice in the darkness. “You anticipate everything before the need arises.”
ooooThe Monsignor closed the door noiselessly and, cradling the New Testament in his hands, left the Presence. His shuffling footsteps echoed softly through the cavernous marble hallways as he reflected on how rapidly his old friend’s physical resources—diminished enough by age and the heavy mantle he bore—had been irreversibly depleted by the sex abuse scandals that had rocked the church in recent years, the tumult over the internal documents – stolen by his personal butler and leaked to the media that had nearly cost Cardinal Bertone his job. It was as if the church were under siege.
ooooOf course, the church had weathered many a storm down the centuries.
ooooThe Monsignor tossed a tattered prayer toward the cold stone arches overhead, to the percussive accompaniment of his shuffling footsteps.
ooooA similar prayer, too weak to echo, drifted softly toward heaven in the Pope’s apartment.
oooo“Take my hand, Jesus,” whispered the Bishop of Rome, the Vicar of Christ, in his native tongue. “I can’t travel these dreams alone.”
ooooFor long after, the soft rattle of his rosary beads chattered in the darkness.
oooo
oooo“This is unconscionable!” said Defense Secretary Toby Phillips. He pounded the corner of the President’s desk with the flat of his hand as he rose from his chair. “We have treaties . . . “
oooo“Sit down, Toby,” said the President calmly.
ooooPhillips had been a brilliant campaign strategist, and should have gone on to chairmanship of the party, but he wanted more, so the President’s predecessor had given him the cabinet post. Bad choice. The frenetic energy and constant adrenaline high that made him front line material in the election trenches, were the attributes least desirable in a Secretary of Defense. His wasn’t a cool head. His responses were invariably founded on political considerations. He sank to his seat on a cushion of indignation. “You can’t do it,” he muttered.
oooo“It may come as a surprise to you,” the President continued, “that I didn’t call you here in order to get your approval.” He fixed a determined stare on his security advisor and the secretary in turn. “It’s done.”
oooo“You can’t! You don’t have the authority! You have to consult Congress. Our allies—we’re signatories to half a dozen treaties with sovereign nations!”
oooo“It’s been done, Tobe.” The President battled back a niggling resentment at the recollection that Toby Phillips had fought against his nomination as president pro-tem—citing the fact that he was not the longest serving member; that individual, though popular among his constituency, was mentally enfeebled—had, in fact, used every dirty trick in the book to undermine the few crumbs of authority that fall to an accidental president, no doubt intending to ingratiate himself on the next legitimate Occupant. He reminded himself that he was president now. He could afford to be magnanimous. Once he was president on his own, however . . .
ooooIt was a thought that had come to him often. This was the last time.
oooo“There it goes!” said the Secretary, throwing up his hands. “I resign! Effective immediately. And you might just as well—jump out the window!” He began to rise again.
oooo“Please, sit down,” said the President.
ooooOnce again the Secretary slowly deflated to his seat. “If you want to castrate this administration—after all we’ve worked for. After all your predecessor worked for, may I remind you, I can’t stop you. But what about all the other poor slobs in this party out there beating the bushes, trying to scrape together a few bucks to run for office?”
ooooThe President shook his head. “This is bigger than politics, Toby.”
oooo“Depends on your definition of politics, Mr. President,” said the Secretary sharply. “I think anytime you make a decision that’s going to bring an elected administration crashing down around your ears—lose us even our strongest allies, wreck the economy, and might cause irreparable harm to this nation—I think politics enters into it, don’t you? You can’t do it; there’s simply no question.”
oooo“I’m more concerned with people,” said the President’s security advisor, Tap Marley. “But I’ve got to agree with Phillips, this seems like overkill. We’re talking, basically, what? One woman? A handful of terrorists? There’s got to be a better way. A surgical strike—targeting the hotel. We did it in Baghdad . . . ”
ooooThe President cast a appealing glance at Freeman.
oooo“According to Dr. Cavallo at CDC, the virus would probably be superanimated by a conventional explosion. In fact, such an explosion could disseminate the virus over an area up to a thousand square miles within two or three hours, depending on the prevailing wind.”
oooo“I’m no biological genius,” Marley interjected. “But I know viruses don’t survive outside the host—seconds or minutes, at the most.”
oooo“Not this one,” said Freeman. “Viruses and bacteria are evolving at incredible rates, several generations in twenty or thirty minutes. As soon as a vaccine or antibiotic is discovered, the bug simply re-configures itself. It’s not unlikely that, in the next ten or twenty years, a lot of viruses will evolve airborne strains. AIDS is already mutating in that direction. Besides, this is a serum—a concentration.”
oooo“Back to the present, Mr. Director,” said Phillips sharply. “No hypothesis. No science fantasy. What if the wind is from the east? Wouldn’t it blow out to the Mediterranean?”
oooo“What about Crete—Cyprus?” said the President.
oooo“Begging your pardon, Mr. President,” said Freeman, “that’s not the point. The prevailing wind this time of year is from the southwest.”
oooo“But . . . ” Phillips began.
oooo“There’s been a constant southwest wind for the last three days,” Freeman continued. “If we let this spin off into ‘what-if’s’—it’ll be too late to do anything.”
oooo“Everybody who watches PBS has heard about ebola,” Marley contended. “It’s bad, I know, but—is it that bad? Worse than a nuclear explosion?”
ooooThe President pressed a button on the intercom. “Jeri, have two copies of Dr. Cavallo’s tape made, give them to the Defense Secretary and the security advisor on their way out.”
oooo“Yes, sir.”
oooo“And, you’ve made those other arrangements?”
oooo“Yes, sir.”
oooo“Thank you.”
oooo“It’s too damn drastic,” Phillips complained bitterly.
ooooThe President stood and leaned across the desk, bracing himself on his arms. “You don’t think it seems drastic to me, Phil? You don’t think I’d take any other way out? Have you got one? Go on. I’m listening!”
ooooPhillips adjusted his tie and swallowed hard. “Well—I’m sure—given time. We could get some experts together . . . ”
oooo“Time?” said the President. “How much time would you like?”
oooo“Two, three days,” said Phillips, sitting up, reassured by what seemed a slender thread of reason. “I’m sure a committee could find . . . ”
oooo“And what if the virus has already been released by that time?”
oooo“Well . . . ” Phillips replied, furrowing his brows, “we’ll have to deal with that situation—if it arises.”
oooo“How?”
oooo“How?!” said Phillips, the blood rushing to his head. “How am I supposed to know? Vaccinations. There must be something we can do—this isn’t the 1300’s!”
oooo“That’s exactly what it is,” said the President, pausing a second to drive home his point, “as far as ebola is concerned.”
ooooPhillips hung his head and clenched his fists. “There has to be a better way.”
oooo“Maybe you think I’m tired of this office!” said the President, losing patience. He slammed both hands on the desk, upsetting the black leather-covered ‘Out’ basket that sat between him and Phillips. “I’ve got a pretty clear idea what this is going to mean to me, professionally and personally. I’m about to become the most hated man on the planet—and I’ll probably go down in history that way. But that’s the job, isn’t it? If a man can’t be bigger than the office, when the situation demands it—he has no place holding it.
oooo“Now,” he continued, subsiding into his chair. “I know rumors have been flying all over the place—I didn’t want this to be a situation where one hand doesn’t know what the other’s doing. I expect you to put a good face on it—and whatever you do, don’t tip our hand. The four of us in this room are the only ones in this country who know what’s happening.” He glanced at his watch. “And for the next fifty minutes, it has to stay that way. Promise me.”
ooooMarley rested his elbows on his knees, lowered his face to his hands, sighed deeply and nodded.
oooo“Yes, sir,” said Freeman.
ooooPhillips began shaking his head, slowly at first, then deliberately. Frantically. ‘No!” he said finally, rising for the third time. “No! I can’t do it! That bomb will kill thousands. Hundreds of thousands!”
oooo“And ebola will kill millions,” said Freeman, who had already internalized this argument.
oooo“May!” cried Phillips. “May! I doubt they’ll ever use it. How long is it good for? Doesn’t it become ineffective eventually?”
oooo“Sit down!” said the President sharply.
oooo“No!” Phillips snapped. “No! I won’t sit down! I have to live with myself. There’s another way. There’s always another way!”
oooo“Toby, I need your promise to keep silent for the next fifty minutes,” said the President flatly.
oooo“What else can we do?” said Marley. “He’s right.”
oooo“He can’t be,” said Phillips, standing at attention. “Sir, I demand you accept my resignation. I can make no such promise.”
ooooThe President pushed the intercom. “Okay, Jeri.” He stood and looked Phillips in the face. “I’m sorry it has to be this way, Toby.”
ooooAt that moment the double doors to the outer office opened and two marine guards entered. Jeri, a diminutive, grandmotherly woman not much more than five-feet tall, with thick glasses that magnified her eyes to a state of constant surprise, closed the doors behind them.
oooo“The Secretary is under arrest,” said the President solemnly.
ooooPuzzled expressions passed quickly between the guards.
oooo“Sir?” said one of them
ooooMarley sprang to his feet. “Mr. President, you can’t!”
ooooThe President turned and pointed a finger at Marley. “I have your promise, Tap.” He turned back to the guards. “Take him into custody. You’re to hold him for an hour in the Cabinet Room. One of you is to be with him at all times. If he tries to talk, to you or anyone else—if he so much as sneezes, you are to gag him. In an hour, he’s free to go.”
ooooThe guards looked haplessly from the President to Marley to Freeman. Freeman nodded, Marley turned toward the window.
oooo“Come with us, sir,” said the sergeant.
oooo“I can’t believe you’re doing this,” said Phillips, aghast. “This can’t be happening. You’re throwing everything away. Marley—don’t let him do it!”
ooooMarley remained motionless as the marines guided Phillips from the room, through the President’s private entrance.
ooooA crisp voice hissed over the intercom. “Mr. President—”
ooooThe President slammed the button. “I said no calls, Jeri.”
oooo“I’m sorry, sir,” replied the secretary. “The conference call is ready—you told me to buzz you.”
oooo“Oh.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s that time already.” He looked hopelessly at Freeman.
oooo“You’ve got some awfully nervous people on the line, Mr. President,” said Jeri.
ooooThe President resumed his seat. Freeman sat at attention, staring at a spot on the wall directly opposite him. Marley continued staring blindly out the window. The President put his hand on the phone. A quote arose from somewhere in the fraying terrain of his subconscious:
oooo
oooo“‘Before my God I might not this believe
oooo Without the sensible and true avouch
oooo Of mine own eyes.’”
oooo
ooooHe picked up the phone. “Gentlemen,” he said. “Let me first express my profound apologies for having interrupted your busy schedules like this. Please believe, I would not have done so had the situation not been most urgent.” He allowed a few seconds for the translators to earn their pay. “With your permission, I would like to make a statement—concerning something that directly affects us all.”
ooooOnce again the door opened and Jeri waddled over to Freeman and indicated, by gesture, that he was wanted on the phone in her office. Quickly he got up and caught the President’s eye. “Keep them waiting!” he whispered loudly, holding his finger to his lips. “Keep them waiting!”
oooo
ooooKitan was stunned. He’d assumed the woman had been kidnapped, but here she was, well dressed—that was evident even in the shadows—and in the company of an Arab boy who was carrying a suitcase. The woman carried a small metal box. He was careful not to move until they were well out of the building, for fear the crunch of broken glass and plaster underfoot would alert them to his presence, then, leaving his beloved Jacques behind, he followed them to the streets.
ooooIt was clear the young man was leading the woman. It was equally clear that she no one seemed to be following or forcing her. Over rubble that had only that morning been buildings—shops and homes, still smoldering in places, through abandoned buildings from which balconies hung at precarious angles, Kitan followed until they came out on Rue Hamra, and hailed one of the derelict cabs that still plied a trade on what was left of the darkened city streets.
oooo“The Hippodrome,” said the young man as he followed the woman into the car.
ooooKitan stopped short. He was no longer a young man, and the arduous scrabble through the ruins had left him breathless. “The Hippodrome?” he repeated, loosing clouds of steam on the night. He hadn’t been to the racetrack in years—since it was last rebuilt. In his youth, however, he’d spent much more than time there.
ooooBut what was there now? Nothing. The bombed-out racetrack was, once again, utterly abandoned, turned over to the weeds that slowly ground the grandstand to dust. Nothing.
ooooThere were no other cabs. It took him half-an-hour to cut diagonally across the Arab quarter on foot—twice he got lost—when at last he arrived at the old parking lot that ringed the Hippodrome, he found a few cars parked on either side of the racetrack in the center of which was a small airplane, the throb of its singe engine echoing fitfully in the night.
ooooCrossing the field toward the plane were Dr. Thompson and the boy. The boy stopped about half way, handed her the suitcase, and waved her off. She turned once, before climbing into the plane, and waved to him. Seconds later the plane was airborne, heading west toward the Mediterranean at tree-top level. A machine gun fired a perfunctory salute somewhere in the distance—a few tracer bullets followed the plane into the darkness. Moments later the cars were gone, too, and the boy with them.
ooooKitan was alone with his confusion.
ooooOf the many anomalies of modern war, one of the most perverse is that strewn amidst the debris of death and destruction are functioning artifacts of the present that remind us how far we have come technologically. Returning the way he had come, Kitan found a telephone booth. Good. His cell phone he would use only as a last resort—the airways were too public. He called Yusef.

Chapter Twelve: Messages

New York City

oooo“Bill! Bill!” Merchison was having difficulty forcing a word upstream against the torrent that poured from the phone. “Bill!” she yelled. “Will you listen to me for a minute! I’ve been right here since this thing broke! Everyone’s on it – bureaus all over the world have called in saying the President set up a special conference call for two o’clock – with the half the leaders of the EU and the Arab League.” Pause. “No, I haven’t seen the official list, but I’ve heard it includes members of the Security Council, Israel, Jordan, Syria, Turkey, Iraq . . . what?” Pause. “Yes, Syria.” Pause. “How should I know? Strange bedfellows, I guess. Even the Muslim Brotherhood in Egypt. Those are the only ones I know for sure. They’ll get the rest to me.
oooo“Anyway, next thing I know the two o’clock feed is canceled; at one minute to air! We’d already interrupted programming . . . ” Pause. “Yes, I know, commercial time – be thankful you weren’t in my seat when the tally light came on. Hold on a second, I’ve got a call on the other line.

oooo“Merchison,” said the anchor, irritably. “Peter? What is it?” For the next forty seconds she listened with growing interest. “Thanks, Pete – I’ve got Bill on the other line – stay on top of this. I’ll get back to you.”

ooooShe pushed another button on the phone. “Bill? Sorry to keep you holding, but that was Peter Quinn. See if you can make any sense of this – Brigit Kiley was in the White House, on the First Lady’s Christmas tour – she had to depart from the group to use the facilities – and she saw Toby Phillips being guided from the Oval Office under military guard.” Pause. “Yes, she’s sure. She followed them to the Cabinet Room. One guard went in with him, the other’s standing guard outside.” Pause. “You think so, huh? Well, it gets stranger.

oooo“Just before she lost sight of him, she caught his eye and he mouthed the word ‘Ebola’.” Pause. “I assume it’s the virus. Could be a code word for something else. Who knows? Quinn’s on it. Anyway, apparently Phillips is going to be there a while, because a few minutes later, another guard showed up – wheeling a video monitor on a cart.” Pause. “No, no pictures, Bill – Kiley’s in radio, remember?” Pause. “I don’t know what to make of it – yet. This is turning out to be the strangest news day in history – but so far, all we have to report, hearsay aside, is that nothing’s happened.” Pause. “No, I don’t like it either.”


London, England


ooooAll the blood had rushed from Wingfield’s face. He hadn’t spoken since he hung up the phone, and was having difficulty collecting his thoughts as he stared out the window at the Thames. The President of the United States, in order to destroy two vials of filovirus, was going to drop a nuclear bomb on Beirut.

ooooThere was no way to assimilate information of that magnitude. A hundred improbabilities tumbled into his brain all at once, preeminent among them was the simple fact that, once the operation was over, there would be no way of proving it had been necessary, much less proving the woman was in Beirut in the first place.
ooooHaving chaired the Senate Foreign Relations Committee, he was familiar with bacterial and viral biological weapons, and fully appreciative of their potential to cut a huge swath through the human population. If Dr. Thompson had been kidnapped, and if she had been taken to Beirut, and if the vials were in her possession and, if so, if they were still intact, and if she was at the Holiday Inn, and if she was still in Beirut, and if and if – then the President had no recourse. Perhaps.

ooooIf, if, if.

ooooRegardless of the outcome, the President was writing his political epitaph. The international community would call for his head – and he, Wingfield, would see they got it; gift-wrapped. But there was no way to calculate the political damage to the United States. Could even the staunchest allies be convinced this was the precipitate act of a madman – and his Director of Homeland Security; Freeman mustn’t be left out of the equation – a madman unequal the to exigencies of government?
ooooThe President had demanded Wingfield’s silence for twelve hours, and he had agreed. But there was no moral currency behind a promise made to placate a lunatic. If it became expedient to break it, no reasonable person would hold him accountable.
ooooThen again, what if, somehow, unlikely as it seemed, the President was proven to have made the right decision? It wouldn’t do to squeal too soon and hang himself the way Perot had on Desert Storm all those lifetimes ago.
ooooPoliticians are notoriously poor prophets.

ooooWingfield was not going to lose. This was the alter at which all other considerations paid homage, and as he concentrated his thoughts upon it, they became clearer. Politically he was insulated from blame should anything go wrong, that was good. However, the same insulation kept him from a share of the credit in the unlikely event things turned out well. The question was, how could he benefit from either contingency?
ooooHe needed information. He flipped open his iPhone, looked up a private number and dialed. Being in London was an advantage. Over the years he had formed a lot of friendships – alliances in some of the less public aspects of politics.

oooo“This is Senator Wingfield. Is Sir Richard in, please?”

ooooHe’d met Richard Scott during his first trip to London as a junior senator. Scott had been assistant secretary in the Home Office at the time. It wasn’t long before they discovered certain extra-governmental interests in common and the awareness had inspired a relationship that deepened over the years. As Foreign Secretary, Scott was now one of the most powerful men in the British Government. It would be difficult to imagine a more convenient ally at the moment.
ooooThe Foreign Secretary’s voice on the other end of the line broke his stream of thought. “Dick? – yes, yes. It’s good to hear your voice, too.” Pause. “Didn’t my secretary tell you? Well, it was last minute – the environmental congress.” Pause. “You will? Good, that will give us a chance to talk.” Pause. “Oh, I know. Tedious. Comes with the territory, doesn’t it?” Pause. “Yes, I brought him along – but he’s not working out.” Pause. “Fickle. You know how it is. Clingy. I had to bring him with me, though, just to avoid a scene. Pardon?” Pause. “Oh, please! I’d pay you to take him off my hands!” Pause. “He’s gotten too keen on fisticuffs for my taste.” Pause. “Well, to each his own.” Pause. “I don’t care how he takes it, though I’m sure it’s too much to hope it will be like a man!” The sentence was punctuated by a mirthless laugh.

oooo“Listen,” he continued, brushing badinage aside. “I’ve got something – delicate to discuss with you. No, don’t worry, it’s not that. I’ve got to make the keynote address in half an hour – any chance we could slip away?” Pause. “It’s serious, Dick.” Pause. “Deadly.”

ooooThe last word apparently caught his hearer’s attention. His tone became somber. “No. Not the Club.” Pause. “The Albert Memorial?” Pause. “Of course I know where it is.” Pause. “Okay. all right. I’ll meet you there at five thirty. I just hope it’s not too late.” Pause. “Not on the phone. But if you know anyone in Beirut, call them and tell them to get the hell out.” Pause. “That’s all I can say.”


ooooMichael Cumio had just gotten out of the shower when the pager went off again. He snatched it from the small glass shelf above the sink, sending a shower of toiletries in all directions. “The White House again,” he whispered, looking at the LED display. “What’s going on?”

ooooWithout taking time to towel off, he threw on pants and a shirt and ran barefoot down the hall to Wingfield’s room where he rapped sharply on the door. There was no response. If the Senator was in the shower, or in the next room sleeping, he’d never hear. He banged again, frantically. “Senator!” he cried. Just then a maid rounded the corner and after a quick, approving appraisal, asked if she could be of service. “I need to get in this room.”
oooo“That’s Senator Wingfield’s room, sir,” said the maid, wide-eyed.
oooo“I know, I’m his assistant, here – ” he reached for his wallet, remembering at the same time he’d left it in his other pants. “I don’t – I’m worried about the Senator – I can’t raise him.”

oooo“I shouldn’t wonder,” said the maid, practically. “He’s gone ten minutes now.”
oooo“Gone! Where?”

ooooThe maid shrugged. “Funny now,” she said. “He forgot to tell me, if you can imagine that.” She pottered off down the hall, chuckling to herself.

ooooThe pager beeped again. “I know! I know!” said Cumio, double-checking the number. He checked his watch. The Senator should still be in bed.


oooo“How does this thing work?” said Dumas. Mohammed had deposited the three of them in a tea shop near the Spitalfields Heritage Center on Princelet Street.

oooo“You know what?” said Janine, between sips of tea. “I bet that Arab’s run off with your fifty quid.”
oooo“He’d be a poor businessman if he did,” Dumas replied, he was pressing buttons on the gizmo he’d picked up in Fuller’s office. “It was already his – free and clear, with a promise of more to come.”

ooooJanine was unconvinced. “Still…”
ooooMiller was distracted. She kept looking out the window. “We should have stayed where we were.” She took a long drink of coffee and stared at Dumas through wreathes of steam over the rim of her cup. He was holding the device up to the light and squinting at it. “Where did you get that?”

oooo“In Fuller’s office. It was on his answering machine – I thought it might be useful.”

oooo“I’ve never seen it,” said Miller.

oooo“Oh, I know what that is!” said Janine. Miller shot her a piercing glance, but to no effect. “Here, lemme see.” Dumas handed it to her. “Yeah, you call your answering machine – and hold this up to the receiver – ” she demonstrated the procedure, using her hand as the phone. “Then you press this little button.” She pressed the button and it emitted an almost inaudible beep. “And you can listen to your messages.”
oooo“You don’t say!” said Dumas. It was amazing how much of present had passed him by.

oooo“Old-fashioned one, that. You’d think someone working for the government would be a little more up-to-date.”

oooo“So, if I call Fuller’s number . . .”

oooo“Wait for the machine to answer,” said Janine.

oooo“Yes. Wait for the machine to answer – then push this button . . . “
oooo“It will play back all the messages,” Janine said in summation. “She knew that.” She nodded at Miller.
ooooDumas retrieved the device and looked at Miller. “You did?”
ooooMiller didn’t reply. She took another sip of coffee, turned her head and stared out the window.
oooo“Why are you so nervous?” said Dumas.

oooo“I’m not nervous,” said Miller, the words catching in her throat. “Well – who wouldn’t be? I should think it most unnatural, in the present circumstances, if I wasn’t.”

ooooDumas watched her for a while longer, during which she became more nervous. Finally he nodded and stood up. “If you will please stay here – I’m going to try this thing. What is Fuller’s number please?”

ooooMiller put down her cup and folded her arms. “I don’t think I should give it to you.”
oooo“The man’s dead,” Dumas reminded.

oooo“What’s wrong with you, anyway?” Janine cross-examined tartly. “You’re getting right up my nose.”

oooo“Now, now,” said Dumas with a pontifical wave of the hand. “Ms. Miller’s having a hard time adjusting. I’d feel pretty much the same in her shoes.”

oooo“Well,” said Janine, “Doesn’t she see we’ve got enough problems without her holding back, like this? What do you think – he’s going to shoot us or rape us or something? You’ve got to crawl outside yourself and take a good look ’round, lady! Don’t you see what’s going to happen unless we can find out where that virus is? This is way bigger than you, or me, or him.”

ooooMiller picked up her cup and rolled her eyes. “Wonderful. Precisely what’s needed in an international crisis, the moralizing of a mistress.”

oooo“Mistress!” said Janine and Dumas at once. She broke out laughing. He reddened. “My goodness,” he said.

oooo“Well?” said Miller. “I suppose there’s a more polite term for it these days; social secretary?”
oooo“Ms. Miller,” said Dumas. “May I please have the number. There may be an important message on the machine.”

ooooMiller looked out the window, the inner battle evident in her eyes and her expression. The answering machine might hold information that could be of use to her, as well. “0733-502-955,” she said at last.

ooooDumas repeated the number as he scratched it on a napkin in pencil. “Very good. Thank you. I’m going to go call. Would you,” he looked at Janine, “please straighten her out about – her misconception.”

ooooJanine smile coquettishly. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

oooo“Please,” said Dumas.

ooooHe had no idea how the remote access worked but, following Janine’s directions, it performed perfectly.

oooo“Message 1,” said an electronic sounding female voice. “from an outside source. Received this morning at 10:38. Press 1 to hear.”
ooooDumas pressed one.

oooo“Fuller?” It was a male voice. The midlands accent had a veneer of London. “Mannix here. I haven’t heard from you. What am I supposed to do about our friend? I’m required by law to release identities of the deceased the last Tuesday of each month. This Tuesday, being Christmas – I might be able to put it off ‘til Wednesday – but beyond that, it’s out of my hands.”

oooo“That gives us just enough time,” thought Dumas assuming, rightly, that Mannix was calling from Belmarsh Prison.

oooo“Call and advise as soon as you can,” the message continued. “I wish I hadn’t let you talk me into the whole arrangement. What’s it all about, anyway? Why not just ship his carcass back to Syria and be done with it? Call me as soon as you get this. Please.” As Dumas jotted the name and number down, the female voice came back on the line. ‘Message one, concluded. To hear the message again, press 1. To save the message to the archives, press 2, to erase the message, press 3.’

ooooDumas pressed three. ‘Message one deleted.”

oooo“Remarkable,” said Dumas. He was just about to hang up when the voice continued. “Message two. From an outside source. Received this afternoon at 3:18. Press 1 to hear.”

ooooDumas did as he was told.

oooo“Fuller, my sources report the item has been removed from it’s customary place. That is good.” It was Abu Musab Al-Suri. “This tells me you are taking appropriate steps. To show our good faith, as well, I am sending you one of the vials via DHL. It will arrive at your office Sunday morning, by ten o’clock. It’s packed it nitrogen, but be very careful – I have always enjoyed England. It would be a shame to have to refer to it in the past tense.”

oooo“Message two, concluded. To hear the message again, press 1. To save the message to disk, press 2. To erase the message, press 3.”

ooooThe words froze the blood in Dumas veins. He stood dumbly with the phone to his ear. In less than eighteen hours, the most virulent strain of virus known to man would be in London.
oooo“Message two, concluded. To hear the message again, press 1. To save the message to disk, press 2. To erase the message, press 3.”
ooooHe pressed 3. “Message two, deleted. No other messages.”

oooo“Ah, there you are, your lordship.” Mohammed had returned. “The ladies told me I could find you here.” His expression became grave. “Bad news? You look terrible.”
oooo“The virus will be in London Tomorrow morning,” Dumas muttered.

ooooMohammed shot nervous glances around the room. There was no one within earshot. “Here!” he whispered hoarsely. “Why?”

ooooDumas blew a note of irony through his nose. “Good will,” he said. “al-Suri knows Al-Sa’di has been moved. They think he’s on his way to Rome, apparently.”
oooo“But he’s dead,” said Mohammed softly. “This is not a bad thing – not that part of it.”

oooo“Isn’t it?” said Dumas. The helplessness in his eyes was heartrending. “Too many things are happening; nothing is happening. I don’t have a plan!”
oooo“Allah is compassionate,” said Mohammed. “Meanwhile, they still don’t know the truth about Al-Sa’di – and I have found Abu Musab Al-Suri.”

ooooDumas seized him by the shoulders. “Where! Where is he?”

oooo“He left last night for Rome.”

oooo“That leaves little doubt about his being the one. How is he traveling?”

oooo“Train. He’s on too many ‘No-Fly’ lists.”

oooo“That will put him in Rome by tomorrow night.” It was as if someone had left a small, cool glass of water in the middle of a vast, unforgiving desert. Dumas drank thirstily of the first good news he’d had. For the first time since Westminster the perplexed crinkle at the junction of his eyebrows eased somewhat. He knew where he could find Al-Suri. “St. Peter’s,” he said softly.
oooo“Beg pardon?”

oooo“Do you know Al-Suri? Have you seen him?”

oooo“Yes,” said Mohammed. “Besides, his picture was in all the papers back when Syria released him. Blue-eyed and red-headed. Very distinctive for an Arab.”
oooo“He’s British?”

oooo“Syrian. But he’s lived in London, but mostly Paris and Madrid most of the last twenty years.”
oooo“Have you ever been to Rome, Mohammed? St. Peter’s Square on Christmas Eve?”
oooo“‘Scuse me, gentlemen,” said the waitress, laden with scones and tea cakes, as she squeezed between them.

oooo“I have not,” Mohammed replied.

oooo“Nor have I, I’m afraid. And I’m terrible with languages.”
oooo“But I have a cousin who sells coffee in a place called La Tazza d’Oro. He will know Rome – and he will know the language. So?” Mohammed smiled. “When do we leave?”
oooo“After the package arrives in the morning.”

oooo“You’re going to try to get it?”

oooo“What choice have I? No one else knows it’s coming. Someone’s bound to open it, seeing it’s for Fuller – and what is the first thing they will do?”
ooooMohammed nodded. “Open it. You are right. What do you suggest?”

oooo“I suggest we get a couple of rooms in a hotel near Whitehall – you and I in one room and the ladies . . . “

oooo“Yes. Yes,” said Mohammed. “I know several hotels in that area.”
oooo“Ah,” Dumas hesitated. “Somewhere – somewhere unlikely to be frequented by my Irish friends.”
ooooMohammed smiled. “Simple,” he said. “The Savoy!” Over the years, he’d dropped countless hundreds of people at its glass door, without once crossing the threshold himself.

oooo“Any luck, Stephson?” said the Superintendent. The answer was written on Stephson’s face as he dropped into a thick leather chair on the other side of the desk.
oooo“I don’t know what to make of it – I’ve had men all over London – everywhere he’s likely to be, all his known haunts – which aren’t many. CCTV cameras on every bloody corner, and no sign of him. It’s as if he vanished.”

oooo“You’ve called Shadowmarch?” said the Superintendent.

oooo“Of course,” said Stephson. He filled his pipe with pungent brandy and nutmeg-soaked tobacco and lit it. “No word, according to his housekeeper. He was due back last night.”
oooo“Well, if he’s not where you’d expect to find him,” the Superintendent observed, “look where you’d least expect to find him.”
ooooI don’t know,” said Stephson with a wag of the head. “Dumas is a man of very regular habits.”
oooo“You expect foul play?”

ooooStephson shrugged. “Who knows? If he witnessed the Westminster killings – for all I know the killers could have followed him, could have been there in the house while I was there, in a closet, behind a drape, with a gun pointing at his back. The girl may have been one of them.”

oooo“Girl?”

oooo“He had this girl upstairs – claimed she was his niece, from New Zealand. Then, when I reminded him that he didn’t have a niece, she became his goddaughter. I figured she was just a little bit of crumpet – bit out of character, but I’ve been in this business long enough not to be surprised at anything the gentry might get up to.”

oooo“How complete is our dossier on him?”

oooo“Nought and stroke. On a normal day, I could tell you what he’s eating for lunch, where he’s eating it, and how many times he’s going to chew each bite. That’s what makes his behavior at the flat so odd. He seemed agitated. The more I think about it, the more it seems there must have been someone there. Someone else.”

ooooHe puffed in silence for a minute. The Superintendent studied him. “Think we should start dragging the river?”

oooo“That’s another thing, all that business about falling in the Thames. Celebratory mood, my great-aunt’s garter. As far as I can tell the man’s never drunk to excess in his life – even on boat race night,” said Stephson, recalling another era. “No. We’re missing a piece here. If Dumas saw them, and they found him – why didn’t they just kill him? They could have bunged him over the head with a heavy object after I went outside. ” He winced at the lapse of judgment the statement betrayed. “And escaped out the back. Why run any more risk from that quarter? But if they took him with them, why? What could they gain by it?”
ooooStephson massaged his forehead. “That would account for why none of the cameras have picked up on him.”

oooo“And if he simply bolted?” the Superintendent suggested.
oooo“Not in his type,” Stephson stated. “Old school if ever there was one. Barely intelligible for the stiff upper lip, I should think. Not at all the sort to bolt.”

oooo“Well, you’ve taken all the appropriate steps. Let’s hope he turns up. Meanwhile,” the Superintendent took a piece of paper from the printer tray. “Box 850 wants our help tracking down this fellow.”

oooo“SIS?” said Stephson, surprised. “They don’t exist, do they?”

ooooThe Superintendent smiled as he handed the photo to Stephson. “Be that as it may, I can’t imagine their wanting to share . . .”
oooo“Hold on!”
oooo“What is it?”

ooooStephson, his eyes riveted on the paper like red hot coals, rose from his chair. “Where did you get this?”
oooo“Box 850, as I said. What on earth . . . ?”
oooo“No – why, I mean? Why do they want this man?”
oooo“They hadn’t the goodness to tell me. I was simply informed they want him found with all possible haste – National Security and all the usual rot. Why? What’s got under you?”

ooooStephson raised his eyes and fastened them on the Superintendent. “This,” he said, shaking the paper in the air, “is who we’ve been talking about; Lord bloody Dumas!” Perplexity squatted at the junction of his brows. “What business could our cloak and dagger friends possibly have with so respectable and inconsequential a figure as the 19th Earl of Shadowmarch?”

Chapter Thirteen: Parliament of Errors

ooooThe door to Fuller’s office burst open. “We got it! The call came from a call box in Spitalfields!” said the dark-complected young man. “They got the fix just as he rang off.”
oooo“Good job, Mick my son,” said George Googe. He had been leaning over the open drawer of Fuller’s desk, listening to the messages as Dumas played them by remote control. He stood up.
oooo“You, too, George,” said a nondescript, government-issue individual who sat on the window ledge. He tapped his fingers on his knees. “I didn’t know there was still a functioning call box in London.”
oooo“The Yanks call ‘em ‘porn booths,’” said Mick, but no one was listening.
oooo“ . . . and Spitalfields of all places!” said the gray man. “Where, exactly?”
ooooThe young man held out a slip of paper which the other took and read. “Place called Tea Smith.” He folded the paper carefully and dropped it into the trash. “Pass it along, even the Yard can’t fail to find a man in a tea shop.”
oooo“Yes, sir, Mr. Harrison” Goodge replied. He picked up the phone and dialed the Superintendent. “What do you make of the messages?” he said while he waited for the call to go through. “Anything?”
oooo“Not directly,” said Harrison.
oooo“Superintendent Evans,” said Goodge into the phone. “Goodge calling from 611.” He put his hand over the receiver. “Too bad it got erased,” he added, nodding at Fuller’s answering machine.
ooooHarrison drew a palm-sized recorder from his pocket. “It didn’t.”
oooo“Ah! Very good, sir. Mannix, did he say? Wasn’t there an American television programme by that name back in the Dark Ages? Not very common. Shouldn’t be too difficult to track him down – especially as it seems he’s in government.”
ooooHarrison made his way toward the door. “George, in the event the Yard is late arriving at the tea shop, I expect our man will show up here in the morning and try to get that package – whatever it is. Have six armed guards posted – well out of sight – ready to move at my command. I want them in place no later than eight thirty, in case he shows up early to surveil the place.”
oooo“Done,” Goodge replied. “Where are you off to?”
ooooHarrison tapped his overcoat pocket. “I’m going to find our Mr. Mannix.”

oooo“That’s all,” said the President as he approached the Cabinet Room. He waved the guard away and opened the door. “All right,” he said to the guard in the room. “Go on about your business.” The guard departed, leaving the President alone with Toby Phillips, who was seated in the leather chair bearing his name on a brass plaque at the mahogany conference table. He’d been writing.
oooo“Memoirs?” said the President, seating himself in one of the leather chairs that line the wall opposite the Rose Garden. The Marine closed the door behind him.
oooo“A few notes for posterity,” Phillips replied. He looked up. “We were going to do such great things.”
ooooThe President pulled a chair from the conference table and propped his feet up on it. “We may yet.”
ooooPhillips shook his head. “What happened?”
oooo“I’d just started the conference call when Freeman’s informant phoned from Israel. Dr. Thompson was seen leaving Beirut, apparently of her own free will.”
oooo“Where did she go?”
ooooThe President shrugged. “Flew off into the night on a private plane – we lost her.”
ooooPhillips leaned forward intently. “So you called it off?”
ooooThe President nodded.
oooo“This is good!” said Phillips, standing. “This is good – we might be able to salvage something out of this mess!”
oooo“For the moment.”
oooo“What do you mean?”
oooo“She’ll turn up again somewhere. Athens. Ankara, Tehran – our options will be just the same.”
ooooPhillips resumed his seat. “Maybe we won’t find her.”
oooo“That would be even worse,” said the President.
oooo“Not politically.”
oooo“We’re not campaigning anymore, Tobe. You’re a functioning member of this administration.”
oooo“We’re always campaigning, Mr. President.”
ooooThe President hung his head. “Not for me.”
oooo“For the party.”
oooo“As President, I have to do what’s best for everyone.”
oooo“As head of the party,” Phillips retorted, “you have to keep us in power, ’cause if we’re not, our worthy opponents will pull the rug out from under everyone who’s just learning to stand on their own two feet.”
oooo“Then you’ll appreciate this,” said the President. “Cory says CNBC has found out I had you – restrained.”
ooooOnce again Phillips was on his feet. “How! How could they possibly . . . !”
oooo“My wife was giving the Christmas tour this morning, the doors to the press room were left open.”
ooooPhillips threw his head back and dropped his hands over his face. “I don’t believe it!”
oooo“A young lady named Kiley.”
oooo“Bridgit Kiley?” said Phillips, poking his face through his hands.
oooo“The name sounds familiar.”
oooo“Not too surprising. She was Senator Mitchell’s chief of staff when he retired. NPR picked her up to cover the White House. The network’s been grooming her for the last few months. She’s one ambitious young lady.”
oooo“Just what we need.” said the President.
oooo“She may be a gift in disguise,” said Phillips. “Don’t worry about the story. I’ll quash that myself. Say I was just coming in here to see a secret military video – which is why the guards accompanied me. But . . . “
oooo“But what?”
oooo“She and I have dated a couple of times.”
ooooThe President had never known anyone more partisan than Phillips. The notion amused him. “You’ve been dating a Democrat?”
oooo“Proselytizing,” Phillips grinned. “As I said, she’s very ambitious.”
ooooThe President sighed. “I don’t see what you’re getting at.”
oooo“Simple,” said Phillips. “I imply. She infers. It’s a very useful relationship from our point of view – the Administration’s.”
oooo“At her expense.”
ooooPhillips shrugged. “Casualty of war. At this stage of the game, you need a card like that – be glad we have it.”
ooooThe President didn’t like what he heard, but he didn’t reply. Phillips was too much of a political animal to appreciate a lecture on the finer points of ethics. He nodded at the VCR. “Did you watch that?”
ooooAnimation suddenly abandoned Phillips. He sat on the desk and stared at the blank screen. “Yes,” he said quietly.
oooo“And?”
oooo“What’s to say? Makes Dante’s nine circles of hell look like an amusement park ride.”
oooo“Well put.”
ooooPhillips looked sidelong at the President. “I see why you did what you did. Or considered doing it. I respect the sacrifice you were willing to make – not that I’d have done the same, necessarily.”
oooo“I may still have to make it,” the President reminded.
ooooPhillips shrugged. “Let’s hope not. Who knows? Meantime, it’s my job to play this down.”
oooo“As I said before, Tobe, you’re the Secretary of Defense now.”
oooo“And that’s just what I’m doing – defending you.” He stood up, walked across the room and held out his hand. The President took it gratefully in his. “You’re a good man,” said Phillips.
oooo“Thank you.”
oooo“You’re assuming it was a compliment,” Phillips replied with a smile. “It may be for a plumber or a priest – but for a President? Remains to be seen.”
oooo“So, I can take it you’re not going to resign?”
ooooPhillips looked at the floor. “As Peter said to Jesus, ‘where would I go?’” His eyes met the President’s. “This is where I’ve always wanted to be.”
oooo“Then I suggest . . . “
oooo“You don’t need to. I told you I was writing things down for posterity?” Phillips jerked a thumb toward the paper on the desk. “Seeing things in black and white, from an historical point of view – put things in perspective. There’s a big difference between the quest for power, and the use of it.”
oooo“There’s hope for you yet.”
oooo“But I should have added the use of power requires its maintenance. That’s where politics comes in. I’ve been thinking.” He held up his hand. “Now, I know you’re not going to like what I’m about to say, but hear me out.”
ooooThe President sighed. “Okay.”
oooo“We might not have to take the heat for this.”
oooo“What are you talking about?”
oooo“You said you’d hear me out.”
ooooThe President made a sign of surrender.
oooo“If you . . . if we have to do this . . . is there some way we can make it look like al Queda’s handiwork . . . ”
oooo“You’re unbelievable,” said the President. “We’re not talking about a dirty bomb, Toby. It would be a surgical nuclear strike from a submarine. Half a dozen nations in the immediate area would be tracking the missile from the moment it reaches altitude. Nice try, though.”
ooooPhillip’s deflated visibly. “Okay. So much for that idea. So, taking the day’s disasters in order – what happened with the conference call?”

ooooHafez Assad had been―like his father before him―President of the Syrian Arab Republic. Then came the aftermath of the Arab Spring when all the world had arrayed itself against him and he’d been driven from office and nearly executed in Hom by the ideologues of the Al-Faruq Brigade. Ultimately it had been members of the Syriac Orthodox Church―whose fears of persecution were realized when the Sunnis, guided by the Muslim Brotherhood, came to power―who rescued him from the mob.
ooooThe church, whose pleas for help had fallen on deaf ears in the polemically correct Christian west, had, in the spirit of ‘better the devil you know, than the devil you don’t, ultimately turned to Shiite Iran for financial and military support.
ooooDemocracy’s honeymoon in Damascus had been brief and bloody. Within weeks after Assad was deposed, the mask of the Brotherhood fell away and Syrians responded to the religiously motivated clamp-down that followed by kicking them out. The result had been a political, social, and military vacuum from which only a dictator could assemble order.
ooooAssad had been restored to the Presidency.
ooooHe hung up the phone. A man who traced his ideological heritage back to Tiglath–Pilesar III and Ashurbaniphal, Assad chafed in the newly forged harness the international community had placed upon him as a condition of his resuming the office, he was more inclined toward the urgings of Iran to renew pressure on the Israeli border–the thorn, he called it. After all, who but Iran had given him assistance against the rebels?
ooooBut it was the community of Christians in his own borders that now formed one of the foundation stones of his administration, and they wanted peace with Israel–even an open frontier!
ooooAnd now, suddenly–with one phone call–all these considerations were dust.
ooooThe translator had left the room, so Assad was directing his comments to his brother, General Rifaat Assad. “Get the US ambassador in here. I want to pick his brain.”
ooooRifaat didn’t move. “You already know more than he does,” he said.
ooooAssad had begun to sweat midway through the conference call. Having, once again, subdued all visible opposition to his administration, he had fallen victim to fear of the imagined or invisible, particularly germs and bacteria. That’s why he had given up the customs of kissing or shaking hands and had taken to wearing gloves at all times. But what were gloves to this virus, a sub microscopic, airborne bundle of genetic misinformation that could reduce a robust, red blooded man, to putrid, oozing fluid in a matter of days? And now it was loose somewhere in the Middle East. That’s all the American President had said.
ooooBut what had he implied?
ooooHe knew that, during the call, beyond the hiss of the telephone line, the other heads of state suspected he was to blame. They always did, whether he was or not.
oooo“Who is doing this?” he demanded sharply.
ooooRifaat shrugged. “Not everyone likes peace. Some prefer an honorable death.”
oooo“Honorable? You call this honorable? Do you think these fools know what they’re playing with?”
oooo“The President said it’s no longer in Beirut. The plane carrying the woman doctor flew up the coast. The virus is headed for the west, so it’s no longer our worry.”
ooooAssad looked at his brother in benign disbelief. “You have heard of the Black Death, Rifaat?”
oooo“That was very long ago.”
oooo“A third of the world’s population was wiped out. It killed about fifty percent of the people it infected. The disease was spread by fleas in rats – but nothing stopped it. Not mountains or rivers or oceans.”
oooo“I could have stopped it.”
oooo“How?”
oooo“Simplicity itself. I would have closed the borders, and issued a bounty on rats,” said Rifaat with a grin, pleased at having reduced the difficulty to manageable proportions.
oooo“According to the President, this virus has a ninety five percent kill rate and can be spread through the air. Will you issue a bounty on the air, Rifaat? “
oooo“He exaggerates. Besides, all we do is first, keep foreigners out – then we worry about the wind.”
ooooAssad shook his head. “I want to talk to some scientists. Call the University – get me a molecular biologist or whatever it is – the best one – I want to talk to him now. Then find out who is behind this. I want to know where they’re getting their money, who they’re tied to – and what their plans are. The whole damn world will want to dump this on my doorstep – and I’m going to give them some heads, you hear?”
ooooRifaat bowed crisply and left the room.
oooo“Mother was right about him,” Assad said to himself.

oooo“I waited and waited,” said Calvin to himself as he sashayed to the first floor lecture hall. “Well, I can’t wait forever. What you need is a Pepsi, Calvin. A nice cold diet Pepsi. Excuse me, officer,” he said to the ticket-taker at the entrance to the hall. “Is there a Pepsi machine around here anyplace?”
oooo“There’s a canteen down those stairs and to the right,” said the ticket-taker, with a glance at his watch. “It’ll be open another ten minutes. But don’t let this crowd catch you with a Pepsi.”
oooo“Environmental people don’t like Pepsi?” said Calvin, worried.
oooo“Not this group. Nor tea, or coffee, or orange juice, from what I gather.”
oooo“No?” said Calvin. “I’m so thirsty. Can I drink water?”
ooooThe ticket-taker laughed, this nancy was taking him seriously. He pointed toward a drinking fountain across the corridor. “I won’t tell,” he said.
oooo“Oh – well,” said Calvin, disappointed. “Thank you.”
oooo“Just don’t let ‘em smell your breath!”
ooooHis thirst abated, Calvin displayed his badge and entered the hall. He was directed to a seat near some palm trees and some oriental people on the right of the hall. Someone was speaking, but he wasn’t listening. His attention was focused on the doors, of which there were four, and no one coming or going escaped his notice.
ooooSuddenly something the speaker said seeped into his consciousness. He turned reluctantly toward the podium.
oooo“Earth is a living organism, fighting for her life against the deadly disease that’s infesting her – the human parasite!” said the speaker. His eyes flashed. He sliced the air with his hands as he spoke, slowly and clearly. The words echoed and reechoed in the vast hall, creating a chorus of condemnation as he continued his diatribe against the species. “Her immune system is generating antibodies to fight this infestation – we call these antibodies germs – viruses and bacteria. But to her – our mother earth, they are the agents of healing she injects into her system to kill the disease. Us! Western man! We are the illness of which the planet is dying.
oooo“Western man comprises five percent of the population and wastes ninety percent of the resources. We produce 100 percent of the pollution! We are the takers, with both hands feeding our insatiable appetites. We consume voraciously, use shamelessly, abuse wantonly, plunder mindlessly – and rape, and rape, and rape again. Absorbing! Consuming! Sucking the life out of her!”
ooooThe hall erupted with shouts and people stood to their feet. Calvin stood, too. “That’s what’s happened to me!” he said to himself as he stood on his seat and applauded.
oooo“Stop the waste!” yelled the speaker and everyone, still standing, fell silent. “Whatever the cost!”
ooooA number of people echoed ‘whatever the cost!’
oooo“Save the whale – whatever the cost!”
ooooThe echo was taken up by a greater chorus of voices.
oooo“Stop the waste!” said the speaker, settling into the hypnotic cadence of a southern revivalist. “Whatever the cost!”
oooo“Whatever the cost!” roared the few.
ooooSave the rain forest – whatever the cost!”
ooooMore people joined the refrain. “Whatever the cost!”
oooo“Save the seas – whatever the cost!”
ooooThis time the hall shook with the response as even Calvin joined in.
oooo“Whatever the cost!”
oooo“Stop the waste! Uphold Zero Population Growth. Whatever the method – whatever the cost!”
oooo“Whatever the cost!” the thunder shook in Calvin’s soul. Tears came to his eyes.
oooo“Uphold death with dignity – whatever the cost! Stop the waste! Whatever the cost!”
oooo“Whatever the cost!”
oooo“Stop the waste! Defend the trees. Rewrite history! Defend the rivers. Reeducated the generations! Defend the oceans, defend the mountains, defend the lakes, defend the streams, defend the canyons, the mesas, the plains, and the coasts – at all costs. With your riches? Yes! With your time? Yes! With your every waking thought? Yes! With your hopes and dreams – with every fiber of your being – even with your life! At any cost! Whatever the cost – the earth – ” he held out his arms and paused abruptly. His final words were tossed onto the tense silence in a raspy whisper. “Whatever.”
ooooHe waited.
oooo“Whatever!” the crowd whispered.
ooooHe raised his voice. “Whatever!”
oooo“Whatever!” the crowd yelled.
ooooHe pounded the podium and screamed: ‘What-ever the cost!”
ooooThe auditorium exploded with chants of ‘Earth at all costs!’
oooo“Earth at all costs!” screamed Calvin at the top of his lungs.

oooo“I’ve been railroaded,” said Wingfield. He occupied the position next to the podium on the dais, the person to whom he directed his comment was an Anglican Bishop.
oooo“I fear I have as well,” said the Bishop, but his words were nearly lost in the shouts. “I thought this was supposed to be an environmental congress – ” He pointed at banners in the back of the hall. “Achieving a Balance, for the Good of All’” he read.
oooo“So did I,” said Wingfield, glaring at the audience. “Balance my Aunt Fanny. Fanatics!” he hissed contemptuously. “Extremists. Ringers! Every damned one of them! I thought they weren’t even allowed in!” He was yelling to make himself heard as another wave of euphoria crashed upon the dais. When finally it subsided, the speaker took his seat on the opposite wing of the dais and another speaker rose and began a long-winded introduction of Wingfield as the ‘savior of the snail-darter and the spotted owl.’
oooo“These people wouldn’t know a snail-darter from a rhinoceros,” said Wingfield, leaning toward the Bishop. “They’ve dragged us here to legitimize their circus.” At that moment he spied Michael Cumio gesturing frantically from he wings at the end of the dais, waving his pager with one hand and miming a phone with the other. “Speaking of saviors,” he said.
ooooThe Bishop grabbed his arm. “What about your speech? You might be able to talk sense to them.”
ooooWingfield cast a scornful eye over the crowd. “They’re professional whiners, Bishop. They feast on complaint. Solutions are anathema to them.” With that, amid the applause that met his introduction, he departed.

oooo“What is it Michael?”
oooo“You’ve had another call from the White House. Where did you go? I went to your room . . . “
oooo“I had other business to attend to. Let’s get out of here.” He took Cumio by the arm and pulled him toward the door at the rear of the hall.
oooo“What about your speech?”
oooo“I just made it,” said Wingfield.
ooooA guard at the door stood in their way.
oooo“Senator,” he said. “You’ve been introduced.”
ooooWingfield tore off his name tag and slapped it on the guard’s lapel. “Congratulations, young man. You’ve just been elected Senator.”

Chapter Fourteen: The Rage of Angels

Washington, D.C.

ooooThe pressroom hadn’t been so busy since the troops of the Patriotic Union of Kurdistan extracted Saddam from his hidey-hole in Takrit, the only difference being that, in the present instance, no one knew what the busyness was about.
oooo“Mr. Phillips!” said a scarecrow of a woman who leaned against the doorpost and sucked at her pen in lieu of the cigarette she craved. She had an unruly shock of blond hair between which and the tortoiseshell rim of her glasses she studied him with blue-gray eyes.”Toby!”
oooo“Marjorie,” said Phillips, acknowledging her existence with a nod. His long-held contempt for Time’s White House correspondent had assumed a dimension of loathing during the recent campaign. He regarded Marjorie Atwood as the avatar of advocacy journalism, which would have been bad enough had she not advocated all the wrong things. “Have you seen Brigid Kiley?”
oooo“Oh, no you don’t.” Atwood took him by the sleeve and pulled him into the hall, out of the sight of prying eyes. “First, I want to hear what’s going on around here. The President’s been jerking us around all day!”
ooooPhillips freed his arm. “I don’t have time for this, Marjorie.”
oooo“You’d better make time,” she snapped. “I just saved your life – if you’d gone into that room, you’d have been eaten alive.”
oooo“Do you think so?” Phillips replied with a grin.
ooooNo, she didn’t. What she hated most about Toby Phillips was the ease with which he handled the press corps. He possessed an irritating combination of arrogance and charm, and his notorious temper was accompanied by a lashing wit, of which she fancied herself the principal recipient. “I have no doubt,” she lied. “Spare yourself the trouble – I’ll pass along anything you’d like to share.”
oooo“Sure you will,” Toby laughed. “They can read all about it, on the editorial page, can’t they?”
ooooShe bridled. “I’m a journalist. Not a columnist.”
oooo“Really?” he patted her on the shoulder. “Then I wish you all the best in your new career.”
ooooThe barb stung, but she pretended to ignore it. “What’s going on, Toby?”
ooooFor once the press knew nothing. They were floundering, flailing, grasping at straws. The notion held a great appeal for Phillips. “I’m sure Cory’s made a statement, hasn’t he?”
ooooAtwood tugged a piece of paper from her notepad and read: “The Administration regrets any inconvenience caused the press as a result of the cancellation of the news conference.
oooo“A situation seemed likely to develop that would have had far-reaching consequences. The President, electing to err on the side of caution, held a conference call with several heads of state and planned a press conference to detail the potential crisis and steps the international community might take to address it.
oooo“In the meantime, it was discovered that the information upon which the Administration was considering these precautionary measures proved incomplete. The crisis, therefore, never arose.
oooo“Once again, the President appreciates your cooperation and extends his profound apologies for any inconvenience, especially that resulting in the loss of revenue.”
ooooPhillips smiled. “That about sums it up.”
oooo“It’s crap, Toby. And from a man who had the gonads to accuse Obama of doublespeak. What crisis!” said Atwood sharply. “More weapons of mass destruction?”
ooooPhillips raised his arm suddenly. Atwood ducked. “Why did you flinch,” he said.
oooo“What do you mean? I thought you were going to hit me. It was just a reflex.”
oooo“But I wasn’t. It never crossed my mind – you were in no real danger whatever – but you thought you were, so you acted reflexively to protect yourself. For a mature woman, you have good reflexes.” He moved in the direction of the pressroom. “So does the President.”

ooooOnce in the pressroom he was subjected to a verbal assault. Scanning the room for Brigid Keily, he held up his hands. “Sorry, ladies and gentlemen, I have nothing to add to the press secretary’s statement. I’m just looking for someone.”
ooooInstantly the room erupted with objection. “Has anyone seen Brigid Keily?” he yelled.
ooooUPI’s Morris Margolis was on his immediate right; they’d been roommates at Yale one semester. “What’s Brigid got that I don’t?”
oooo“Practically everything. And she’s sentient.”
ooooMargolis laughed. “She’s probably on the phone to Peter Quinn. He’s been calling her every fifteen minutes.”
oooo“Thanks, Mo.”
ooooPhillips pushed his way to the end of the room where a large window was set in the wall. On the other side of the window was the phone room and seated at a desk, her fingers tapping impatiently, was Brigid Keily. He looked at her for a moment – not a hardship. She had a pleasant figure, the appeal of which was augmented, rather than diminished by her frumpy outfits, corduroys, oversized vests and button-down oxfords – Annie Hall redivivus. Her long brunette hair was a mess, as always, she never wore makeup or jewelry and had thrown away her contacts in favor of thick glasses when she came to news.
ooooThe ensemble had been carefully designed to conceal the natural beauty she complained kept people from taking her seriously. It didn’t work; not that he didn’t take her seriously. He waved to get her attention. She looked up and gasped. “Toby!” she mouthed. She said something into the phone, hung up and ran to the door.
oooo“Toby! What are you doing here?”
oooo“You’re not happy to see me?”
oooo“The last time I saw you, some Marines were hauling you out of the Oval Office!”
oooo“Is that a fact?”
oooo“And they put you in the Cabinet Room,” she protested. “I saw them!”
oooo“Well, I don’t know what you were doing in the executive offices, but . . . “
oooo“I was on the Christmas tour. The door got left open!”
oooo“And you averted your eyes, demurely.”
oooo“Shut up. And don’t say I didn’t see what I saw.”
oooo“Wouldn’t dream of it. There was a highly sensitive video the President wanted me to see – so the Marines accompanied me to the Cabinet Room and stood guard while I watched. Top secret.”
ooooKeily searched his eyes, trying to read the truth. But she knew, from experience, it was a useless tactic with Phillips. He could stare at you with that stupid farm boy smile, and lie through his toothpaste commercial teeth without blinking. “That’s all,” he said. “What’s the big deal – what did you think?”
oooo“I thought,” Kiley flushed. “Never mind what I thought. Looked awfully strange, is what I thought.”
oooo“I can see where it would, if you didn’t know what’s going on.”
oooo“What is going on?”
oooo“What do you mean?”
oooo“All this about the press conference being called off – the conference call.”
oooo“Didn’t you get the press release?” He scanned the desk and picked up a piece of paper. “Sure you did,” he said, handing it to her. “It’s all there.”
ooooShe batted it from his hand. “Cornswoggle!”
oooo“Language, Ms Keily! There are gentlemen present in the press room!”
ooooShe didn’t like being made fun of; it made her blush and people always thought it was cute.
oooo“Besides,” Toby continued, “that’s a pretty harsh assessment, don’t you think?”
oooo“Shut up. You know what I mean.”
oooo“Well, it’s the truth. So, uncornswoggle me,” he laughed. “Anyway, that’s not why I’m here. I just wanted to see if you were free for dinner.”
oooo“No!” she said sharply. She was pouting and hated it. She could feel her bottom lip curl. “What time?”
oooo“8:30?”
oooo“Where?”
oooo“What do you feel like? Italian?”
oooo“No.”
oooo“Sushi?”
oooo“No. No Thai. No quiche. Someplace with steak,” she said. “Rare.”

ooooWingfield grabbed the door handle and pulled it open before the Silver Shadow had come to a complete stop. “Where have you been, Dickey? I said 5:30.”
ooooSir Richard Scott pulled himself to the edge of the seat and turned to the driver. “Stay here, Harold I shan’t be long.” He got out of the car and brushed himself off. “I was detained,” he said, addressing Wingfield, who slammed the door shut. Scott cast an approving eye over Cumio whose attractiveness was apparently heightened by his look of bewilderment. “Who’s this young man, Paul?”
oooo“Michael Cumio, my – assistant.”
oooo“So pleased,” said Scott, removing his glove to shake Cumio’s hand, which he held limply, and too long.
ooooWingfield strode through the handshake and tugged the Foreign Secretary along with him. “Nevermind that. Come with me.”
oooo“Gladly,” said Scott, casting a parting glance over his shoulder at Cumio as Wingfield pulled him up the steps out of the Albert Memorial, out of earshot.
oooo“He’s lovely!” said Scott, putting on his gloves.
oooo“He’s straight.”
oooo“Oh, say it isn’t so!” Scott protested. “Such a waste. What did you bring him for?”
oooo“Who knew? You can’t always tell these days.”
oooo“We need a secret handshake,” Scott laughed. “I found your other one, though.”
oooo“Calvin?”
oooo“Yes.”
oooo“Where?”
oooo“He was sitting all alone with the Japanese delegation at the back of the hall, waiting for you to make your speech. I found him just as you made your exit, poor thing was nearly in tears wondering what had come over you. He needed consoling. That’s why I’m late.
oooo“I invited him ’round to the Savoy tonight – for consolation.
oooo“Now – why did you bolt from the dais and what’s so important we have to stand out here in the cold?”
oooo“There was a crisis.”
oooo“Was?”
oooo“It seems to have passed now. I just got off the phone with the President.”
oooo“Beirut, I gather – from what you said earlier?”
ooooWingfield nodded.
oooo“Seems your President has had a very busy day on the telephone.”
oooo“Really?”
oooo“He held a conference call earlier with the P.M. – just after he got back from Canada – as well as a dozen other world leaders. Concerning the same problem, I presume,” he paused and lit a cigarette. “Connection had just been made, when the President put everyone on hold. When he rang back on, he started babbling about viruses. I couldn’t get much from what the P.M. repeated to me, so I doubt he made much sense of it himself. I’ve set up a meeting with him for four tomorrow, by the way. Though given your unceremonious departure from the congress – which the P.M. was instrumental in setting up – I can’t imagine what we’ll have to talk about.
oooo“Now – enlighten me.”
oooo“I can’t,” said Wingfield.
oooo“Don’t be absurd. You can’t have dragged me out here to tell me nothing!”
oooo“I needed some political advice,” said Wingfield. “The President was contemplating an action that would have had incredible repercussions, most likely negative.”
oooo“But not definitely?” said Scott knowingly. “I see. And where does that leave poor Wingfield? Either in the fat, or out in the cold.”
oooo“I’m not what you’d call an intimate of the present administration,” said Wingfield. “I receive information at the last minute on a need-to-know basis, because of my chairmanship of Foreign Relations Committee. That’s not good enough. It leaves me no reaction time.”
oooo“I’m beginning to understand. My party’s in power, and you figured, since the President is in close contact with the P.M., he’d be nearer the top of the food chain.”
oooo“And you’re the Prime Minister’s right hand man.”
oooo“Well,” said Scott, dropping his cigarette to the pavement and grinding it out beneath his toe, “to illustrate the soundness of that theory – I don’t know what the bloody hell any of this is about. Nor does the P.M., as far as I can tell. I’m sure of it. He found the whole procedure most troubling, I can assure you.”
oooo“Well, you can tell him I said the President’s actions aren’t as irrational as they seem.”
oooo“Indeed? Would you care to commit that to paper?” said Scott, with a smile.
oooo“Not on your life.”
oooo“And – you’re sure there’s nothing else, no other information I should pass along?”
ooooWingfield hesitated. “Not at the moment.” he said. “But keep your cell phone handy.”

ooooAs the door to the control room slammed behind him, Peter Quinn grabbed the headphones from the director and yelled into the mike. “No story! No story!”
oooo“What do you think you’re doing, Quinn!” snapped the director. “Give me that!” He tried to retrieve the headset, but Quinn spun aside.
oooo“Back off, Neal. Did you hear me, Merch?” he yelled. Sara Merchison was on the air and Quinn’s voice was piercing in her earphone. Her hand automatically flew to the offended eardrum, but she quickly recovered her professional aplomb
oooo“No Phillips story,” Quinn rasped a little more calmly. He’d run down three flights of stairs and, overweight and not much given to exercise, was out of breath. “Cut to commercial.”
ooooMerchison finished the segment. “More news after this,” she said with her trademark smile. As soon as the tally light was off, she shot from her seat, tore off the lavaliere mike and earphone and bolted out of the studio and up two flights of stairs to the booth. Quinn was holding the door open.
oooo“What are you up to, Quinn!” She snatched the headphone from her producer and flung it at Neal Burgess. “Don’t you ever let anyone yell at me again while I’m on the air!”
ooooBurgess opened his mouth to defend himself, but Merchison had already turned on Quinn. “What is it! Quick! I’ve got two minutes!”
oooo“There is no Phillips story.”
oooo“What do you mean?”
oooo“Kiley retracted – she was mistaken.”
ooooMerchison glared at him.
oooo“Phillips was never in custody. She just spoke to him in the press room.”
ooooMerchinson hung out an angry expression while her brain absorbed the information. She glanced quickly at the clock. “We’ve been teasing this since three o’clock.”
oooo“I know,” said Quinn.
oooo“So, what am I supposed to do when I go back out there?”
oooo“Nothing,” said Quinn.
oooo“What do you mean, ‘nothing’.”
oooo“Ignore it. I’ll get the newsroom to scrape up filler. What did we have slotted for it, ninety seconds?”
oooo“Two minutes,” said Merchison with another glance at the clock.
oooo“There must be something happening somewhere we can stick in there. If all else fails, we’ll go to Egypt, the Muslim Brotherhood’s trying to force the government to halt shipping in the Suez Canal.”
oooo“Rumors.”
oooo“A rumor is just news that hasn’t been substantiated yet. Journalism 101.”
oooo“We’ve got that segment on the Alzheimer’s research out of New Zealand,” Jill suggested.
oooo“Medical!” Quinn snapped. “This isn’t the friggin’ TODAY Show. What else have you got?”
ooooMerchison yanked the door to the booth. “That’ll do. Have it ready and feed it straight to the prompter.” She left the room, then stopped halfway down the metal stairs. “Quinn?”
ooooQuinn turned from Jill. “What?”
oooo“If that woman isn’t off the payroll by the end of this newscast, you are. Got that?”

London

oooo“Yes, sir,” said the waitress, not a little daunted at being questioned by a Chief Inspector of Scotland Yard. She returned the photograph. “He was here with some friends, they left not ten minutes ago – ” she gestured at a table near the window. “You can see I haven’t even cleared away, yet.”
oooo“Friends?”
oooo“Yes, sir.”
oooo“Can you describe them to me?” The Sergeant got out his notebook. Stephson just listened.
oooo“Well, two women, one about my age . . . “
oooo“Which is?” said the Sergeant.
oooo“Twenty, sir,” said the waitress. “Lovely red hair, she had. Long and bushy.”
oooo“Bushy?”
oooo“Bushy,” the waitress repeated, illustrating her meaning with her hands. “Full, y’know? Very pretty girl.”
oooo“Thin? Fat?”
oooo“Thin, sir. Quite thin.”
oooo“Anything else you can remember?”
ooooThe waitress thought carefully. “Well, she din’t ‘arf talk weird.”
oooo“How so?”
oooo“Not proper English, a’tall.”
oooo“American or Canadian?”
oooo“Oh, no, sir,” said the waitress. “I could understand ‘er all right. Just queer, y’know? Funny, is all.”
oooo“And the other woman?”
oooo“Oh – quite old. Like you, I’d say.”
ooooThe Sergeant smiled.
oooo“Her ‘air was sort of blond shot through with silver, done up in a kind of bun or something. Handsome woman, I guess you’d say. About this tall,” she held her hand up to her nose. “She had on a black and white jacket and red turtleneck sweater. Black or gray slacks. I don’t remember which.”
oooo“That’s very helpful, Miss . . . ?”
oooo“Palmer,” said the girl. She watched the Sergeant write her name in his notebook. “Abigail Palmer, 140 Crispin Street. I’m not on the phone, but you can reach me here any day but Sunday all day and Wednesday afternoon.”
ooooStephson surveyed the abandoned table. “Sergeant, would you please call forensics and have them go over these – remains. There have to be some nice prints here.”
ooooThe Sergeant unsheathed his cell phone and placed a call.
oooo“I believe there’s a phone on the premisis, Miss?”
oooo“An old-fashioned one, you mean? Yes, in the nook on the other side of the door, there, near the coat stand. Gettin’ more use today that it’s ‘ad in years.”
oooo“How so?”
oooo“’e used the phone, too – that fellow you’re askin’ after? And after he rang off, this Arab come up to him, and they started talkin’, all quiet like. Hush-hush, y’know?”
oooo“An Arab?”
oooo“Well, I’m pretty sure he wasn’t Indian,” she searched the ceiling for her memory. “No – Arab, definitely.”
oooo“I don’t suppose you heard anything they said?”
oooo“Well, as a matter of fact, just as I was passing by – I wasn’t eavesdropping, mind – I did hear the tall bloke ask the Arab fellow if he’d ever been to Rome. ‘Course, I didn’t take no notice of it at the time. But I’ve always wanted to go to Rome, haven’t you? The Spanish Steps an’ all.”
ooooThe Sergeant returned and nodded meaningfully at Stephson. “Good,” said Stephson. “Miss – could I trouble you not to touch that table until one of my people has had a chance to go over it?”
oooo“Always thought that queer, why the Spanish Steps is in Rome. Shouldn’t they be in Barcelona or somewhere more … Spanish?”
oooo“Miss? The phone?”
ooooMiss Palmer was recalled from balmier climes. “Pardon? Oh. The phone. Yes. Ooh! Are they going to dust for fingerprints, and that?”
oooo“Yes,” said Stephson. “We’re sorry to inconvenience you.”
oooo“No trouble a’tall! Dust yourselves to death – we don’t get much excitement ’round here, y’know. It’s like bein’ on Inspector Lewis, ain’t it? Here – you ever watch that show? You remind me of Inspector Lewis – and your name’s Inspector, too. There, see?”
oooo“One last question, I don’t suppose you happened to see which way they went when they left.”
ooooAbigail shook her head. “No, I didn’t. Once they leave these doors, I just take no notice.”
oooo“Well, you’re certainly a very observant young lady where it counts.” He handed her a card. “Please let me know if you remember anything else.”
ooooShe took the card and stared at it, her eyes wide with awe. “Oh, I will, Inspector Stephenson. I will.”
oooo“Stephson.”
oooo“What?” said the waitress, consulting the card. “Oh, yes. Stephson. Sorry.”

ooooDinner was over, but the smell of lamb still hung in the air as Kitan made his way across the debris-covered lobby and up the stairs. He was most relieved it hadn’t been joined by the smell of roast donkey. “I’ll be back in a minute, Jacques,” he whispered to the shadows on the other side of the room, the donkey was too busy with its oats to notice.
ooooEach landing opened onto a lobby which, bordered by tents and covered with carpets, constituted a little neighborhood of its own. People had put up awnings and draped privacy curtains from exposed plumbing within the rooms. They had corralled their livestock at the far ends of the hallway and cleared away the carpet to make campfires on the concrete floor, several dim circles of firelight flickered invitingly in the motionless air. Children laughed and played on the hallways, each of which had become a kind of thoroughfare through the community.
ooooAt each level, everything fell silent as his footsteps echoed on the stairs. From his place in the shadows, he could see the faces of the men turning toward him. Mothers hushed their children and gathered them into the tents. They couldn’t see him, of course, it was too dark. They thought he was one of the others – from the sixth floor. His natural inclination was to step into the circle of fire and declare himself, allay their fears and join them in the vibrancy of their life. But he had no time.
ooooEach successive level was less densely inhabited than the one below until finally he entered an eerie, no-man’s land of desolation from the fourth to the fourteenth floors. At this level, huge gaping holes had been blown in the walls and many of the steps had been reduced to narrow ledges of decaying concrete and rusty reinforcement rods that poked out at odd angles like fleshless fingers. From the fourth to the fifth floor it seemed he was more outside than in and the moonlight, together with the matches he lit one after another, let him see enough to pick his way carefully to the lobby of the sixth floor.
ooooA kerosene lantern cast a steady yellow glow around the room, and several yards down the hallways on either side. For a moment he wondered if anyone had been left behind. He held his breath and waited, straining at the slightest sound.
ooooIf there was anyone on the floor, they were sleeping and, if so, soundly, for he couldn’t hear so much as a breath. Crossing the lobby, he picked up the lantern and began to inspect his surroundings.
ooooIt wasn’t difficult to identify the room they’d kept her in. Evidence of a bathtub full of cold water to the contrary, the room had recently been occupied by someone who hadn’t the luxury of a bath for quite a while. He shined the light on the threadbare mat. “This is where they kept her.” He shuddered. Clothes boxes littered the floor. “She was a prisoner, Jacques,” he said, as if the donkey was at his elbow. “But how is it she left alone? Maybe they broke her will?”
ooooAs he left the room he noticed the key was still in the door. He took it out and threw it to the end of the hall where it rattled in the darkness, a mute, impotent protest against cruelty, and his own suspicions.
ooooHe put the lantern back in place in the lobby and, happening to look down as he did so, saw a solitary scrap of burned paper on the floor. As he picked it up, the upper half drifted softly away like charred leaves. Of the lower half, however, much was still legible. Unfortunately, it was written in English, which he did not read. Somehow he had to get the paper to Yusef. But how? His weary brain conjured up a half dozen methods, some foolish, some hopeless and those that were neither hopeless nor foolish, were simply impossible.
ooooThe sound of footsteps on the stairs erased all such distant concerns from his mind.

Chapter Fifteen: A Murder of Crows

London

ooooConnor stared at the water from Westminster Bridge. Once more he relived everything that had happened the night before. He shouldn’t have been so cocksure of himself. That was the trouble. He shouldn’t have played around. Again his brain involuntarily replayed the walk from the bell tower to this spot a third of the way across the bridge for the thousandth time. He was pushing Dumas in front of him. He had the gun in his hand, the broad target of the old duffer’s back not five inches away. Anytime he could have pulled the trigger – grabbed the body before it collapsed and heaved it over the railing, together with the weapon. One clean motion. He’d thought about it at the time. More than once he came that close – that close to doing it.
ooooWhy didn’t he?
ooooCocksure. That’s why. And he’d wanted to watch the high and mighty Englishman squirm. Suffer.
ooooThen again in the train. At the appearance of the pistol, the crowd would have parted like the Red Sea – with only Dumas and that blasted woman on the opposite shore. A clear shot. Aim. Squeeze gently.
ooooHe was aiming his finger at the water when his mind caught up with current events. He’d been so engrossed in his thoughts he started when he heard the voice.
oooo“Connor!”
ooooHe spun around to find the green Morris Minor stopped on the other side of the bridge. Kenny grinned from the open window. Connor hesitated. Was it the grin of a friend, or an assassin? For half a second he toyed with the idea of jumping over the bridge like Dumas had. The difficulty was, he didn’t swim.
oooo“Kenny?”
ooooTraffic sped between them.
oooo“I knew you’d turn up sooner or later. C’mere, lad,” Kenny yelled.
ooooAs Connor bolted across the road his face was shocked with the light of an approaching car that slammed on its brakes to avoid hitting him. The driver laid on the horn, Connor laughed and shot him a ‘V’. “I thought they nabbed you.”
oooo“Who?”
oooo“The cops. They was right after you when you put me down in Russell Square.”
ooooKenny shrugged. “I didn’t see nobody.”
oooo“Never mind,” said Connor animatedly. “You’ve found Dumas!” He bent to the window. “Where?”
oooo“Get in, I’ll show you.”
ooooThe words rung familiar in Connor’s brain. He’d used them one night himself, inviting a compatriot to ‘climb in and talk it over.’ They’d driven to a quiet place in the City, an alley off Old Jewry Lane, where Connor quietly explained that McGilvery was unhappy, and why. He then offered the bloke a cigarette and, while he was holding the lighter in one hand, pumped three quick bullets behind his ear with the other. He removed the cigarette from the dead man’s lips as he slumped, and smoked it.
oooo“Just tell me, Ken,” said Connor, tensing. “I’ll do ‘im up neat as a Christmas Cracker. You’ll see. You can come along – and tell McGilvery I done ‘im good. I will too! No muckin’ about this time. Straight at it – all I need’s a clean shot.”
oooo“Sure, sure, I’ll take you there,” said Kenny, too affably. “Hop in.”
ooooConnor played for time. “How did you find him?”
oooo“Simple. I went ’round the block after I let you off – Russell Square? You recollect that bloke outside on the walk? I pegged ‘im for a Yardie, and I figured he was waiting to have a little chat with his Lordship about all that fuss the night before. So, I waited. But his lordship wasn’t forthcomin’, was he? He buggered out the back way an’ left this bloke all dressed up and nowhere to go. He goes up to the door and bangs on it a couple times – when nothin’ happens, he runs across the street, hops in his car and motors off – and so did I, right behind him. And where does he go? New Scotland Yard.”
ooooKenny was warming to his story. “What did I do? I waited. And where he went, I went and you know where he went not two hours ago?”
oooo“Where?”
oooo“Guess.”
oooo“I can’t bloody guess, you pillock! Where?”
oooo“Whyn’t you get in and we’ll talk it over? We can go to the Little Mothers – everybody’s there.”
oooo“Not bloody likely,” said Connor, standing. “I don’t like the way this is shiftin’ out, Kenny, old mate. Put both hands up on the steering wheel where I can see ‘em.”
oooo“Sure, sure, Connor,” said Kenny, complying. “There. See? Both on the wheel. Whyn’t you climb in – that last car almost clipped you.”
oooo“It’s not cars I’m worried about,” said Connor. “Where did the Yardie go?”
oooo“A teashop in Spitalfields.”
oooo“A teashop?”
oooo“Aye, that’s right. He was in there some time, him and his mate – a Sergeant I seen before up Whitehall. And you know what I done, Con’? I waited f’rim to come out – and I went in not five minutes after to have a cuppa tea and see what I could see, and you know what happened?” One of his hands fell to his lap.
oooo“Put that hand back on the wheel, Kenny,” Connor warned.
oooo“What? Oh, oh sure!” He put it back on the wheel. “I can’t figure you thinkin’ I’d do anything to hurt you, Connor. We was lads together, me and you. Been through thick and thin, as they say, an’t we?”
ooooConnor repented inwardly, but outwardly maintained his guard. “Nevermind all that. What happened at the tea shop?”
oooo“Well – I no more than got through the door and the girl that was workin’ there come up and asked me if I was the medical examiner from Scotland Yard. Me, Con’! Imagine that.”
oooo“She must have been stupid.”
ooooKenny laughed. “Aye, must have!” His hand fell to his lap again. “So I says yes and she asks me if I’m going to fingerprint the tea set. Well, I didn’t know what she was on about, but I says yes but first, I says, will you be so kind as to go over everything in detail, as I hadn’t the opportunity, I says it just like that, real toff – ‘hadn’t the opportunity of speakin’ to the gov’ner’ so would she bring me up to date?
oooo“Well, if the Yardie’s get as much outta most as that woman give, they got no shortage of information. She was still rattlin’ on when I left, but I had to get out for fear I’d forget something inportant for all her noise.”
oooo“Where’s your hand, Kenny?”
oooo“Oh, come on, Connor. It’s right here, see?” He waved it. “Right here, with the fingers fallin’ off. It’s cold. Can’t I put it in my pocket? I swear I don’t have a weapon – you can check me if you like. Either that or get in so I can roll up this window and keep some heat in. These Minors wasn’t made to heat all London, you know. Come on, Con’. We was lads together.”
ooooConnor relaxed. He walked around to the opposite side and got in. Kenny held the door for him. “That’s better, Con. There, now I can roll up this bleedin’ window.”
ooooHe rolled up the window and reached for the gearshift.
oooo“No, no,” Connor snapped. “This’ll do, Kenny. We don’t need to go anywhere. Tell me what she said.”
ooooKenny looked in the rearview mirror. “There’s no parkin’ on the bridge. We’ll get nicked. I don’t think we want to draw too much attention to this car, do you?”
oooo“Put your emergency flashers on.”
ooooKenny put the flashers on.
oooo“Did she know where Dumas is?”
oooo“Well, no . . . “
oooo“I thought you said you’d found him!” said Connor anxiously. “What’s your game, old mate?”
oooo“No, no. Nothin’” Kenny complained, holding up both hands. “Honestly! She don’t know where he is – but she knows where he’s headin’.”
ooooConnor relaxed again. “Where’s that?”
oooo“Rome.” Kenny lowered his hands and returned them to his pockets.
oooo“Rome?”
oooo“That’s right.”
oooo“I don’t see how that helps much.”
oooo“How about this, then? He’s going to be at St. Peter’s Square on Christmas Eve,” Kenny beamed. Connor was finally at ease. Everything had gone perfectly. Waiting until another car passed to mask the sound and coughing at the same time, Kenny gently pulled back the hammer of the pistol in his right hand pocket.
ooooIt was the grin that gave him away. The benighted grin of a well-meaning teddy bear Kenny wore just before he killed people. Connor’s hand had never left the pistol in his pocket. He pulled the trigger three times in quick succession. Always three times.
ooooKenny’s expression suddenly changed to one of surprise. His eyes widened and a trickle of blood oozed from the corner of his mouth. “Connor,” he rasped. “We was lads together.”
ooooWith his remaining strength, he pulled the trigger. The bullet tore through the fabric of his coat with a burst of blue smoke, grazed Connor’s left side and slammed through the door. Connor quickly yanked Kenny’s hand from his pocket and pried the weapon from the dying fingers.
oooo“You should’ve stuck with me,” said Connor as he rifled through Kenny’s pockets, extracting his wallet, his passport and a few pounds in change. Kenny’s eyes were open and fixed on Connor in disbelief, but blood clogged his throat and he couldn’t speak.
ooooThere was a sudden, metallic rap on the window. Connor’s heart crammed itself in his throat as he looked up and saw a policeman peering in the window. Thinking quickly, he tore Kenny’s collar open and rolled the window down almost simultaneously.
oooo“What’re you on about?” said the constable. “You can’t park here, y’know.”
oooo“You’re just in time, officer. He’s had a heart attack or something.”
oooo“Heart attack, is it? Let’s have a look.”
ooooConnor opened the curbside door and backed out as the constable came around the car. “Please,” said Connor. He gestured helplessly toward the open door. “It’s more than I can do.”
ooooAs the officer assumed Connor’s place over Kenny, Connor placed the barrel of his pistol at the back of the constable’s neck and fired three shots in quick succession. They went through Kenny’s head, too. That saved him any further suffering.
ooooConnor stuffed the constable’s legs into the car and closed the door. He’d have liked to take the box of grenades, but there was no time. Besides, it would give Scotland Yard something to occupy their time.
oooo“I’ve never been to Rome,” he said, jogging down the steps to Westminster Pier. He tossed his pistol as far out into the Thames as he could, and tucked Kenny’s in his belt, like a cowboy. Twice as he crossed the pier he practiced a fast draw and made gunshot sounds with his mouth. He was going to miss Kenny. His sister had been his first girlfriend.
ooooAs he bounded up the steps only one thing bothered him, why was Scotland Yard looking for Dumas? Why hadn’t he gone to them?
oooo“Excuse me! Excuse me! Sir!” The sing-songy voice had a decided lisp to it. Connor turned to see a young black man in a snug denim outfit emerge from the shadows. His hair was closely cropped and silver jewelry adorned his ears, wrists and fingers.
ooooCalvin was out of breath. “Where is everybody?” he gasped as Connor regarded him with a sort of amused disgust.
oooo“I was looking for the Savoy Hotel? My friend said it was just north of the Temple station. North is left, right?” He giggled and placed a delicate hand on Connor’s forearm. “I mean, left isn’t it? I always get confused – I walked that way . . . ” he pointed up river. “That’s Big Ben?”
oooo“Aye,” said Connor.
oooo“Aye?” said Calvin, his train of thought derailed for the moment. “Are you a sailor?”
ooooConnor smiled. “Irish. And you?”
oooo“Oh – I’m American. Afro-American . . . ” he giggled again and squeezed Connor’s arm. “As you can see. Anyway – it’s a mess up there. Did you see it?”
oooo“See what?”
oooo“Big Ben – it looks like somebody tried to blow it up.”
oooo“You don’t say?”
ooooCalvin turned his full attention to Connor. “Irish?”
oooo“Aye.”
oooo“Aye,” Calvin repeated. He saluted. “Aye-aye, captain. Beam me up!” He laughed aloud.
oooo“It could be arranged,” said Connor under his breath.
oooo“I beg your pardon?”
oooo“I said you’re out of your way – This is Westminster Station.”
oooo“Westminster?” said Calvin. He got out his Underground Journey Planner and studied the green line. “Oh, poop! I got off too soon!”
oooo“Not really,” said Connor. “You’d have about as far to walk either way.” He pointed down river. “Follow along here – under the railroad bridge . . . “
oooo“That one?” asked Calvin, pointing at the Hungerford Railway bridge.
ooooConnor was about to say ‘aye’. “That’s right,” he said distinctly. “Then you’ll see a long park on your left. Take your first left after the park, and The Savoy will be on your left.”
ooooCalvin had been mumbling the directions to himself as they were told him. “Left and left. Wonderful! Thank you, thank you so much.” He waved and started on his way, then stopped short. “What’s your name?”
oooo“Erin Go Braugh,” said Connor, with a straight face.
oooo“Aaron Gobra,” Calvin repeated. “Jewish?”
oooo“No.”
oooo“I’m Calvin. Are you ‘in the life’, as they say?”
oooo“I beg your pardon?”
oooo“Gay?”
oooo“Not even mildly amused.”
oooo“What does that mean?” Calvin asked. “No?”
oooo“Aye,” said Connor.
ooooCalvin sighed. “Pity.” He skipped off in the direction of Embankment Gardens, a living, breathing, three-dimensional stereotype.
ooooConnor watched after him, pulled Kenny’s pistol from his pocket and pointed it at the back of Calvin’s head.
oooo“Bang,” he said, then waxed philosophical with a sigh. “Too few bullets.”
ooooBehind him, the emergency flashers on the Morris Minor blinked a mute alarm in the night.

oooo“Methinks she doth protest too little,” said Dumas as he took a bite of artichoke and endive salad. The Savoy Grill was packed with people, ninety percent of them men, journalists and government types – all having returned to town mid-weekend due to the bombings – and it had required twenty pounds, judiciously applied, to get a table.
ooooJanine attacked a steak and kidney pie with gustatorial delight that seemed to adversely affect the appetite of Avril Miller, to whom the statement was addressed. She wiped her lips with her napkin and placed it in her lap. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
oooo“Earlier you did nothing but complain. Now, you’re very calm – eating your soup. What I mean is – why are you still here?”
oooo“I’m not sure I follow you.”
oooo“Oh, but that’s precisely what you’re doing. Following me. That’s what has me wondering,” said Dumas. “You’re perfectly free to go, yet you stay. Why?”
ooooShe flushed slightly and took another spoonful of mushroom soup. “I thought I’d been kidnapped,” she said. “Hadn’t I? Isn’t it customary for fleeing kidnappees to get shot in the back?”
ooooDumas smiled. He wiped his mouth, dropped his napkin into his lap and, folding his hands on the table, regarded her closely. “Is it customary for kidnappers to stand their victims to supper at the Savoy? You haven’t been kidnapped, so much as waylaid – temporarily.”
oooo“Semantics mean very little to the victim.”
oooo“Surely you see I couldn’t have left you there – in Fuller’s office? You’d have called the authorities, wouldn’t you?”
ooooShe didn’t respond.
oooo“You see?” said Dumas. “And had you done, I’d never have got out of the place.
oooo“But, since then, you could have run away half a dozen times. When the two of you went to find the lady’s room, when I was on the phone at the tea shop, while we were in our rooms getting ready for dinner . . . “
oooo“I had her at my elbow the whole time.” She indicated Janine with a wag of her spoon.
oooo“Me?” said Janine.
oooo“Ah! And you thought she was under orders to shoot you if you tried to escape?”
oooo“Isn’t that the general scheme of things?”
oooo“After you’d seen the way she handles a gun?”
oooo“Well . . . “
oooo“I assure you, she knows exactly what you know – and that is exactly what I know which, regarding what might happen next is precisely nothing.”
oooo“Why did you give me so many opportunities, then, if you thought I’d run away?”
ooooDumas shrugged. “I was trying to find you out.”
oooo“How do you mean?”
ooooDumas deliberated. “I’m not under any delusions about my part in this business, Miss Miller. Nor, I think, do I overestimate my ability to accomplish anything of real value – alone, at least. I believe I have a reputation among my peers as being somewhat dull, if not slowwitted, eccentric, harmless and, generally speaking, useless.”
oooo“Piffle!” Janine protested with her mouth full. A little shower of breadcrumbs settled on the pristine white tablecloth. “Beg pardon.”
ooooDumas held up his hand. “Oh, but I am! That’s me to a ‘t’. Which is precisely why I was hoping to recruit someone with your acumen in these matters. The same is true of you, Janine, and of Mohammed, wherever he is.”
oooo“He went to the gent’s,” Janine offered.
oooo“You supplement my deficiencies. Some of them, at least. Taken all together we make one reasonably intelligent unit.”
ooooHe turned again to Miller. “So you see, I needed to know whose side you were on. You seem to run hot and cold.”
oooo“And if I’d run off and turned you in?”
oooo“We’d have been long gone by the time you returned with reinforcements.”
oooo“And the ebola? This great conspiracy you imagine among my superiors? What if I’d put the bug in the wrong ear. Pardon the expression.”
oooo“One takes risks. It’s a fifty-fifty proposition, as I see it.”
ooooMiller raised a glass to her lips and spoke over it. “Let’s just say, someone is going to have to give an accurate accounting of all this eventually. That’s why I’m here.”
oooo“Then, you’re along for the duration? Of your own free will?”
ooooShe sipped her drink and, after a brief deliberation, nodded.
oooo“You’ll have to get her some new clothes, too,” Janine advised.
oooo“I hardly think that’s necessary – I have more than enough . . . “
oooo“We’ll be taking the train to Rome Tomorrow,” Dumas interjected. “We’ll get you something there.”
oooo“Rome!”
oooo“Rome!”
oooo“In the meantime, should you need anything of a – of a personal nature, I’m sure the concierge will be most obliging.”
oooo“Why on earth are we going to Rome?” said Miller.
ooooMohammed returned to the table and leaned close to Dumas. “You say you can’t trust anyone in the government?”
oooo“Miss Miller excepted,” Dumas replied.
ooooMohammed smiled and bowed briefly at Miss Miller. “Of course. Of course. But what about someone in the American government?”
ooooThe thought had never occurred to Dumas. The notion hit him like a cold cloth. “The Americans?” he echoed. Slowly the idea found its way home. “Whatever made you think of that?”
oooo“I overheard a gentleman at the bar saying an American Senator is stopping here.”
oooo“Here?” said Dumas. “At the Savoy?”
ooooMohammed nodded.
oooo“Bar, is it? I thought you went to the gents,” said Janine. “You haven’t been a bad little Muslim, have you?”
ooooMohammed sat down beside her. “One must go through the bar to get to the gents, your ladyship.”
ooooJanine had just taken a healthy draft of cold milk and nearly choked on it. “Did you hear what he called me?” she laughed. She raised her pinkie and her eyebrows as she took a genteel sip from her glass.
oooo“That would be Senator Wingfield,” Miller volunteered.
oooo“Wingfield?”
oooo“Head of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee.”
oooo“I’ve heard of him,” said Dumas. “This could be just the ticket. Mohammed, you’re a genius! Where is he?”
oooo“At some conference or other, as far as I can make out.”
oooo“He’s the keynote speaker at the International Environmental Congress,” Miller said.
oooo“I’ve never heard of it,” said Dumas. “Where?”
ooooShe told him.
ooooDumas half-stood. “When? What time?”
ooooMiller looked at her watch. “About two hours ago.”
ooooDumas sank to his seat. “What time is it?”
oooo“Half seven.”
oooo“He might not be back for hours.”
oooo“Give me twenty quid,” Janine demanded, holding out her hand. Dumas, bemused, deposited the required amount and watched as Janine, still playing the part of her ladyship, summoned a waiter. “My good man, his lordship,” she nodded toward Dumas, “would like to know if Senator – what’s his name?”
oooo“Wingfield, ma’am?”
oooo“Wingfield! The very one – ” she discreetly placed ten pounds in his palm. “We were wondering is he booked for supper here, by any chance?”
oooo“I believe so, ma’am. Let me check.” He bowed toward Janine and Dumas. “Your lordship.”
oooo“You forget, I’m registered as Russell Church,” Dumas reminded as the waiter became one with the general press and murmuring din.
oooo“I very much doubt he’s going to run out and check the register, do you?”
ooooDumas was astounded. “I’m surrounded by geniuses! I should go home and leave this business to stouter hearts and cooler heads.”
oooo“Wingfield is a very close friend of Secretary Scott’s,” said Miller. “I know him.”
ooooThe observation sent up an immediate red flag. “Hm,” said Dumas. “That’s not good.”
oooo“Oh, come now, your lordship!” Miller protested. “I really find this too much. Secretary Scott may be a man of – questionable morals, but his integrity – his loyalty to the crown has never been questioned – is beyond question! Do you realize that in the Faulklands War . . . “
oooo“As I understand it,” Dumas interrupted, “Fuller hadn’t many superiors, had he?”
oooo“Only three, excluding the Queen.”
oooo“The P.M., The Foreign Secretary and who? The Home Secretary?”
oooo“Yes.”
oooo“And when he was expressing his fears to Rhodes – he referred specifically to a superior. I, too, am excluding the Queen. That leaves us three possibilities. Of which Secretary Scott is one.”
oooo“I refuse to believe it! I’d bet the world on Mr. Scott’s professional integrity.”
oooo“Would you, really?” said Dumas, letting the words sink in.
ooooMiller propped her elbows on the table and put her head in her hands. “This is impossible,” she whispered. She looked up and stared at him with desperate eyes, which suddenly widened in alarm. “Oh, lord!” she gasped, looking over his shoulder. “It’s them!”
ooooFollowing her line of sight, Dumas turned in his seat. Three men were making their way to the bar. “Them?” He said. “Who? The Senator?”
oooo“He’s the sandy-haired one – the gray one is Secretary Scott.”
ooooAs Wingfield’s eyes swept the room with his typical cool imperiousness, Miller sank in her seat and leaned to one side, putting Dumas between them. Scott’s attention was apparently directed at the bar, toward which he bent his steps without so much as a glance to the right or left.
oooo“Yes. I recognize him. And the other?”
ooooMiller didn’t know.
oooo“He’s cute!” said Janine. “You want me to find out?”
ooooThe waiter approached and addressed himself to Janine. “I’m sorry to have kept you, ma’am. As you have already seen, the Senator is indeed dining with us. His reservations are for eight o’clock.”
oooo“And – who is the young man with him – do you know?” she asked, offhandedly.
oooo“A Mr. Cumio, ma’am. A – friend, ma’am.”
oooo“Friend? Why do you say it like that?”
oooo“Well – the hotel would frown on my being too free with information, ma’am.”
ooooJanine smiled, took his hand in hers and appeared to be holding it. Only the two of them felt the warm press of paper. “I shouldn’t expect you to be free with it,” she said. “That simply wouldn’t do, would it?”
oooo“Quite, ma’am,” said the waiter, putting his hand in his pocket once she had released it. “I’m glad to find you so understanding. oooo“Being a woman of the world,” he continued as he drew the wine from ice and decanted it into various glasses on the table, “you are no doubt aware that certain men – forgive me for hesitating, but one must be delicate – certain men decline intimacy with the fair sex, preferring instead . . . ” Without looking at Janine, he tilted his head and raised an eyebrow in her direction. “The Senator would be numbered among them.”
oooo“You don’t say!’ said Mohammed. “The Koran advises a most effective treatment for the affliction.”
oooo“Not the young one, too? Can’t be,” Janine protested. “He’s too good looking!”
oooo“That I couldn’t say, ma’am. The Senator is a frequent visitor with us and is often accompanied by male assistants.” He finished pouring the wine. “May I be of any further service?”
oooo“No, thanks,” said Janine, waving him away.
oooo“Just a minute,” said Dumas.
oooo“Your lordship?”
oooo“Would you get me some paper and a pen, please – and an envelope.”
ooooThe waiter bowed crisply from the waist and left.
oooo“Gets back to what I was saying about no luck, doesn’t it, Dumas?” said Janine. “Here I’m all done up like Cinderella, and I find the only reason Prince Charming’s interested in my glass slippers is ’cause he wants a pair just like ‘em.”

Chapter Sixteen: The Cry of Carrion

ooooThe phone rang on the stand in the hall.
oooo“Must be for you,” said Alda Mannix as her husband dislodged himself from his favorite chair and turned down the television. “People know better than call me during my program.”
ooooMannix pulled his suspenders onto his shoulders as he ambled down the hall. “Hello?”
oooo“Superintendent Mannix?” said the voice on the phone.
oooo“Speaking.”
oooo“This is Jeremy Harrison of the Foreign Office.”
ooooMannix knees gave out and he sank to a nearby chair. “Mr . . . ?”
oooo“Harrison.”
oooo“Harrison. Yes, sir. What can I do for you?”
oooo“Sort out some confusion, I hope.”
oooo“Indeed?”
oooo“Yes. I have been informed that one of your prisoners has died – a Farhan al-Sa’di. Is that correct?”
ooooFuller had assured him – promised him – there was no way anyone could find out, not even in the Foreign Office. For this reason, Mannix had never pondered the likelihood of this question, nor a plausible response.
oooo“Who told you that, Mr. Harrison?” he asked. His head was swimming as a host of unpleasant outcomes presented themselves to his brain for inspection.
oooo“Is al-Sa’di dead, Superintendent?”
oooo“Yes, sir.” The collar of Mannix’s t-shirt seemed to be tightening around his neck. He tugged at it.
oooo“But you have not released this information?”
oooo“No, sir.”
oooo“Why?”
ooooIt was as if the conversation was being scripted by Mannix’ worst fears. “I was asked not to release the information pending further notice.”
oooo“By whom?”
oooo“Whom?”
oooo“Who asked you to keep the death a secret?”
ooooMannix had a brainstorm. “I’m afraid I can’t release that information over the phone, Mr. Harrison.”
oooo“I beg your pardon?”
oooo“I’ve already said too much, I’m sure.”
oooo“This is serious, Mannix. I have no time for games.”
oooo“And I can’t compromise the security of the prison, or its inmates,” said Mannix, wrestling for control of his wits. “If you wish to question me further I shall, of course, be only to happy to cooperate, once I’ve seen your credentials.”
oooo“You doubt I am who I say I am?”
oooo“It’s not a question of my doubting, is it? It’s a question of your proving.”
ooooThere was a moment’s welcome silence on the other end of the line. “I’m at The Foreign Office. Hang up and call me here. My extension is 333.”
oooo“What does that prove?”
oooo“That I am who I say I am!”
oooo“How?”
oooo“Well, if you call me at The Foreign Office, then obviously . . . “
oooo“Is there a switchboard operator?”
oooo“Not on the weekends, no,” Harrison snapped. “But you don’t need one. There’s a recorded message. You simply press my extension . . . “
oooo“Well, if there’s no body there – no person who knows you, to direct the call – you might just as well be a janitor, mightn’t you?”
oooo“I’ve never heard such lunacy in all my life! If I have to come all the way up there to verify my information in person, it will cost you your job, Mannix. I guarantee that!”
oooo“What did you know about the deceased, Mr. Harrison?”
oooo“You’re quizzing me!”
ooooMannix heart was racing, but he’d gotten control of his voice. He repeated the question.
oooo“He was leader of an al Qaeda cell,” Harrison snapped.
ooooMannix agreed. “A group that would stop at nothing to get him back – or get information about him. How am I to know one of ‘em isn’t standing at your shoulder now, with a gun to your head?
oooo“No, Mr. Harrison. If you want to talk more, it’ll have to be in person,” Mannix concluded, stalling for time. “Now, tomorrow’s Sunday, but I’ll be happy to come down to London Monday morning, as early as you please.”
oooo“That won’t be necessary, Superintendent,” said Harrison coldly. “I’ll be on your doorstep in an hour and twenty minutes.” He hung up.
ooooMannix exhaled slowly as he pressed the cutoff button. Releasing it, he waited for the tone and dialed Fuller’s number. Once again he got a recording. He slammed the phone down.
oooo“What’s the matter, dear?” Alda called from the next room. “Who was it?”
ooooHe’d have to make a clean breast of it. That meant implicating Fuller, but there was nothing for it. He’d simply been following instructions, and now Fuller had left him holding the hot end of the poker. If Harrison was going to show up on his doorstep, he’d not go home empty handed.
oooo“Who was it?” said Alda. “The prison?”
oooo“Yes,” Mannix replied, taking his coat from the rack by the phone. He put it on. “A little bit of business to take care of. A Mr. Harrison should be showing up in an hour and a half, thereabouts. Tell him I’ll meet him at the prison.”
oooo“Mr. Harrison?”
oooo“Yes.”
oooo“I don’t know him, do I?”
oooo“No,” said Mannix as he opened the door. “He’s with the Foreign Office.”
oooo“Very well, dear,” said the woman. “You’re not going to be late, are you?”
oooo“Not very, I shouldn’t think.”
oooo“Call before you leave, and I’ll have the kettle on. Good night, love.”
ooooThe door closed.

ooooMannix was in the morgue when Harrison arrived. He’d had the body readied for transport, but left the black bag unzipped so Harrison could inspect the goods. He extended his hand, but Harrison merely displayed his ID card.
oooo“Satisfied?”
ooooMannix gave the card a cursory glance. “He’s there,” he said, pointing at a stainless steel gurney.
oooo“So I gathered,” said Harrison, parting the sides of the bag with his gloved hands. “When did he die?”
oooo“Night before last.”
oooo“Thursday?”
oooo“That’s correct. I informed Mr. Fuller of his death.”
oooo“Why?”
oooo“He’d told me to. He was the arresting officer. There were threats against al-Sa’di’s life at the time – so Fuller said if the prisoner came to any harm, he was to be notified straightaway.”
oooo“And what did he say?”
oooo“He said it couldn’t have happened at a worse time, and to keep it quiet for a few days.”
oooo“What did he mean by that – couldn’t have happened at a worse time?”
ooooMannix shrugged. “He didn’t say.”
oooo“What else?”
oooo“That’s all. I’ve called Fuller and left a message, but he hasn’t gotten back to me. So, as far as I’m concerned . . . ” he pointed at the corpse, “he’s all yours.”
oooo“Mine!” Harrison exclaimed. “What do I want with him? Oh, no. He’s your problem.”
oooo“Then I have the permission of the Foreign Office to return him to his next of kin?”
ooooHarrison studied him closely. “Where is that?”
oooo“Syria.”
oooo“Yes.”
ooooMannix breathed a sigh of relief. “And what do I tell Mr. Fuller, when he calls?”
oooo“Should Mr. Fuller call,” Harrison said cryptically, “ask him if hell suits him.” He tugged at his gloves and left.
ooooFor a moment Mannix stood looking blankly at the body. A great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Then he remembered something he’d wanted to ask. Something important.
ooooHe ran after Harrison who had just opened the door at the end of the hall.
oooo“What about a press release?” he said.
ooooHarrison turned up his collar. “What about it?”
oooo“Should I issue one – on al-Sa’di?”
oooo“Is that standard procedure?”
oooo“Yes.”
ooooHarrison considered the request. “Then get on with it.”

Above the Aegean Sea

ooooIt wasn’t so much a plane as an airborne contraption, a huge, throbbing propeller harnessed to an asthmatic engine that siphoned its existence from a large tank, which comprised the remainder of the machine. Thompson, battling to keep her mild claustrophobia from becoming acute, was wedged into a cavity in the mechanism in a semi-fetal position that necessitated her huddling over the metal box containing the vials.
ooooThere were no windows, per se, but a small open porthole, not big enough to squeeze her fist through, presented a clear view, in intermittent splashes of moonlight, of the water not two hundred feet below. Most of the time she kept a corner of her coarse woolen blanket stuffed in the hole to keep the wind from tearing in. But every time she looked, it was the same: water, water everywhere.
ooooA jury-rigged sheet metal partition separated her from the cockpit which, judging by the voices, was occupied by at least two people, a man and a woman. They spoke infrequently, and then so softly that she couldn’t make out their words over the drone of the engine, other than to discern they were speaking Arabic.
ooooThe dull glow of the instrument lights oozed through chinks in the partition and, holding her watch up to one of these, she could make out the time. They’d been in the air for seven hours. Her back ached unbearably and her fingers seemed to have affixed themselves to the metal box, so afraid was she that one of the frequent banks or jolts from the air pockets would jar it from her grasp. For the same reason, she didn’t sleep.
Clearly the plane had been constructed for long distance, low altitude flight. She wondered if the CIA or the NSA or whosever job it was to monitor such things, knew of the existence of this sub-radar transport.
ooooFrom time to time, to keep herself awake, she’d press her face against the frigid metal of the fuselage, or let the wind blow in her face. It was becoming increasingly difficult. As her eyelids grew heavier, her blinks became longer and her brain refused to fix itself on anything for long, even her children. Even the ebola – or what her captors intended to do with it.
ooooSuddenly the plane pulled up sharply and in moments the temperature, already cold, plummeted sharply. In minutes her fingers were blue as the blood huddled around her heart to keep it warm. She tried to wiggle her toes, but couldn’t tell if they responded.
ooooShe jerked the plug from the porthole for a quick peek, just in time to see the first silver light of dawn trace the snow-covered mountaintops between which the plane was threading its way. The sensation took her breath away and she was transfixed by an impossible confusion of images and sensations. Finally, stung to sense by her hair whipping into her eyes, she quickly plugged the whole and shivered to the depths of her soul.
ooooShe wrapped the blanket around her as tightly as possible and reached down to massage her frozen feet with her frigid hand. She’d forgotten she had shoes on. Expensive new shoes which she’d gladly have traded for a handful of rags. Suddenly all of her emotions tumbled in upon the last flickering vestige of her consciousness and she did something she hadn’t done in all her adult life; she prayed the only prayer she remembered.

ooooooooNow I lay me down to sleep
ooooooooI pray the Lord my soul to keep
ooooooooIf I should die, before I wake
ooooooooI pray the Lord my soul to take.

ooooIt was a prayer her husband, son of a preacher that he was, had taught their children despite her protests. Now, in what it was reasonable to assume were the final moments of her existence, it was a thin verbal thread to which she clung with all her heart. She began to repeat the last two lines in a soft, sing-songy cadence and was soon asleep.

ooooSlowly she drifted back to consciousness, but didn’t open her eyes right away. She was saturated with an earthy warmth and through her eyelids could perceive a fire burning nearby. Once again there were voices, but these were much different and in a language she had never heard before. Now and then the subdued conversation was punctuated by a sigh, or soft laughter. She sensed they were being quiet so as not to wake her.
ooooThe air was thick with the pungent smell of cooked cabbage and braised chicken. She was very hungry. Her fingers and toes tingled painfully, but at least they had feeling. In memory of the pain in her back she stretched as far as her muscles would permit and held the tension until her body quivered in freedom.
ooooHer audience made approving sounds, which intensified as she opened her eyes.
oooo“Ah! Ah!” said an old man who sat on a bench in the corner of the room. He pointed at her with his pipe and smiled a huge, toothless smile. “Ah!”
ooooThe observation raced from mouth to mouth around the octagonal room, forming a consensus.
ooooThere were two other men, one about the same age as the first, the other a little younger. All had dark, bushy eyebrows beneath which sparkled coal-black eyes. They were dressed warmly in shirts, zip-front sweaters, thick wool overcoats, wool pants – except for the youngest who wore blue jeans – and black rubber boots that had been stuffed with fleece and came halfway up the calf. But for their language and sparkling black eyes they could have been the Yorkshire farmers and shepherds she remembered so well from childhood vacations to northern England, where her father was born and raised.
ooooThree or four women of similar vintage completed the ensemble, scarved and dressed in black they formed living shadows against the smoke-darkened walls. Strings of bright red peppers hung from the rafters, and one of the women was patiently, automatically, separating a pile of white beans on a low wooden table. She nodded and smiled and kept on separating.
As Thompson propped herself up on her elbows, the cast iron bed squeaked. “Where am I?”
oooo“Ah!” said the first old man, prefacing a barrage of words in an unknown tongue, illustrated with a flurry of gestures from which she gathered the plane had set down somewhere nearby and she’d been put off. These people had brought her inside and put her by the fire to warm up.
The bean lady agreed with animated nods and winks.
ooooSuddenly Thompson was awake enough to remember the metal box. “Where is the box?” she said loudly and slowly, drawing the box in the air and holding it by the handle.
ooooThe old man, using his pipe as a pointer, indicated her suitcase which was by the bed.
oooo“Not that one,” she said. Looking around for something metal, she tapped on the bedstead. “Metal.”
ooooThe bean lady turned and pointed under the bed.
ooooThompson jumped to the floor and, ignoring the pain in her feet, dropped to her knees and pulled the box out where she could see it. It hadn’t been tampered with. “Good,” she sighed. “Good!” she said aloud.
oooo“Good!” repeated the old man. So did everyone else.
oooo“How can I get to Rome?”
oooo“Eh?” said the old man, evidently the spokesman for the group.
oooo“Rome,” Thompson repeated, pointing toward a wall. “Roma.”
oooo“Ah!” said the old man. “Roma!”
oooo“Roma!” said all of the old woman.
oooo“I,” said Thompson, pointing to herself, “have to get there.” She pointed at the wall.
ooooEveryone but the bean lady looked at the wall.
oooo“No,” said Thompson. “I need to go!” Pause. “Go! To Rome!”
oooo“Go!” said the younger man. “Okay. Bye-bye!”
ooooThe others were impressed with their companion’s command of the English language, so they echoed him. “Bye-bye.”
He waved, so they waved.
ooooThompson chose another approach. “This place – Croatia?” she guessed.
ooooThe spokesman shook his head. “Kasova,” he said with a smile.
ooooUntil recently, political realities existed only at the fringes of her consciousness. News had no interest to her beyond its relationship to her field. She knew there had been a series renewed battles on the peninsula recently, but couldn’t place them geographically with any level of confidence. Still on her knees she traced a rough map of the Balkan Peninsula, the Adriatic and Italy in the dirt. The menfolk, curious, gathered around her.
oooo“Croatia,” she said, pointing at the northern part of the peninsula and looking up at them. “Where is Kosovo?”
oooo“Eh,” grunted the younger man, indicating a point midway between the Aegean and the Adriatic. “Kasova,” he corrected.
oooo“Good!” Thompson replied.
ooooThe bean woman laughed. “Good!” she echoed. “Good!”
oooo“Now I,” Thompson persisted, tapping her chest, “have to go to Roma.” She indicated the approximate position of Rome on the makeshift map. “How? Fly?” She flew her hand through the air. “Train? Wooo-woooo. Choo-choo-choo. Boat?” She portrayed a boat on stormy seas. “How?”
ooooLaughing heartily, the old man got up from his stool and went to the door. A cold blast of air came in, together with a small donkey that had been tethered outside. He pointed to the animal, then to Thompson and mimicked riding.

London

oooo“Here,” said Miss Palmer, her distinctive voice a little shrill on Stephson’s answering machine. “I don’t mind bein’ patriotic and that, but sending two blokes over to dust for fingerprints one after the other. Well – the first one never did nothin’ but ast questions, so I cleared away after he left, and the second one got all agitated at me for not leavin’ the table. Well, I got customers that wants waitin’ on, an’t I? That’s all I wanted to say. I never done much talkin’ on machines. If it didn’t record my message, call and let me know. P.S. This is Miss Palmer at Tea Smith in Spitalfields, case you didn’t know.”
oooo“Two blokes?” said Stephson to himself. He leaned back in his chair and watched the traffic going by on Victoria Street, the headlights and tail lights seemed to trace ribbons that dissolved in the hazy fluid of his sight. He’d already called McCauley who corroborated Miss Palmer’s somewhat fractured complaint. Someone had indeed been at the Tea Room before him, someone representing himself as a forensics expert from Scotland Yard.
ooooHe listened to the tape again, to see if he’d missed anything. It was hard to tell, given Miss Palmer’s disjointed, if heartfelt, remarks.
ooooThe Sunday papers were out already, he’d seen them tied in bundles at kiosks, and by morning they’d be all over London. All over England – Headlines screaming with their editorials calling for faster action from the police. As if the perpetrator was already in custody somewhere, and the Yard was simply unwilling to share his identity with the general public out of sheer bloody-mindedness.
ooooHe lit his pipe, propped his feet up in his desk and began writing on a yellow legal pad:
oooo1. Westminster Abbey, bombed by one explosive device at 4:45, p.m. Friday, Dec. 21. Dead: Avery Fuller, MI-5 Operative and another man, identity unknown.
ooooooooa. MI-5, when notified, requests the Yard to keep Fuller’s identity secret until internal investigation is completed. I object. The Superintendent allows two days.
oooooooob. Witnesses report green Morris Minor driving erratically in the area.
oooo2. Parliament, bombed by two explosive devices at 5:02, p.m., Friday, Dec. 21. Preliminary hypothesis: hand grenades. Dead: One parliament doorkeeper, George Rogers, 61.
oooo3. Anthony, Lord Dumas, had been granted permission to do grave rubbings in the Abbey at time of bombing.
ooooooooa. Dumas’ fingerprints are found on the door latch leading from the Abbey to the Dean’s Yard.
oooo4. When I questioned him at his home, Dumas (known to seldom drink) says he was drunk and fell in the Thames from Westminster Bridge.
oooo5. Mrs. Trierson, Dumas’ neighbor two doors down, complains of bullet holes in her outside steps – from which Dumas was extracted the night before by a constable. No explanation.
oooo6. Dumas’ ‘goddaughter’ visiting from New Zealand.
ooooooooa. Dumas’ solicitor, Lord Easterbridge, is not aware of Dumas having a goddaughter.
oooo7. Dumas disappears.
ooooooooa. Did he run?
oooooooob. Was he kidnapped?
oooo8. Dumas turns up at tea shop in Spitalfields Saturday afternoon in the company of person or persons unknown – one of them an Arab.
ooooooooa. Is he a captive?
oooooooob. If not – what the hell is he?

ooooConclusion:
ooooStephson stared long and hard at the list. He stood up, refilled and lit his pipe and began pacing around the room. For a long time the well-oiled machinery of his mind operated in silence. Now and then the feeble alarm of a car horn in the distance slapped the heavy quiet like a pillow, otherwise the only sound was Stephson’s shoes on the carpet as he trudged through his thoughts.
oooo“Conclusion,” he said aloud. “Lord Dumas probably witnessed the bombing at Westminster, or its recent aftermath. The perpetrators saw him, followed him, made an attempt on his life at Parliament – where he would naturally have flown – chased him to Westminster Bridge where he jumped in the river to avoid being killed. They followed him to his house, somehow, (HOW?) and made an unsuccessful attempt on his life.
ooooHe scratched the observations down, then began a list of questions.
ooooQuestions:
oooo1. Why has Dumas not contacted the Yard?
ooooooooi. Unable?
ooooooooii. Unwilling?
ooooooooiii. Afraid?
oooo2. Who is the Arab seen in Dumas’ company?
oooo3. Who are the women in his company?
ooooooooi. Captors?
ooooooooii. Captives?
ooooooooiii. Accomplices?
oooo4. What business does Dumas have in Rome?
oooo5. What is he waiting for?
oooo6. Does he know who killed Fuller?
oooo7. Who was Fuller’s companion?
ooooHe put down the pencil. “Questions, seven. Answers, nought.” He picked up the phone and dialed.
ooooA crisp sounding young woman answered. “Operations. Sergeant Williams speaking.”
oooo“Sergeant, this is Stephson.”
ooooWilliams sat up straight. “Sir. How may I help you, sir?”
oooo“Locate a photograph of Lord Anthony Dumas . . . “
ooooThe Sergeant repeated the name as she wrote it down.
oooo“Have it copied and distributed to all points of exit. He is not to leave the country, per my order.”
oooo“Got it sir, yes sir. Any particulars?”
oooo“He may be traveling with another man and two women. Sergeant Ashbury took down their descriptions . . . “
oooo“Ashbury’s gone home, sir.”
oooo“I trust he’s on the phone?”
oooo“Yes, sir,” Williams replied meekly. oooo“Right away, sir. Anything else?”
oooo“If Dumas is found, take him into custody – put him under house arrest at his home in Russell Square.”
oooo“Charges?”
ooooStephson tapped the ashes out of his pipe into an oversized ashtray. “Nothing formal. I suspect he was witness to the Westminster bombings,” he said, adding under his breath, “at the very least.” He cleared his throat. “For now let’s call it protective custody.”
oooo“Very good sir. Will that be all?”
oooo“No,” said Stephson, grabbing his greatcoat and putting it on. “Get in touch with Henri Coutoire at Interpol and Caesar Peruzzi of La Polizia, ask them to be on lookout for Dumas as well. Same reason. FAX or e-mail his picture to them. Tell Peruzzi I’ll be in Rome tomorrow and will call him when I get there. Be especially polite with the greasy little twit, but if he fusses, mention the Cezane we recovered for him last year. Then book me on a morning flight for Rome. Out of Stansted, if possible. Phone me at home with the arrangements. Do you have all that?”
ooooWilliams repeated his instructions.
oooo“Good.”
oooo“And if we find Lord Dumas?”
oooo“Let me know.”
ooooHe returned the phone to its cradle, folded the notepad and stuffed it in his pocket. “I hate Rome.”

Chapter Seventeen: Council of Whispers

oooo“We should have killed her!” said one of the voices angrily. “What use is glory to an infidel! A woman!”
ooooAnother man laughed. “You’re a zealot, Hakim.”
oooo“One is either a zealot, or an unbeliever.”
ooooThe other man didn’t reply for a moment.
ooooKitan had ducked into the first room he came to, a bathroom. He’d left the door open and was standing in the shower stall, secreted by the slim comfort of its frosted glass. His heart rattled in his ears and, despite the cold, salty sweat streamed into his eyes.
oooo“They have their uses,” said the second man finally. The tiles of the shower stall acted like a huge antenna, trapping even the softest sounds but, while there was a lot of commotion, Kitan couldn’t make out what they were doing. “A good zealot simply obeys, eh?”
ooooHakim stewed in his own juices for a while. “What is in those vials?” he said at last.
oooo“I don’t know. Something valuable.”
oooo“Something dangerous, I think. Didn’t it seem odd to you that Zabihullah Mujadid wouldn’t even let us in the same room with that cold case? He didn’t even go near it himself – sending poor Pasha to check on them every hour or so. What does she know? Did you notice that?”
oooo“Maybe.”
oooo“And next thing we know, the vials are on the ledge, there! He picks them up and plays with them, sloshing them around.”
oooo“Which is why I don’t think it was something dangerous. Mujahid’s bravery extends to beating chained women and bombing school buses. He wouldn’t take such a risk. Besides, it’s just a liquid. What could be so dangerous?”
oooo“Poison.”
oooo“Poison? Valuable to the west? I don’t think so.”
oooo“Then why would he still not let us near that room? What became of the metal case?’
oooo“It was left with the boy and the woman.”
oooo“No! It wasn’t the same case. It wasn’t as cold.”
oooo“What do you mean? I gave it to Pierre. It was cool. I felt it.”
oooo“Cool, yes. But nothing like the other.”
oooo“Bah – you’re not only a zealot, you’re a suspicious zealot. Whatever is in the vials is something valuable. It must be, if the west is willing to exchange it for al-Sa’di.”
oooo“al-Sa’di is an infidel,” said Hakim, returning to his favorite theme, “Worse than Arafat.”
ooooThe second man laughed again. “The world is full of infidels! And Hakim is the only saint among us. Maybe, when you die you will be carried into heaven like Mohammed, eh? They will build a golden dome to you, too!”
oooo“Blasphemer,” hissed Hakim.
oooo“No,” replied the second man. “The Jihad needs soldiers. That’s me. A soldier. I ask no questions, I obey. Let the generals and the kings – and saints like yourself – worry about how and why and where and when. They will account for my death before Allah. Where are you going with the light?”
ooooKitan knew. He could hear the footsteps approaching. He drew a sharp breath and held it, pressing himself into the darkest corner of the shower stall.
oooo“Would you rather I piss on the floor?” said Hakim. His voice was so close it nearly stopped Kitan’s heart. Hakim bumped the door open a little farther and proceeded to the toilet, back-to the shower stall. He put the kerosene lantern on the shelf above the sink and unzipped his pants. He was not more than two feet from Kitan.
oooo“Even a soldier must know the difference between right and wrong!” Hakim yelled. Suddenly Kitan felt as if he had to sneeze, cough, break wind and burp all at once. His body shuddered with its conspiracy to betray him. “Or how will we know when man’s law opposes God’s?”
ooooHis shrill voice, reverberating from the bathroom tiles, was nearly deafening.
oooo“How are we to know if it does?” said the other man from the lobby. “We’re not all saints like the mighty Hakim.”
ooooHakim zipped his fly and washed his hands in a bucket of water. “You don’t need to be a saint to read the Koran, Kareem! Or to pray!” He poured some water in the toilet and flushed it.
oooo“Where is my toothpaste!”
oooo“There’s some in there,” said Kareem. “I put it there myself.”
oooo“Crest,” replied Hakim contemptuously. Kitan watched his hazy image through the glass as he removed the cap from the tube and applied it to a toothbrush. “I only use Colgate.”
ooooThere was something so powerfully incongruous about the thought of jihaddists arguing about toothpaste that Kitan almost laughed aloud. But his amusement was swiftly stifled by his instinct for survival.
oooo“It makes no difference,” said Kareem, needling his companion. “They’re all made by infidels.”
ooooHakim spat into the sink, rinsed his mouth, spat again and studied his teeth in the mirror.
oooo“We should have killed her!” he said as he picked up the lantern and left the room. “Or traded her for al-Sa’di.”
ooooKitan nearly fainted with relief.
oooo“Well, whatever it is,” said Kareem, “I’m glad she’s gone and our part in it is over. I’m not Mujadid. I hate doing such things to a woman.”
oooo“We did nothing but bring her here. He did the rest.”
oooo“What will Allah say to that, do you think?”
oooo“She’s a woman. Why would he care?”
oooo“Put out the light. It’s been a long day.”
oooo
ooooFor a long time Kitan stood still. His fingers and toes grew cold from lack of movement and only the gentle rise and fall of his chest betrayed him as being alive at all. One time his knees locked and he only just managed to catch himself before he passed out. At last he could hear the breath of sleep, a soft snore and a contrapuntal mucousy click in the back of someone’s throat. He waited half an hour. An hour. An hour and a half. He would only get one chance to save his life.
ooooThe shower door had latched when he closed it. Steadying the glass panel with one hand to keep it from rattling, he braced his shoulder against the door and leaned on it.
ooooThe click as it opened seemed, to him, like the click of the hammer that is the last sound a blindfolded man hears before his execution. He waited until its echo died. No one stirred. The plaintiff squeal of the hinge as the door swung open only he could hear, but it turned his blood to ice.
ooooHe poked his head into the pitch blackness of the hall. There were stairwells at either end, he knew, but were there steps? There was only once choice. He had to go back the way he’d come. Although the moon had dragged its pale train elsewhere, he felt reasonably certain that, if he stayed close to the wall – very close to the wall, he could make it back down the main stairs.
ooooOnce in the hall he became painfully aware of the squish of the carpet beneath his shoes. Carefully placing one foot in front of the other, as if walking a tightrope, he made his way to the lobby.
ooooThe sleeping figures were indistinguishable from the darkness, yet he knew his silhouette would be visible in the faint light of the doorway. He crawled the last ten feet on his hands and knees. Just as he reached the top of the stairs his fingers touched on a board that was leaning against the wall. He lifted one end carefully. It was covered with fabric, probably a valance, about six inches wide and four feet long. His first thought was that it could be used as a weapon, if worse came to worse. However, when he reached the stairs without being detected, he placed it on its edge across the open doorway and began a labored descent.
ooooFrom time to time his feet would startle a salamander or brush a concrete chip from the steps and send it tumbling into the pitch dark below.
ooooThe night air was cool and, as he emerged from the lobby with both his donkey and his neck intact, Kitan sensed a profound new understanding of freedom. He breathed deeply. “You know, Jacques,” he said. “It is good to be alive. I am not dead – and you are not dinner. This is a good day!”
ooooHe threaded his way through the most recent layer of debris to a call box near the walls of the American University. It was a long walk. As Hakim had said, it had been a long day. He dialed Yusef on his Iridium satphone. Yusef, who did not appreciate being awaken.
oooo“Do you know what time it is, Kitan?” he said, fumbling for his glasses and turning on the bedside light. He reached for his watch, but knocked it to the floor.
oooo“As a matter of fact, I don’t,” said Kitan, still thrilling at his reintroduction to life, despite his fatigue. “Nor do I care. I am paid to do a job – I’m doing it. If you want to keep regular hours, you are in the wrong business, my friend.”
ooooYusef laughed. “Perhaps you are right. Well, what do you have for me? The woman hasn’t returned, has she?”
oooo“No, no. I went back to the hotel.”
oooo“You did?”
oooo“Up to the sixth floor. I found the room where they kept her.”
oooo“Kitan! You didn’t!” said Yusef. He was impressed, it was evident in his voice.
oooo“She was definitely a prisoner. I saw the cord they had used to tie her hands – the lock on the door. Nothing but a thin mat on the floor – and a bath tub full of cold water.”
oooo“A bathtub?”
oooo“When I saw her, she was clean, well dressed, as I said before. There was a pile of filthy clothes in the corner – and the room smelled very bad.”
oooo“But why would they allow her to clean herself, and give her new clothes? Do you think they broke her?”
oooo“I don’t think so.” said Kitan. He lit a match, produced the bit of paper from his pocket and held it near enough the flame so he could read. “I also found a piece of paper with writing on it. Someone had set fire to it – but it didn’t burn. It’s in English, I think. Or German.”
oooo“Read it to me,” said Yusef. He was fully awake now, sitting on the edge of the bed with his feet half way in his slippers and his robe draped over his shoulders.
ooooKitan knew the letters of the western alphabet. He read them one at a time. When he finished he could tell the words had a profound effect on Yusef. “What is it?” he said in closing. “What does it mean?”
oooo“It means you might have just saved the human race, Kitan,” Yusef replied. There was no irony or cynicism in his voice. “Well done, my friend. Go and get some sleep. Good night. Incidentally, it’s two o’clock.”
oooo
ooooKitan was left in the dark. What had he meant by that? The words must be very important. He applied the match to the paper, held it until it was thoroughly burned and let the ashes fall to the ground. What had they meant? he wondered.
ooooWhen the last spark died out, he took Jacques by the harness and led him through the rubble toward home. “Sleep,” he said. “Sleep? I have to pick up my fruit in four hours!”
oooo
ooooThe President knew what Freeman’s call meant. Someone had found Dr. Thompson. As he awaited the general’s arrival, he walked distractedly up and down the darkened hall, coming to a stop at last in the door of the Lincoln Bedroom.
ooooThey said it was haunted. Lincoln’s ghost had been seen by an assortment of presidents, first ladies and their children, grandchildren, guests and servants over the years. “Where are you now that I need you?” he said into the darkened room.
ooooNothing. Then again, it wasn’t really Lincoln’s bedroom. Nothing in the White House was what it purported to be, since the place had been gutted in the early fifties and, while much of the ornamental plaster, woodwork and paneling had been integrated into the new structure, it wasn’t the real White House, just the appearance of the White House. A whited sepulcher.
ooooThat’s how he felt: the appearance of a President of the United States. An impostor. A charlatan. And the feeling was only magnified by the knowledge that a growing percentage of the population concurred.
ooooDecisions were impending that demanded the wisdom of a Lincoln or a Solomon, not a grad-school drop out who had been swept into office by an almost unbelievable chain of events that had led the press to dub him “The Placeholder President.”
ooooHow apt.
ooooHe turned from the doorway and shuffled back down the hall in his slippers, opening the door to his bedroom just as his wife was about to do the same. She gave a little shriek that immediately dissolved into laughter and fell into his arms.
oooo“I didn’t mean to startle you, Jeep,” he said. She felt good. Just-from-bed warm in her oriental silk robe and red and white striped flannel pajamas, a combination that wouldn’t work on just any woman.
oooo“I got up to go to the bathroom, and you weren’t in bed.” She rubbed her eyes. “What time is it?”
oooo“I don’t know. Three, three-thirty.”
oooo“What are you doing up?”
oooo“Looking for Abe Lincoln.”
oooo“Try the five dollar bill.”
oooo“Freeman called. He’s on his way over.”
oooo“At this time of night! What for?”
oooo“I’ll tell you all about it Tomorrow. Why don’t you go back to bed.”
oooo“It can’t wait ’til morning?”
oooo“Afraid not.”
ooooShe closed the bedroom door, leaving them in darkness overlooking the panorama of Washington at night, done up in its Christmas finery and a dusting of snow. “It’s beautiful.”
ooooIt was, but he found little joy in it. Nor could he help feeling sorry for Janet – that their first Christmas in the White House would also be their last. That was the worst of it, having to drag her through what lay ahead. She’d survive.
oooo“Are you going to be up the rest of the night?”
ooooHe nodded. “Probably.”
ooooShe tied her robe. “Then I’m going to get you some coffee.” She started down the hall. “How does Mr. Freeman like his, do you know?”
oooo“He’s a tea drinker.”
oooo“Tea it is.”
oooo“Why don’t you ring down and have someone bring it up?”
ooooShe was halfway down the stairs. “And wake someone else up at this unearthly hour?”
ooooHe watched after her ’til she was out of sight. He thought of all she’d been through in the course of their twenty-odd years together. The long lean years when she struggled to put him through school, until the first baby came and he had to get a full-time job. Then the second baby – then the miscarriage. Then, life jumped the tracks altogether and struck out on its own across an uncharted wilderness – finally tossing them up here, of all places. The last place on earth she wanted to be. The last place he’d expected to be.
ooooShe hated his being President. Often, in the past, she’d mentioned how the office ate men up. Aged them before their time and got even the best of them hated by at least half the population of the planet.
ooooOnly half? He’d soon make it unanimous.
oooo“Mr. President?”
ooooThe voice, coming from the shadows a few feet down the hall, startled him. He turned around with his heart in his throat, half expecting to find himself face-to-face with Lincoln’s ghost. Freeman stepped into an oblong swatch of light that fell through the window. “I came up in the elevator. Sorry to startle you.”
ooooThe President coaxed his heart back to his chest. “No – that’s all right. It’s all right. My wife has just gone to get us something hot to drink.”
oooo“That’ll be nice.”
oooo“You look cold.”
oooo“It’s very cold out, sir. Fifteen, or so.”
oooo“Sorry you had to come all this way.”
oooo“Me, too, sir.”
ooooNeither of them said anything for several minutes. Each entertained his own thoughts as he surveyed the sleeping city and reviewed the memories and hopes, personal and collective, attached to it.
oooo“I just got a call from Yusef.”
ooooThe President remained staring out the window, although the lights and the city had suddenly become little more than a confusing blur. He said nothing.
oooo“Dr. Thompson is on her way to Rome.”
ooooWithout realizing it, the President had been holding his breath. It was as if he’d been hit in the stomach. He grabbed the railing. “Oh, my God.”
oooo“Our man in Beirut found a note that had been in her possession. It directed her to go to be in Rome on Christmas Eve – in St. Peter’s Square.”
oooo“Directed? She’s not acting on her own, then?”
oooo“Apparently not, unless they brainwashed her – Stockholm syndrome. I doubt it, though. Doesn’t fit her profile.”
oooo“Maybe they’re holding something over her.”
oooo“Possibly.”
oooo“Why Rome?”
oooo“I was wondering that on the way over here,” said Freeman. “From the point of view of the terrorists, I can’t imagine a better place to disseminate the virus. People from all over the world will be in St. Peter’s Square for the Pope’s message. When they go home, they’ll take the virus with them. In a matter of days, virtually every Christian nation will be awash in it.”
oooo“But why!” cried the President, slamming his palms on the bannister. “Who are they? What do they want? Do they want to just wipe out mankind? Is that it? They’ve got to know they’ll be killing themselves, too, eventually. This thing doesn’t know borders.”
oooo“What sacrifice is the world is Paradise awaits?”
ooooThe President let the comment pass. “Christmas Eve?”
oooo“Yes, sir.”
oooo“Tomorrow night.”
oooo“Yes, sir.”
ooooThe President paced back and forth along the railing, while Freeman stood at ease, half in shadow, half in light. “Call a meeting of the Joint Chiefs for seven o’clock this morning. Get hold of Cory, have him there.”
oooo“Marley and Phillips?”
oooo“Let’s let Phillips sleep in. Get a line on the Speaker and the whips.”
oooo“What about the vice-president.”
oooo“No!” the President said sharply. “She’s our main concern, now. We’ve got to shield her from any implication in all this.”
oooo“That’s going to make her seem awfully out of touch.”
ooooThe President smiled feebly. “You’re becoming a politician, Freeman.”
oooo“That’s the way it would seem to me, sir.”
oooo“And I’m sure the press won’t fail to make the same observation. But the appearance of ignorance is something she can overcome, if she’s half the man I think she is – you know what I mean.
oooo“I just had a thought. Get someone from the press in here!”
oooo“The press? Why?”
oooo“For the meeting!”
oooo“Sir?”
oooo“Someone hostile to my administration. oooo Freeman refrained from expressing his opinion that that wouldn’t be hard.
oooo“Someone who’ll be believed when they say the vice-president had no knowledge of the measures we’ll be considering.” His mouth was giving birth to his thoughts before they were fixed in his mind.
oooo“What’s to keep them from printing the story?”
oooo“We’ll cut him a deal; give him an exclusive on the story of the century if he’ll keep it to himself until after the fact. And he have to agree to stay in the White House, under guard, until then. No cell phone. No FAX. No modem – no slipping down to the press room. Nothing.”
oooo“Shouldn’t the Chief of Staff do that, Mr. President?”
oooo“No. Let’s see if we can keep her out of it. Cory, too, for that matter. They’re good people. No reason they can’t serve my successor in some capacity.”
oooo“Yes, sir.”
ooooThe President spun on his heels and stared at Freeman. “No. Forget the whole thing.”
oooo“Sir?”
oooo“The meeting. Forget it. You, me, Marley – we’ll be crucified. That’s enough flesh, isn’t it?” It was a rhetorical question.
oooo“Do I have the authority to authorize a strike on Rome?”
oooo“Legally, of course not. But it can be argued that it’s a preemptive strike in the national interest. Of course, once the dust settles you won’t be able to prove it was necessary. You’re resigned to that. So am I. But for now, you’re the President. You can do what you want. Congress and the courts will decide later that it was illegal – and take measures.”
oooo“What if we do it now – before the crowds get there?”
oooo“There’s no way of knowing she’s in Rome yet. We know she’ll be there Christmas Eve – if nothing happens to her.”
oooo“Get in touch with our ambassador at the Vatican.”
oooo“I’ve already tried. He and the senior attaché are both in the States for the holidays.”
ooooThe President slammed the wall with his flat of his hand. “Who’s our most senior person in Europe?”
oooo“Wingfield, in London.”
oooo“Wingfield,” the President sighed, shaking his head slightly and smiling at a personal irony. “What time is it in London now? Seven? Eight?”
ooooFreeman looked at his watch. “Eleven past eight.”
oooo“I want him to go to Rome – and get the Pope to cancel the Christmas Eve service.”
oooo“I doubt that’ll work,” said Freeman. “Too many people are en route. There wouldn’t be anyway to stop them. Not to mention the fact that, if the service was canceled without reason, people would figure it was because the Pope was dying.”
ooooThe President expelled a brief breath of irony. “Which would mean even more people.”
oooo“Yes, sir.”
oooo“Still – if Wingfield can get word to the Pope, he might be able to advise something. I’m going to call the embassy and have them track him down.”
oooo“He’s at the Savoy, sir.”
ooooThe President stared at Freeman. “Are you always one step ahead of me, Freeman?”
oooo“No, sir,” said Freeman with a slight smile. “But I’m behind you all the way.”
oooo“To Calvary?”
ooooFreeman let the statement stand.
ooooAgain they lapsed into silence. “Have you ever been to the Vatican?”
oooo“No, sir.”
oooo“It’s an awesome place. So many works of art, by so many masters – you can’t take it in. The human heart isn’t big enough. You get – I don’t know how to explain it – your brain just shuts off, somehow, looking at it. It’s like an overdose of inspiration.
oooo“They say St. Peter’s buried there.”
oooo“So I’ve heard.”
ooooThe President stared at the Washington Monument in the distance. “Half the treasures known to man are there. The sculptures alone – Bernini, Algardi – the Lacoøn – the Pieta –
oooo“What do you keep in your garage?”
oooo“Sir?”
oooo“Your garage. I’m betting you don’t keep your car in it.”
oooo“No,” Freeman replied with a trace of amusement. “I use it for storage.”
ooooThe President nodded. “So does everyone. That’s what the Vatican is – the garage, attic, and basement of western civilization.” He paused. “I was about to say it would be like destroying – something – but there’s no analogy. It will be like destroying the Vatican. As for Rome . . . ” He looked up sharply. “So, general, do we destroy history to preserve humanity?”
oooo“Tea, general” said the First Lady, emerging from the shadows at the end of the hall carrying cups and cookies on a silver tray.

Chapter Eighteen: Footsteps of the Magi

London

oooo“I’m sorry, sir,” said the Savoy’s desk clerk. “The Senator has left strict instructions not to be disturbed.”
oooo“He’s expecting me,” said Calvin on tiptoe. “Call his room and tell him Calvin’s here.”
oooo“He’s not in his room, sir. He’s at dinner.”
oooo“Dinner? Where?”
oooo“In the Grill room, sir. Perhaps if you’d care to wait here in the lobby, I could approach his aide when they’ve finished their meal.”
oooo“I’m not waiting. Is he with Sir Richard Scott? He invited me! You don’t understand. They’re expecting me.” Calvin started toward the grille.
oooo“Sir! You can’t go in there without a reservation!” the clerk called. He gestured to the maitre’d who appeared in the doorway that moment and interposed himself between the restaurant and Calvin.
oooo“May I help you, sir?”
oooo“I want to see Senator Wingfield,” said Calvin, once again on tiptoe, bobbing up and down to see into the grill room over the maitre’d's shoulders. “Tell him Calvin is here – please.” He turned tear-filled eyes on the maitre’d. “Pretty please! I need to talk to him. Ow! Stop it!”
ooooA waiter and the uniformed doorman had taken Calvin by the elbows and were about to escort him from the hotel. “No!” Calvin squealed. “I want to see Senator Wing . . . ” jumping once more over the maitre’d's shoulder he saw Wingfield seated at a quiet table in the corner with Michael Cumio. At once he stopped resisting, staring at the virile looking young white man to whom Wingfield was speaking so intently.
oooo“He’s having dinner with the pretty boy.” He turned to the maitre’d. “He was supposed to have dinner with me.” He looked at the man on his right. “He said he would have dinner with Calvin.”
oooo“Excuse us,” said a distinguished gentleman whose hair was still somewhat more blonde than white.
oooo“Your lordship,” said the waiter, pulling Calvin aside so Dumas and his companions could pass. “Ma’am,” he added, with an appreciative nod at Janine.
oooo“Would you be so kind as to give this to Senator Wingfield,” said Dumas, pressing a piece of paper into the waiter’s pocket. “When you’ve . . . ” he gave Calvin a once-over glance. “When you can. It’s most important. And if you’ve access to a cassette recorder, could you have it sent to my room?”
oooo“A digital recorder. Yes. Of course, your lordship.”
ooooCalvin, held in place until the elevator door had closed on Dumas and the others, glared at Wingfield and Cumio, as they were joined by Dick Scott, who was laughing and joking. It seemed Calvin had been excluded from the festivities. “Come along, then, nancy.” The doorman tugged at Calvin’s arm.
ooooCalvin’s eyes narrowed as he flung a last fierce glance at Wingfield. “Oh, I’ll come along. I’ll come along like a good boy – and I’ll keep my news to myself.” He laughed. “I’ve already shared it with him, anyway. And pretty soon, he’ll be sharing it with his friends!” he giggled uncontrollably.
ooooHis laughter dissolved to a torrent of tears as, clenching his hands to his eyes, he was deposited on the pavement and the doors swung shut behind him. He leaned against a potted tree. “Sorry, lad,” said the uniformed doorman, poking Calvin’s shoulder with his gloved finger. “I have to ask you to remove yourself from the premises.”
ooooMaking his departure with a sob or two, Calvin bent his steps toward the river.
ooooEmerging from Carting Way, he was drawn toward Cleopatra’s Needle and casting a surreptitious glance over his shoulder at the hulking behemoth of the Savoy sat down on the steps that led to the Thames and slowly unclenched his fist. A crisp piece white paper unfolded like a crumpled butterfly in his palm.
oooo“What kind of messages would we be getting from lordships, Senator ‘don’t disturb me’ Wingfield?” He opened the note, revealing the Savoy letterhead, smoothed it on his knee and held it an enough of an angle to catch some light from a nearby street lamp.
oooo“Dear Senator Wingfield,” he read aloud. “’PRIVATE.’ Ooh, Calvin loves private messages. ‘Please do not read this in the presence of Deputy Scott.
oooo“‘I have no doubt the information that follows will seem fantastic to you, yet I beg you to read it through to the end and be assured that I am in the greatest earnest.
oooo“‘Terrorists have kidnapped an American scientist, a woman named Thompson, in Africa. In her possession at the time was a deadly strain of the ebola virus. Their intention was to use the virus to coerce MI-5 into releasing a fellow named Farhan al-Sa’di, who was in custody at Belmarsh.
ooooAnd so he read all that Dumas knew.
oooo“‘I cannot too strongly stress the urgency of action. This is a concentrated serum, virulent enough to devastate entire populations.
oooo“‘I understand how extreme all this must seem to you; it does to me as I write. It is because I haven’t time to submit to psychiatric evaluation that I do not deliver this message in person.
oooo“‘I’m entrusting you with this information in the hope you will share it with your President and propose a plan of action more likely of success than mine.
oooo“I wish you the very best in your efforts. There is very little time. Yours, Anthony Dumas, Lord Shadowmarch.’”
oooo“Now, this is very interesting,” said Calvin when he’d finished reading. He folded the paper and waved it thoughtfully under his chin. “And why not let Dicky Scott in on the secret?”
ooooHe reread the letter twice and, as he read, a plan began to take shape in his mind. He spread the paper carefully on the step and, with the edge of a coin, rubbed out the words ‘at the Cenotaph’ until he’d scraped through to bare stone.

oooo“Now, let’s not have any trouble,” said the doorman, holding up his hand as Calvin approached. “I have my orders.”
oooo“Oh, I’m sure you do, little soldier,” said Calvin, slowly drawing the letter from his jacket pocket. “No trouble, I promise. I just – this is the paper that lord fellow asked the waiter to give Senator Wingfield.”
oooo“He’s been looking for that!” said the doorman, snatching the paper from Calvin’s fingers. He opened it, glanced at the letterhead and refolded it. “How did you come by it?”
oooo“A fairy gave it to me,” said Calvin, turning away he hailed one of the cabs parked at the curb. He climbed in and flashed a smile at the doorman. “He must have dropped it. See that the Senator gets it, won’t you? Blakes Hotel,” he said to the cabby.

oooo“Why are you going to Rome all of a sudden?” said Calvin. He sounded surprised. He’d have been a good actor. “Oh, yes, yes, yes. Business. I know. Honestly – I feel like a housewife.” Pause. “Don’t be angry. I was just making a joke.” Pause. “Well, what time are we leaving? I have to pack . . . ” He pushed the silver dinner cart away. “What do you mean, I’m not going? Of course I’m going.” He knew he wouldn’t be invited, the reality rankled, nevertheless. “How long will you be gone?” Pause. “Well, I can survive that long, I guess. What am I supposed to do in the meantime?” Pause. “Yes, yes. I got it. How much is a thousand pounds in real money?” Pause. “That much? Oh, that’s good. That should hold me ’til Tuesday.” Pause. “Yes, or Wednesday. Try to make it Tuesday. Tuesday is Christmas, you know. You don’t want to leave your Calvin alone on Christmas, do you? Are you going alone?” Pause. “Oh, of course Michael has to go with you. Of course.” He picked up a butter knife and heaved it at the wall. “No, I don’t mind. Of course not. You said he was straight, right?” Pause. “Well, there. See? What have I got to be jealous of?” He threw his half full plate of peas and mashed potatoes into the bathroom where it crashed against the commode. “Oh, I just bumped my knee on the dinner tray.” Pause. “Yes, yes. I understand, my big important Senator. I’ll see you Tuesday – or Wednesday.”
ooooHe hung up and released his strangle hold on the phone cord. “Or Tomorrow,” he rasped. He dialed the front desk. “What’s the earliest flight to Rome?” He waited while the desk clerk checked schedules and prices. “Leaving Gatwick at 1:35 tomorrow? That’s the earliest?” Pause. “Yes. Christmas, I know.” He wrote the information on a napkin. “Alitalia Flight 1414. Okay. Could you please book it for me?” Pause. “Thank you. Give me a wakeup call at 9, and have a cab waiting, please.” Pause. “No. Don’t hold the room. I won’t be back.” Pause. “Yes, happy Christmas to you, too.”

Bosnia

oooo“In Podgorica is plane,” said Joseph, supplementing his meager English with extravagant gestures as he led the donkey along the breathtakingly narrow path that clung to the wall of the gorge. He held his arms out to the side and swayed to the right and left, making engine noises. “First, in Peç – bus.” He bounced up and down like a marionette on strings not quite long enough to let him touch the ground. Thompson laughed in spite of herself. Joseph was pleased. “See?” he said, turning just in time to see the smile dissolve from her face. “Then – train. You know? Train? Choo-choo-choo-choo!”
ooooA universal language.
ooooHe broke into a yodel that echoed in layers from the surrounding mountains, some strong, some weak.
ooooA finger of sunlight poked a hole in the lowering sky and drew a pale curtain of brightness across the path, down the cliff side and into the gorge below, where it disappeared in the shadows of the mountain looming opposite them.
ooooThe donkey plodded on, either so confident of its footing that it gave no thought to the sheer drop of several hundred feet to the icy, rock-strewn river, or so stupid it didn’t care. Thompson suspected the latter. It was Joseph, this grinning buffoon of a man, more silhouette than substance, for whom gravity seemed to have suspended her customary activities. More than once Thompson shut her eyes and drew a ragged breath in shock as it seemed he was about to lead them off into space, but somehow, when she worked up the courage to peek, the inevitable had been avoided and Joseph, back-to her and oblivious to her panic, was merrily choreographing his running commentary.
ooooNow and then he would regard her with concern. “Cold? You cold?”
ooooThe people at the farmhouse had given her a pair of fleece-lined boots which, despite smelling of rancid cheese, kept her feet reasonably warm. Two black wool blankets, which had also been given her, did a fair job of keeping in what warmth her body could generate, which was very little since the cold of the metal box penetrated her clothing and froze her breasts as she cradled it in a mother’s embrace. It was a cold he could do nothing about. “I’m fine.”
oooo“I’m fine, too!” Joseph parroted. “Fine, fine!”
ooooHow had this gangly bit of comic relief become a part of her nightmare? Or the people at the farmhouse? Bosnians, hence Muslim – but simple farmers, clearly with no discernible political or religious agenda, nor any idea of her deadly errand, or its possible consequences.
ooooThere was an almost palpable presence behind it all, omniscient, deftly playing chords on disparate strings: peasants, terrorists, farmers, scientists, patriots – and mothers, knowing just how much music could be had from each one. How many times in the last days had she been pushed just the point of breaking, only to find sudden and unexpected relief?
ooooWas this to be another of those times?
ooooAs these and other unresolved thoughts created a sleep-inducing haze in her mind, augmented by the rhythmic swaying of the donkey on which she sat sidesaddle, facing the mountainside, she caught herself nodding off. “I have to sleep,” she said.
oooo“Eh? Sleep?” Joseph stopped the donkey. “Sleep?” He laid his head on his hands and closed his eyes.
ooooShe nodded.
oooo“No, no. Sleep there!” he pointed to a sweeping, snow-covered hillside far below and to the north and a small city, marked more by smoke rising from it than any evidence of buildings. “Peç. Bus.” He bounced again, this time with his eyes closed and his head resting on his folded hands. He laughed. “Sleep for bus. No problem.”
ooooShe drew a deep breath, blinked her eyes rapidly a few times and nodded. “Okay. Sleep for bus.”
oooo“Good!” said Joseph. He came to her side and removed a small paper sack from the saddlebag from which he handed her a piece of black bread and a boiled egg.
ooooShe opened the layers of blankets, revealing the metal case. “I can’t eat,” she said. “I have to hold this.”
oooo“Okay. Give Joseph.”
ooooShe quickly closed the blankets as he reached for the case. “No! I have to hold it.”
oooo“Give me,” said Joseph. He parted the blankets and placed his rough hands firmly on the case. “S’okay. No problem. I make for donkey. S’okay. Here. Give.” He tugged at the case.
oooo“No, really!” She hugged it fiercely to herself.
oooo“No, really!” Joseph echoed with a smile as he wrested the case from her grip. “No, really!”
oooo“Joseph! Please, let me have it.”
oooo“No, really!” said Joseph. With exaggerated gentleness he placed the case on the ground and produced a large string bag from somewhere among the folds of his garments. Fitting this over the case, he picked it up and let it sway slightly. “See?” The loop handles of the bag he hung over the pommel of the donkey’s saddle and, threading a long piece of twine to the bag’s bottom lattice, pulled it under the animal’s belly and secured it on the pommel as well, effectively securing the box so it wouldn’t swing.oooo“See?” he said. “No problem!” This time she gratefully accepted the food he offered and, once again, they were on their way down the precipitous slope to Peç. She glanced at her Joseph’s watch. She had less than twenty-one hours to get to Rome.
oooo“No, really!” Joseph sang as the mountain on their left gave way to a vast snow field against which they were insignificant black motes, trudging across eternity’s eye.

London

oooo“The only express service that makes weekend deliveries to Whitehall is DHL,” said Miller. She thrust her hands a little deeper into the pockets of her greatcoat and alternately shifted her weight from one foot to the other in an effort to keep warm. “Their vans are white with purple or red stripes and lettering on the side.”
oooo“I know those vans,” said Janine. “They’re all over the place.” She leaned against the granite pedestal of a carved lion that guarded the entrance to County Hall, a Victorian leviathan of an office building that stood at the western end of Westminster Bridge, directly across the Thames from Parliament and the Norman Shaw Buildings. The complex had outlived its usefulness to the government during the seventies and had stood abandoned for a number of years. Then, with the construction of the Thames-side promenade and the installation of the London Eye – the mammoth British Airways ferris wheel which, for thirty-five pounds, gave tourists a bird’s-eye view of the city – had found new life hosting art galleries, shops, a Starbucks and a McDonald’s.
ooooAcross the river, Big Ben struck the quarter after eight.
oooo“How are we going to get the package?” said Mohammed, between noisy sips at strong tea in a Styrofoam cup. He sat on the steps at Janine’s feet, Miller sat down beside him leaving Dumas standing, staring across the river.
ooooThe question had been prominent in Miller’s thoughts, as well. “Certainly you don’t expect to walk in there like you did before,” she said. “They’ll be on the lookout for our Mr. Church.”
oooo“What’s all that, do you s’pose?” said Janine, directing their attention to three cars that pulled to a stop on the Embankment.
ooooThey watched with increasing alarm as seven or eight men climbed out of the cars and hastened to various places from Boedicea’s statue to the jogging track in front of the Ministry of Defense and attempted to blend in to their surroundings.
oooo“That’s it, then,” said Miller. “That’s Harrison.” She nodded.
oooo“Harrison?”
oooo“The one with the tartan scarf.”
ooooDumas squinted. “You can make out a Tartan scarf?”
oooo“I knit it,” Miller declared cryptically. “Gave it him a year ago Christmas.”
oooo“I see. And he is?”
oooo“Nominally he’s head of internal security. Actually, he’s head of MI5.” She shook her head. “I can’t believe I’m even saying this. It’s treasonous!”
oooo“What do you suppose they’re up to, then?” asked Janine.
oooo“It’s clear, isn’t it? They’re waiting for us – well, for Lord Dumas.”
ooooDumas was incredulous. “That’s not possible. How could that be? They couldn’t possibly know we were – they couldn’t possibly. Could they?”
oooo“Could and do,” said Miller. “They’ve found out about the package, somehow.”
oooo“How?”
oooo“Who knows? Any number of ways. Perhaps someone overheard us at the hotel – or in the tea shop.”
oooo“I don’t see how.”
oooo“Must have done. See for yourself.”
ooooThe cars pulled away, leaving the contingent of operatives – less Harrison who, having overseen the placement of his troops had climbed back into the lead car – pretending to be workmen, tourists and the otherwise disinterested.
ooooMohammed finished his tea and dropped the cup to the pavement. “What now?”
ooooMiller picked up the cup and cast it into a nearby trash bin, simultaneously she leveled a reproachful glance at Mohammed, who didn’t seem to notice.
oooo“We can’t let them have it,” said Dumas.
oooo“Can’t?” said Miller. “I’m afraid we haven’t much choice in the matter.”
ooooDumas looked at her steadily. “If that vial is opened, the population of London, perhaps of England – could be wiped out in a matter of weeks. You’re absolutely right. We have no choice.” He returned his gaze to the activity across the river. “None whatever.” He fingered the gun in his pocket.
ooooFor several minutes, as crowds of walkers representing all of humanity shuffled past, no one spoke. “Do you know what route the van usually takes?” Dumas said at last.
oooo“Route? How do you mean?”oooo“Does it make regular stops – does it stop at Parliament before the Norman Shaw Buildings, or . . . ?”
oooo“Oh, well – I can’t say, really. It’s not a scheduled carrier,” said Miller. “They go wherever there’s a package.”
oooo“Yes, but there must still be some kind of route. It wouldn’t be sensible to go from Spitalfields to Holland Park, to Bloomsbury or whatever, helter-skelter. There must be some pattern. If we could only tell what direction they come from.”
oooo“Well – whenever we have a delivery, it’s always the same time of day – between ten and ten-thirty. Hang on a minute! I often send folders to Number Ten. I remember once mentioning to the man I wished he delivered there – I was joking, really, since it’s just out the back and down the street, but he said it was on his way, so we had them cleared through level two security and have used them ever since.”
oooo“So, he goes down Parliament Street,” Dumas concluded. “How?”
ooooMiller stood up and pointed out the directions. “Up Embankment, right on Bridge Street, right again down Parliament,
oooo“Then he comes to your offices from the south.”
oooo“All of which,” said Miller, resuming her seat, “together with three quid, will get our friend here another cup of tea with which to despoil the environment.”
oooo“Not necessarily,” said Dumas. “If there’s someway of waylaying the van . . .
oooo“There’s that word again,” Miller interjected.
oooo“Someway of getting the parcel before it’s delivered, then – well, that would be good.”
oooo“And how do you propose to go about that? As I said, there are no scheduled stops,” said Miller. “We have no way of knowing any of his stops prior to the office.”
oooo“Oh, don’t we?” said Janine. When all eyes settled on her, she was smiling, pointing across the road to a truncated silver and blue kiosk across the street at the head of the Albert Embankment, its dark blue letters stood out clearly. ‘British Express Delivery.”
oooo“A package drop!” said Mohammed.
oooo“But not DHL,” Miller observed.
ooooJanine climbed down from the lion. “But I know where there is one – just down the river, near the hotel.”
oooo“The Savoy?” said Dumas, falling in behind her as she bounded into the street and hailed a cab.

Chapter Nineteen: Tuppenny Saviors

oooo“You have a nice view, here,” said Harrison. He stood at Stephson’s window with his hands behind his back. The fingers of his right hand tapped nervously on the palm of his left.
ooooStephson sat at his desk and waited. Harrison had never been in his office, or even in Scotland Yard, as far as he knew. Whatever was on his mind, it was apparently important enough to override his legendary ego.
ooooHarrison spun on his heel. “Thank you for the information about Lord Dumas.”
oooo“Without your description, we’d never have known,” Stephson replied, with a cordial nod.
oooo“How does he figure into all this?”
oooo“Just a witness,” said Stephson. “I’m sure of it.”
oooo“Then why hasn’t he come forward?”
ooooStephson let the silence answer.
oooo“Pity you were too late at the tea shop,” said Harrison.
ooooStephson smiled. “Oh, you have him, then?”
ooooThe barb struck home. Harrison returned to the window. “I had reason to believe he was going to pick up a package this morning – very good reason.”
oooo“And?”
ooooThe words weren’t coming easily. “I took the necessary steps to intercept him – but it wasn’t there.”
oooo“What wasn’t? His lordship?”
oooo“No!” Harrison snapped. “The bloody package.”
oooo“Perhaps it got lost in the post.”
oooo“This is Sunday, Chief Inspector. It wasn’t in the post. It was expressed.”
oooo“How?”
oooo“DHL.”
oooo“And?”
oooo“The package was in the logs – the driver remembered putting it in the case – and thinking there’d be no one at 611 to sign for it except the guard – which made delivery pointless, since it had to be signed for by Avery Fuller.”
oooo“You’ve just put your finger on the button.”
oooo“What button?”
oooo“Avery Fuller. He’s the one in the middle of all this. Here . . . ” he removed a piece of paper, bearing the insignia of the Savoy hotel, from a small stack in his “in” basket and held it out.
ooooHarrison snatched it from his hand and read aloud: “According to press reports, you still don’t know the identities of the men killed in the Westminster bombing. I realize you may be withholding the information for practical reasons, but feel it my duty to inform you that reliable sources, which, for reasons of the security of the United States I cannot divulge, inform me the name of the man killed at Westminster with Avery Fuller was Daniel Rhodes.’
oooo“‘The killer was an Irishman named Andrew Connor and he had an accomplice named Kenny Galfarthing who drives a light green Morris Minor.’
oooo“‘I am forwarding this information directly to you in the hope it may aid in your investigation. Sincerely, Senator Paul Wingfield.”
ooooStephson could see the color rising to Harrison’s face, as the veins on the side of his neck stood out.
oooo“It’s checked out. It was Danny Rhodes.”
ooooRhodes and Harrison, Stephson knew, had once been in contention for control of CID, and there was little love lost between them. A light blue piece of paper rested on the desk in front of him. He straightened it. “Two bodies were found in a car on Westminster Bridge this morning. One was Sergeant . . . ” he looked at the paper through the bottom of his bifocals, “Horatio Candy. He went by the nickname Penny. Seventeen years of the Metropolitan Police.”
ooooHarrison was becoming impatient and was about to speak when Stephson held up his hand. “The other fellow . . . ” he reached up and tapped the paper Harrison still held in his hand. “Kenny Gilfarthing, late of Belfast, Northern Ireland. The car they were found in?”
ooooHarrison lifted the paper and read. “A light green Morris Minor.”
oooo“The very same. A light green Morris Minor – with one round of live ammo in the boot. And a box of grenades.”
oooo“And the other fellow? Connor, is it?”
ooooHe handed Harrison Connor’s picture. “This is him. Vagrant, also hailing from Belfast. And – just to toss a little item of local interest in the stew: someone fitting this bloke’s description,” he tapped the edge of the photograph, “held up a tea shop off White Hall last night about half-ten.”
oooo“What did he use?”
oooo“A pistol.”
oooo“Anyone hurt?”
oooo“No. Got away with a little over three hundred pounds.”
oooo“But?” said Harrison, in response to the look in Stephson’s eyes.
oooo“But – he’s a hit man. What’s he doing holding up tea stands?”
oooo“He needed money?”
oooo“Does that mean he’s on the outs with his head office?”
oooo“A renegade?”
oooo“Likely.”
oooo“You think he’s responsible for those killings on the bridge?”
oooo“At least.”
ooooHarrison followed traffic for a while with unseeing eyes. “I’ll tell you one thing – Fuller and Rhodes hadn’t gone to Westminster for a fannies up.”
oooo“Pardon?”
oooo“Oh, sorry. It’s what we used to call prayer time when I was posted in Cairo.” For a moment his mind withdrew across the years. “When the muezzin called the faithful to prayer, someone at the bureau was sure to say ‘time for fannies up,’ that being the Muslim posture for prayer. For we civilized Christians it was scotch and water time.”
ooooIt was the only comment of a somewhat personal nature Harrison had made in all the years of their acquaintance, and Stephson wasn’t sure how to take it, so he left it alone. “Any idea what they might have been up to?”
oooo“Fuller’s been onto something with a group of IRA malcontents who’ve set up shop somewhere in London. Somehow connected to this lot, I should imagine. I expect he’d gotten close – which is why such drastic measures were taken against him.
oooo“Trouble is, Rhodes doesn’t figure into that at all. His sympathies, if anything, tended more toward the IRA than otherwise.”
oooo“That doesn’t make sense.”
oooo“Oh, not their methods – their motives.”
oooo“Mm.”
oooo“But that doesn’t explain this Arab business,” Harrison continued, more to himself than Stephson.
oooo“How’s that again?”
oooo“You remember Farhan al-Sa’di?”
oooo“Of course. Safely locked away, I trust.”
oooo“At Belmarsh, yes. Where he recently died. Food poisoning.”
oooo“Who says the English can’t cook! That’s one for the good guys, I’d say.”
oooo“Be that as it may – Fuller had his death kept quiet.”
oooo“Must have had his reasons.”
oooo“No doubt,” said Harrison. “He’s been getting calls from someone with a decidedly non-Irish accent.”
oooo“Arab?”
ooooHarrison nodded.
oooo“Getting calls how, if he’s dead?”
oooo“His machine. Someone’s been tapping it for messages.”
oooo“From outside? How is that possible? If I know Fuller – he’d have access tied up in knots Houdini couldn’t unravel.”
oooo“Which begs the question – how sure are we he’s dead?”
ooooStephson pillaged his desk and produced a sheet of paper from which he read. “Coroner’s preliminary report. ‘Subject died instantly of massive injury – to the head.’”
oooo“Meaning the face?”
oooo“Yes,” said Stephson. “I saw the body.”
oooo“Beyond all recognition?”
ooooStephson nodded. “Yes.” He skipped a few lines and continued reading. “Papers on the body identify the deceased as Avery Fuller, of the Foreign Office. Dental x-rays and fingerprints match those on file for this individual.” He looked up from the paper. “Fuller could cook those in his sleep.”
oooo“If he’s alive – it would also explain who’s tapping his phone – and using his security clearance. Either him – or some dupe.”
oooo“Dumas?”
oooo“He’s certainly the most likely. Wouldn’t take much to convince the old fellow he’s doing something for Queen and country, would it? Fuller could play on that sort – ‘as on a finely tuned instrument’, as Jeeves would say. That’s his speciality, getting the man on the street to do his bidding without their ever suspecting it.
oooo“It would explain how Dumas got into Fuller’s office.”
ooooStephson shook his head. “It was all on him – his ID cards – everything. That’s how we knew who to call.”
oooo“Duplicates,” Harrison snapped. “No. I think he’s gone to an awful lot of trouble for something. An exchange of some kind. There was mention of a vial.”
oooo“A vial?”
oooo“That’s what was in the package we were hoping to intercept. A vial. That’s not Arab for something else, is it?”
oooo“Not that I know of, then again – I’m not much up on my Arabic, I’m afraid,” said Stephson. “What about al-Sa’di?”
oooo“What about him? He’s dead.”
oooo“A fact Fuller didn’t want let out. What if that’s what the exchange was about – al-Sa’di for this vial?”
oooo“A vial of what?” said Harrison, his frustration growing. “And who’d exchange anything of value for a dead Arab?”
oooo“They don’t know he was dead,” Stephson said. He was following his own thoughts now. “And Fuller wanted it – or wants it – kept that way. He wants that vial.”
oooo“Why? What could be in a vial that’s of any interest to Fuller?”
oooo“I don’t know,” said Stephson. “But Fuller’s always been straight.”
oooo“He’s a maverick and an iconoclast.”
oooo“Maybe so – but there’s never been any question whose side he’s on. My instinct is to pull back an inch or two and let him have his reign. Keep the al-Sa’di business quiet.”
oooo“It’s too late for that, I’ve told Superintendent Mannix to release the information.”
oooo“When?” said Stephson, alarmed.
oooo“When what? As soon as he sees fit.”
oooo“Not that. When did you tell him?”
oooo“Last night.”
oooo“What time?”
oooo“I don’t know – ten? Ten-thirty?”
oooo“Good. Too late for the Sunday papers. Meaning, if he’s not waiting ’til tomorrow to tip the story, which would be even better, it’ll be in the morning paper at worst. We’ve got to get the story killed.”
oooo“How? If we tell the papers to hold a little obituary notice, it’ll be a front page extra.”
oooo“True – but what if Mannix calls – and says he got the name wrong . . . “
ooooHarrison picked up the thought. “And substitutes another – I’ll get onto him directly I get back to the office. Now, though, I think the only one who can help us sort out this mess is this Senator Wingfield,” he referred again to the paper in his hand, then fixed a hard glare on Stephson, “I want him picked up now. And screw U.S. security.”
oooo“I don’t recommend that course of action,” said Stephson calmly, “for a number of reasons. First, there’s the issue of diplomatic immunity.”
oooo“Only if he’s in the country on official business, which this congress he’s attending is clearly not.”
oooo“Then there’s the fact that he’s like this with your boss,” he crossed his fingers. “You know what they say about politics making strange bedfellows?”
ooooHarrison leaned on the desk and leveled a withering gaze at Stephson. “I’ll tell you what, Chief Inspector. You let me worry about that flaming old nancy, and you worry about me. Fair enough? Have the Senator brought in now. He’s at the Savoy?”
oooo“Last I knew.”
oooo“Then bring him in.”
ooooStephson picked up the phone, held it to his ear and began dialing. “I want to go on record as opposing this most strongly – and I doubt Superintendent Evans will be too keen on it. The Senator’s a powerful man.”
oooo“Who has somehow come into possession of knowledge that may affect our national security,” Harrison concluded. “I want to find out what his source is – it’s a damn good one. Besides, Evans is retiring in the spring, isn’t he?”
oooo“That may be. Still, I think you may want to consider going to the hotel and having a nice, informal – hello? Yes. Chief Inspector Stephson of Scotland Yard. Is believe U.S. Senator Paul Wingfield is registered there?” Once or twice he raised his eyebrows as he listened to the response. “I see,” he said. “No. That will be all. Thank you.”
oooo“Well?” said Harrison as the inspector hung up the phone.
oooo“The Senator left this morning – for Rome. He left no forwarding address.”
oooo“Then stop him!” Harrison commanded. He picked up the phone and shook it in Stephson’s face. “Call the airports and have his plane grounded.”
oooo“I can’t,” said Stephson.
oooo“What do you mean, you can’t? You will!”
oooo“First,” said Stephson rising from his seat. “I’m not accountable to the Foreign Office. Secondly, the President of the United States personally sent Air Force Two to Gatwick to pick Wingfield up and take him to Rome.” He grabbed the phone from Harrison and slammed it down in its cradle. “This office is not going to ground Air Force bloody Two! Call CID and see if they’d like a kamikaze assignment!
oooo“The question is,” he concluded, placing his hands flat on his desk and propping himself on his arms, “why is everybody going to Rome?”
oooo“Who else?”
oooo“Dumas, from what I gather.”
oooo“You’ve contacted all points of exit?”
oooo“Yes” said Stephson, distractedly. “But I wonder if I should have done.”
oooo“What do you mean?”
oooo“There are some awfully big wheels turning in this business – and someone’s behind it.”
oooo“Fuller?”
ooooStephson stared at Harrison. “I’m more convinced than ever. I don’t see who else would have had the . . . “
oooo“Temerity.”
oooo“Good word. If he’s in something so deep he’s faked his own death, and now has everyone from the President of the United States, and Senator Wingfield to Lord Dumas and who knows how many others involved – wittingly or unwittingly – should we let it play out – and just follow along at a safe distance?
oooo“I’m booking the next flight out.”
oooo“Rome?”
ooooStephson nodded.
oooo“You expect to find him there?”
oooo“Dumas, yes.” said Stephson.
oooo“It’s a big city.”
oooo“I’ve contacted Interpol and La Polizia, asked them to be on the lookout.”
oooo“Caesar Peruzzi?”
oooo“Afraid so. But even he should be able to spot Dumas and his little coterie – two women, one a redheaded stunner by accounts, the other prim, middle-aged, and an Arab of unknown provenance, and Dumas – from what I gather not what you’d call a self-starter.”
oooo“I’ve met his lordship. Pleasant enough fellow, but you’re right. Not a self-starter.”
oooo“I should think anything conspiratorial would give him palpatations.”
oooo“There’s another consideration,” said Harrison darkly.
oooo“Which is?”
ooooFor once Harrison was reticent. “Someone in the Foreign Office – maybe even Special Branch itself, has gone bad. Dick Scott suspects – or suspected Fuller.” He raised his eyes from the floor and looked at Stephson. “What if Fuller’s staged all this, just to buy time to get clear? A little three-card Monte.”
ooooStephson slowly resumed his seat. “Then whatever’s in that package must be valuable enough to make it worth his while.”
oooo
ooooDumas cast worried looks up and down the corridor as the train emerged from the Chunnel. Janine hugged him exuberantly. “We did it! We made it!”
ooooNervously, he patted her on the back. “Yes. Yes. So far so good. But there’s miles to go, yet. Now,” taking her by the shoulders he held her from him, “you go back to your compartment. The idea was not to be seen together, remember?”
oooo“All the way to Rome, you mean?” Janine pouted.
oooo“Yes. All the way to Rome. And isn’t there anyway you can – you can,” he was struck for a second time how pretty she was. Nor could he dispel the sensation of her warmth in his arms, or the chill of its absurdity. He cleared his throat. “Can’t you seem a little less noticeable?”
ooooJanine tucked some unruly strands of hair up under her hat. “How come Miss Miller gets to sit with you?”
oooo“We’re more of an age,” Dumas replied. “If anybody gives us a second thought, it’ll be that we’re husband and wife, a combination the authorities are unlikely to take into consideration. However,” he added as he shepherded her up the hall, “add an Arab and a not-unattractive redhead to the equation, and we stand out like a ship in the desert. Speaking of Arabs, Mohammed’s set? Have you seen him?”
oooo“You think I’m attractive?” she said, stopping in her tracks and leaning back against him.
oooo“Don’t flirt with me, young lady, I’m old enough to be your father. Probably his father as well, come to that. I was merely stating a fact. The sky is blue. The sea is salt. Snow is white. You are attractive.”
ooooShe enjoyed his obvious discomfit. “He’s in the smoking car.”
oooo“Doing what?”
oooo“Smoking.”
ooooShe pressed herself hard against him as another passenger excused himself and pushed by them in the narrow junction between cars, and remained there after he had gone. “I’m not flirting,” she said, laying her head on his shoulder. “I just feel safe, I guess is what you’d call it. I feel safe with you.”
ooooOnce again he pushed her gently from him. His head was swimming with feelings so long dormant he’d assumed them dead. “Then you have a mistaken understanding of the word. Now, off you go – and don’t let me see you again ’til Rome.”
oooo“What was the name of that place, again?”
oooo“Didn’t you write it down, Janine?” Dumas said, his nervousness augmented by exasperation.
oooo“I don’t remember where I put it.”
ooooA search through his pockets produced a worn stub of rubbing chalk and a napkin which he smoothed against the wall as he wrote. “There,” he said, handing it to her. “The Piazza della Rotunda. According to the guide book Miss Miller picked up there’s some sort of monument there, in the middle of the square. That’s where we meet. Make sure you get off at the San Pietro station, it’s the first stop in Rome.
oooo“Do you have the money I gave you for the cab?”
ooooShe rummaged through the folds of her garments and produced the folded Euros. “Yes. Do they still take these in Italy since all that bank business?”
oooo“I haven’t heard otherwise. It’s Spain and Greece that were kicked out of the EU. Now, put it away where it’ll be safe.”
ooooShe wadded the money and the directions together and stuffed them in one of her pockets.
oooo“You understand what you’re to do?”
ooooBefore she could reply, he had trapped her in his arms, spun her into the corner and began kissing her earnestly. She let him. When at last he let her go, they were both breathless. “Well!” said Janine, stunned. “It’s true what they say about snow on the roof and fire in the furnace!”
oooo“It worked!” said Dumas. His eyes were watery and his heart shook his foundations. “It worked!”
oooo“As the butler says: “we endeavor to give satisfaction.”
ooooDumas reddened severely. “I’m terribly sorry – but it worked. He didn’t recognize us!”
oooo“Who didn’t?”
oooo“You didn’t see him?”
oooo“Who?”
oooo“Whom.”
oooo“Whom, then?”
ooooDumas nodded toward the opposite end of the corridor. “Andrew Connor.”
oooo“Connor?”
oooo“Our Irish friend.” The look he leveled at her was laden with meaning.
ooooJanine’s eyes widened, she held her hand up like a gun and wiggled her thumb. “Him?”
oooo“How on earth did he find us out?”
oooo“So – that’s why you kissed me?”
oooo“It’s all I could think to do,” Dumas apologized. “I’d seen it in a movie once – not that I really imagined it would work – but, I couldn’t think what else to do.” He patted her on the shoulder again. “I’m so sorry. Please – do forgive me. Thank you for playing along.”
ooooIt was impossible for Dumas to read the meaning in her eyes as she looked deeply at him. “You go back to Miss Miller, she’ll be wondering where you got to. And keep your face out of sight.”
ooooHe released her. “You’re all right?”
oooo“Never better,” she said, again with an inflection he couldn’t interpret. “I’m going to have Mohammed keep an eye on him.”
oooo“Excellent!” said Dumas, examining the plan with his eyes wide open. “Yes! That’ll do nicely.”
oooo“Go on now.” She turned him around by the shoulders and pushed him gently down the hall, watching after him as he swayed from side to side, steadying himself on the handrail as he made his way back to the compartment.
oooo“Where have you been?” Miller snapped once the door was closed.
ooooDumas, his lips still tingling, realized he hadn’t completed the errand she’d sent him on. “I forgot the coffee.”
oooo“So it would seem.”
oooo“I met Janine in the corridor.”
oooo“Janine! She’s supposed to stay at her end of the train!”
oooo“Yes.” Dumas sat down and contemplated his hands. “Andrew Connor is on the train.”
ooooMiller stood up with a start, drew the curtains and fumbled for a lock that wasn’t there. “I knew it! I knew something like this would happen! I’ve been sitting here mulling things over – and the more I thought, the more ludicrous – the more – there’s not a word for it, Dumas! Death and madness. That’s all I keep thinking. Death and madness!” Her hands were the barometer of her agitation, and now they troubled one another aggressively. “And you’ve got us rushing at it headlong and . . . ” She sighed deeply and seemed to deflate. “There are just no words. We spend billions of pounds training people to handle things like this. And what do we do? Go running off on our own like chickens with our heads cut off, all because you can’t bring yourself to trust the people in charge.”
ooooHe didn’t raise his head or look up as she studied him with worried eyes. “I wonder, is it you?”
ooooHe didn’t respond.
oooo“I wonder if you’ve got some kind of death wish, or – I don’t know. Maybe delusions of grandeur. Is that it? Do you fancy you’re Don Quixote, out to set the world right?”
ooooThe volume of her words increased in direct proportion to the troubling of her fingers. Sensing any response would simply fuel the fire, he stared at the floor and kept quiet.
oooo“Well, you’re not,” she continued. “You’re the one who said you were slow-witted and eccentric, or whatever it was you said. Well, you’re right. So what’s to keep you from being pathological, as well? Psychopathic? How am I to know you’re not just some dangerous, deranged old maniac?”
ooooThe words rang so startlingly hollow – as if she’d said them to a scarecrow or a stuffed animal – that her fury collapsed in a fit of trembling and silent tears. “I was going to spend Christmas with my family.”
ooooDumas reached across and took her left hand in both of his, rubbed it softly and waited for the tears to subside.
oooo“Ever since my husband died, I’ve spent the holidays with my sister. She and her husband always have me at Christmas,” she said.
oooo“What’s her name?”
ooooShe dabbed softly at her downcast eyes with the tissue she clutched in her free hand. “Caris. A name from Welch side of the family. Means ‘summer’. That’s where she lives. In Wales. Rhymney.”
oooo“I know the Rhymney Valley. Had a cousin in Bargoid, long ago. Coal country.” He wanted to calm her down.
ooooShe looked up with tear-filled eyes and stared out the window. “Not much anymore. It’s lovely there now. All the slag heaps are overgrown with grass – like little hills. Lovely, really. Of course, most of the shops are closed. Sad. Lovely and sad.”
oooo“Tell me about your husband.”
ooooMiller continued looking out the window. “Not much to tell. He wasn’t the kind of man you the world took much notice of.” She glanced quickly at Dumas then back out the window. “Much like you, in that respect. Mom and Dad never left off reminding me he was not of our class. But . . .”
oooo“You loved him, and that was that?”
oooo“That was that,” she said with the faintest shadow of a smile. He worked hard – he was a telephone lineman. Liked his pint as much as the next fellow, but never got drunk.” Her emotions subsided as she talked on and on, and the miles passed. All the time, he held her hand. By the time her words ran dry, the late Henry Miller seemed like an old friend.
ooooThe conductor announcing Paris brought her sharply back to the present. She removed her hand from Dumas’ gentle grasp and looked at him. “I know what you’ve been up to,” she said softly.
oooo“I’ve just been listening,” Dumas replied. “I feel I would have liked him.”
ooooShe sniffed back a residual tear. “I’d made plans to bolt at the next stop. Told myself this will all get sorted out, without me. I’m not needed, am I? World War II, The Faulkands, Viet Nam, Iraq – they all got sorted out without me, didn’t they? And who knows how many other disasters or near-disasters have been averted without my knowing anything about them. So will this. Won’t it? What makes you think the world will suddenly stop turning without us?”
oooo“I’ve been wondering much the same thing myself.” Dumas ran his thumb across an ancient wart on his inside of his finger. He called it his worry wart. “I must say I feel better since jotting that note to Senator Wingfield. It was the best thing I could have done, don’t you think? I’m sure he got it. I hope he did.”
oooo“A waiter at the Savoy could never fail to deliver a message from ‘his lordship’ to a United States senator. And, thanks to Janine, there was never any doubt about your social standing.”
oooo“You’re probably right,” said Dumas, turning his kindly eyes on her. “But did he read it?”
oooo“Oh, believe me – if anything Wingfield is even more impressed by nobility than your average waiter.”
oooo“He must be easily impressed, indeed.”
oooo“Furthermore, he’s the most prolific name-dropper I have ever known. No doubt he’s already looked you up in his Burke’s Peerage. He keeps a copy on his laptop computer. I’ve seen it.”
oooo“Will he take it seriously, though? Will he pass it along to whoever it needs to be passed along to?”
ooooIt was Miller’s turn to console. She patted him on the knee. “As far as that goes, you’ve done what you could.”
oooo“Thank you.”
oooo“I don’t suppose you’d care to tell me what you did with the package.”
ooooDumas shuddered. “It’s safe.”
oooo“Why did you shake like that?”
oooo“Like what?”
oooo“You shuddered.”
oooo“Did I?”
oooo“You did.”
oooo“I’ll let you know,” he said. “When it’s all over.”
ooooMiller laughed to herself. “Janine is a most enterprising young lady.”
ooooDumas smiled. “She certainly is. I couldn’t imagine what she was thinking when she walked up to the delivery man, bold as brass, and began asking directions.”
oooo“He was most helpful, wasn’t he?”
oooo“I doubt he’d have noticed if we’d stolen his van outright, the way he was staring at her.”
ooooMiller chided. “I’ve seldom seen feminine attributes displayed to greater advantage. You couldn’t have pried his eyes away with a wrecking bar.”
ooooDumas cleared his throat. “Certainly not,” he mumbled.
ooooBy the time the train came to a stop at the Gare du Nord it was dark and rainy. Hand-in-hand they hastened across the platform, surveying the crowd for signs of Janine and Mohammed.
oooo“There she is!” Dumas rasped hoarsely. “Good girl.”
oooo“What about Mohammed? Do you see him?”
ooooDumas scanned the sea of faces. “No. It’s amazing how many Arabs there are in Paris.”
ooooMiller drew him up the steps to the platform overlooking the tracks. “Let’s not hang about up here,” she said. “I feel like we’re on stage.”
ooooBut it was too late. At that moment, casting one departing glance at the crowd, Dumas locked eyes with Andrew Connor who immediately bolted toward them, knocking the legs out from under a pair of elderly men as he did so.
oooo“He’s seen us!”
oooo“Who has?”
oooo“Connor!” Dumas cried as he pulled her down the steps. “Quick. This way!”
ooooThey ran up the quayside and, dodging past a surprised conductor, climbed aboard a waiting train. Dumas ducked for a look out the window as they ran up the abandoned corridor in time to see the conductor step in front of the door and detain Connor, gesturing wildly and complaining in rapid-fire French. He was just about to blow his whistle when Connor pushed him aboard the train, closed the door and, holding him by the collar, shot him once in the head. Just once. Smuggling the pistol had been hard enough without risking the detection of extra clips. Still clutching the conductor’s collar, he lowered him to the ground.
ooooSlowly, methodically, he made his way up the corridor and examined all possible hiding places.
ooooDumas and Miller didn’t know what had happened to the conductor, only that he’d stopped complaining all of a sudden. Now they could hear footsteps in the corridor, proceeding from one compartment to the next. Each door was opened in turn, the footsteps became muffled for a moment as he went inside and conducted a brief search, then reemerged into the corridor.
ooooHe was only one or two compartments away.

Chapter Twenty: The Road at Reason’s End

ooooJoseph had seen her aboard the bus in Peç, then stood at the curbside waving, teary-eyed as if she was a beloved family-member leaving for the new world, never to be seen again. She rubbed a clearing in the greasy window, pressed her nose against it and waved in return. She could read his lips. “No, really!” he was saying. “I’m fine. Good-bye! Good-bye!”
ooooBy way of sign language and broken English he had warned her, while they were still in the mountains, that travelers on the road to Podgorica had come under heavy sniper fire since the breakdown of the latest treaty with Serbia.
oooo“You make this,” he said, hunkering down and throwing his arms over his head. “See? Down. Down, on bus. Bang! Bang!” he threw his arms around wildly and imitated the sound of breaking glass. “You down. See?”
ooooShe’d discovered that he would go on saying, ‘See?’ until assured that she understood. “I see.”
ooooMaybe not shooting,” Joseph said with a shrug as he stood up and they resumed their descent. “Christmas! La-la-la! Not shoot for Christmas. Is holiday!
oooo“You know Christmas?”
oooo“Yes,” she replied. In an instant her thoughts were at home with her husband and children. How much did they know? Had they heard about her kidnapping? Were they worried and fearful – or were they going about business as usual, waiting to meet her at the airport Christmas Eve as planned? She thought about calling, but knew the communications infrastructure in Kosovo had collapsed in ashes. The cruel, ceaseless loop of history.
ooooShe was too cold and too afraid to cry.
oooo“Jesus Chris’ is born!” Joseph sang at the top of his voice. “Jesus Chris’ – la-la-la!”
ooooThe single, off-key voice went into the mountains, and echoed, as if the gates of heaven were open and a host of angels were joining in the refrain. “Jesus Chris’ is born!”
oooo“La-la-la!” he repeated, turning and winking at her.
oooo“Christ is born,” she sang softly.

ooooThe road, once a modern blacktop winding through steep mountain passes, had been pounded to dust by recent mortar fire. In some places the ramshackle old bus could only negotiate the potholes and craters by coming to a near standstill. Seated seven or eight rows behind the driver, Thompson several times heard him draw his breath and curse sharply at some unexpected new hazard that had joined the others since the trip up the day before.
ooooExhausted, she placed her bag on the seat beside her and the metal case on the floor between her feet and closed her eyes. At once her other senses brought a cacophony of sounds to her attention, the creaking and clanking of the bus, the shuffling of the passengers and their animals, the clink of bottles and the crinkling of paper as they wrapped and unwrapped tiny parcels of food or trinkets for barter.
ooooSmells commanded at least equal attention. Diesel fumes, sausage, onions, perspiration, garlic-heavy breath, soiled clothing, tobacco, and animal waste combined to create a noxious perfume that became increasingly pungent whenever the heater would kick on which, fortunately in that regard at least, wasn’t often.
ooooIce collected on the windows, including the windshield which the driver swiped at vigorously and often with his sleeve, thrusting his head forward and shielding his eyes from the glare of the instrument panel lights as he squinted to make out a road in the gathering darkness. He talked to himself incessantly and, though she couldn’t make out more than a word here and there, the two older women in burkas across the aisle seemed to find the commentary both shocking and amusing.
ooooOn the ceiling, two parallel rows of lights ran the length of the bus above the aisle. One of these had apparently not functioned within recent memory, and the other only flickered on whenever the bus made a right-hand turn. Some passengers uncomplainingly took advantage of these flashes to read newspapers, others prayed and swayed, others slept, and others talked in hushed tones, never above a whisper, their images embedded in her brain by the strobe-like snapshots of light.
ooooDespite the ambient cold, the metal case was much warmer than it had been. Clearly the ice was melting. She imagined the virus as it would appear under an electron microscope, tiny threads of mindless evil coiling and uncoiling like an army of the dead waking from frozen slumber. Replicating. Duplicating. Divide, divide, divide – and conquer.
ooooHer sleep was neither deep nor peaceful, and those few times her brain did manage to slip beneath her consciousness, it was greeted with an infestation of ebola, eating away at her resolve, slim enough in the best of circumstances.
ooooWhat if she simply took the vials and disappeared?
ooooThey were watching her.
ooooWho? The old women huddling in the seat opposite who looked her direction now and then, smiling and nodding? The old man gently stroking the head of a chicken in his lap with one hand and worrying his prayer beads with the other? The driver, who now and then looked at her in the cracked rearview mirror and looked away as quickly as she felt his eyes upon her? The serious young schoolboys dressed in international leftovers, sneakers and baseball caps, ancient tweed greatcoats and corduroys, who, communicating in jumbles of Macedonian Greek, French and English, beguiled the time with games of knuckles and fingers?
ooooShe felt an overwhelming urge to stand up, throw off the blankets and demand to know who was following her. More urgently, she felt the need to protect her children.
ooooThe question of further sleep was abruptly suspended when, with a hard lurch to the left, and within sight of the lights of Podgorica in the valley below, the bus shuddered to a halt.
ooooA number of the passengers verbally accosted the driver who pointed out the window where the headlights, dotted with new-falling snow, fell upon a rocky mass of earth that had tumbled down the mountainside and blocked the road.
ooooThompson’s heart began pounding wildly as everyone scrambled to the floor, curled up in little balls and fell instantly silent. They seemed to be listening for something. Even the driver, for some time, just sat and waited, staring ahead or into the darkness on either side. He shut off the engine and a leaden quiet blanketed the travelers.
oooo“Pssst!” said one of the women. When she got Thompson’s attention, she motioned her to get down. Thompson complied, shoving the metal case as far as possible under her seat. She wanted desperately to ask what was happening, but the language barrier was insurmountable.
ooooSo, like the rest, she huddled and waited.
ooooFinally the driver tentatively opened the doors and climbed out. For a few seconds she could hear the crunch of his shoes on the light dusting of snow, then on gravel, then – nothing.
ooooAt last the tension of almost unbearable silence was fractured by an agonized scream that trailed off into the distance. The old women, as if on cue, began wailing and pulling at their clothes while the other men and women, with tears of fear in their eyes, tried to shush them.
ooooThe time for silence was past.
ooooA percussive tattoo in the near distance, like someone rapidly whacking at a pillow, was instantly answered by the shattering of windows and the cries of the dying. Many people scrambled to their feet and tried to get to the doors or out the windows, and there they died.
ooooFor several seconds after the last body had fallen the shooting continued. Bullets exploded through one wall and out the other. Some bodies were hit repeatedly, for others, once had been enough. Soon all the windows had been reduced to a tinkling rain of razor-edged diamonds. Only one or two of the overhead lights remained, casting a sickening greenish-gray shroud on the dead.
ooooThe silence that followed was edged with unspeakable horror. It must have been the wheel well and the tire that saved her. She hadn’t been hit.
ooooShe ran a desperate hand blindly over the metal case. One hole, in the lower right-hand corner and out the other side. If the vial had been shattered, she was already the deadest of the dead.
ooooA slight motion caught the corner of her eye. Under the seats, near the other wheel well, one of the boys waved feebly to her. Only his head and shoulders were visible under the body of one of his companions. He held a finger to his lips, and began an elaborate series of actions which he clearly meant for her to copy.
ooooReaching under the seat in front of him, he rubbed his forefinger among the springs, until it was covered with thick black grease with which he made a spot on his forehead. He indicated she should do the same. She did.
ooooNext, he covered his hand with blood from his fallen friend, and smeared it around the grease. From the distance, and in the poor light, it looked as if he’d been shot in the head.
ooooOne of the old women had fallen within reach, face-down. Closing her eyes, as if to keep the image from her brain, Thompson reached out and ran a hand under the woman’s scarf and through her hair. Nothing.
ooooDown to her neck and shoulders. Still nothing. Finally, reaching as far as she could without moving – and possibly making a noise – she felt a small warm soggy area on the woman’s coat, exactly in the middle of her back. Simultaneously she opened her eyes and retracted her hand in revulsion.
oooo“Psst!”
ooooShe looked at the boy. He was glowering at her and signed for her to get on with it. A footfall on the gravel outside at that moment provided the necessary incentive. She pressed her hand hard into the damp fabric and withdrew it, covered with blood.
ooooOnce again, she cast an appeal at the boy, once again he made a rubbing motion near the grease spot. She closed her eyes and applied the dead woman’s blood to her forehead.
ooooWhen she opened her eyes, the boy had laid his head back at an unnatural angle and, with eyes that seemed dead, stared senselessly at the ceiling.
ooooShe did the same. Covering the lower portion of her face and tucking her light hair out of sight, she assumed the gaunt, slack-jawed expression of death, of which she was surrounded with so many examples, with her head wedged at a painful angle against the cold metal wall.
ooooThe beam from a handheld flashlight preceded the footsteps and the bus creaked and rocked lightly as three men entered. She could see their silhouettes in her peripheral vision. The women in the aisle, both of whom had fallen face-down, were the first inspected. Following a gruff exchange, two of the men shot each of them once more in the back of the head.
ooooThen the light was in her eyes.
ooooShe could feel her pupils dilate and the drops welling in her tear ducts. It seemed as if her eyelids were fluttering and it was hopeless to believe they couldn’t see her heart pounding through her cloak.
ooooSuddenly an inhuman shriek filled the bus. Reflexively the gunmen turned and pumped several rounds in its direction before they realized it was a chicken. They exchanged choked expressions and began walking up and down the aisle. Methodically they put an insurance bullet into the head of anyone they thought might not be dead. Among the seven or eight they didn’t shoot, were she and the boy. On their way out, they stopped in the doorway and said what seemed to be a prayer. She made out the phrase in shah Allah several times.

ooooFor a long time after they left, she and the boy lay there, staring at one another beneath the seats, he with a cautioning finger to his lips, she clutching her cloak to her throat, trembling with cold, fear and, at the same time, an almost senseless feeling of detachment; an inability to absorb the horror and death around her.
ooooFinally, with great effort the boy extracted himself from the lifeless pile of arms and legs that covered him. Both revulsion and terror were manifest on his face and tears flowed freely as he knelt over the bodies, touching each of them in turn with quivering fingers and muttering something under his breath. Eventually, he scurried toward her across the broken glass and over the dead.
ooooHe held out his hand to her. “You were not wounded?”
oooo“No,” she stammered. Her knees buckled when she tried to stand and she collapsed in a heap, and began sobbing uncontrollably.
oooo“Shh!” said the boy, clapping his hand over her mouth. He bent close to her ear. “They may still be out there. You must be quiet – or they will come back and kill us, too. Do you understand?”
ooooShe nodded and he took his hand away, replacing it with her own as she leaned against the boy, weeping into the folds of his coat. For five minutes, while she regained control of herself, he didn’t move. At last she wiped her eyes on her cloak and looked at him. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m all right.”
oooo“Let’s get out of here,” he said, taking her hand and drawing her to her feet. She bent to retrieve the metal case.
oooo“No!” he said sharply. “Leave it!”
ooooShe pulled away from him and stood shaking and crying. “I can’t!” she said, clutching it to her.
oooo“Nothing is so important!”
oooo“This is.”
ooooThe boy hesitated. “Where are you going?”
oooo“I’m on my way to Podgorica – to get a plane to Rome – for Christmas.”
oooo“But you came from the mountains – from Peç among the Muslims.”
oooo“I have no time to explain. Please,” she pleaded. “I’m freezing. I’m scared – and so tired. I’m so tired.” She hadn’t really realized it until the words were out of her mouth. The adrenaline was subsiding and a debilitating fatigue was settling in her muscles and a crusty dryness in her eyes.
oooo“Podgorica?” said the boy.
ooooShe nodded.
oooo“Things are very bad there now. Very bad.”
oooo“I have no choice.”
oooo“Come,” he said. “I will take you there.” He guided her to the open door and out of the bus.
oooo“Who did this?” she stammered as she climbed down the steps. “Serbs?”
oooo“That is what the world will believe,” said the boy solemnly, sniffing back tears.
ooooShe looked at him carefully for the first time. Despite the blood and grease on his face, he was a handsome young man with black eyes and beardless olive skin. Perhaps fifteen or sixteen – not much older than her Albert.
oooo“It wasn’t?”
ooooThe boy was silent as he helped her over the rubble with which the gunmen had blocked the road. Behind them, the remaining headlight of the bus stared into the night through a curtain of snow, lighting the way of the dead. “They were Muslims,” he said, once they had put some distance between themselves and the bus and were wrapped in the invisible cloak of darkness. From time to time snowflakes found their way through the folds of her cloak and melted in her eyes or on her cheeks.
oooo“Muslims!”
oooo“That is why they shot everyone again. They didn’t want anyone to suffer. They wept as they did so, did you not hear them?”
oooo“I heard nothing,” said Thompson. “How can you say such a thing? They were cold-blooded murderers.”
oooo“That is true. And as such, they have made an awful sacrifice.”
oooo“What do you mean?”
ooooThe snow crunched beneath their feet and deep breaths of the crisp mountain air filling her lungs had begun to dispel her nausea.
oooo“The Koran says: ‘He who kills a believer by design shall burn in hell forever. He shall incur the wrath of Allah, who will lay his curse on him and prepare for him a woeful scourge.’ These men knew this – they knew we were Muslims on the bus – they knew in killing us, they would be damned to hell forever. Yet, they did it.”
oooo“You sound almost as if you admire them!”
oooo“How can I not?”
ooooThompson was almost speechless. “What do you mean?! What about all those poor – innocent people! Gunned down – mercilessly! Those old women – your own friends!”
oooo“Don’t misunderstand me,” said the boy. “A great evil has been done. These men should be captured and they should pay with their lives. Then their souls will go to hell and torment forever. I hate them and would kill them myself . . . ” his voice tapered off. “But I do admire them. I wish my love was as deep as theirs.”
oooo“You’re taking nonsense,” said Thompson, once more cradling the metal case to her chest as they walked down the pitted road.
oooo“You do not understand the things of the spirit. Those on the bus, died for a glorious cause. Already they are in Paradise!”
oooo“Glorious cause?” Thompson said contemptuously. “What glorious cause?”
oooo“Freedom for our people.”
oooo“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
oooo“You do not know what I am talking about,” the boy replied softly, his voice still husky with tears. “The world will call this ambush a Serbian atrocity. There will be an outrage, a call for military intervention by the United Nations – perhaps even the United States, whose sympathies are on our side. Such an intervention would – in time – put us in possession of the land that is, by rights, ours. Bought by the blood of our fathers six hundred years ago.”
ooooThompson couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “But – the Serbs didn’t do it.”
oooo“Oh, but they did,” said the boy calmly. “It is the Serbs who have pushed us to such acts. It is they who refuse to give us control of our land.
oooo“Those people – the old women, my friends, all the others – they have been sacrificed for a greater good. They will be remembered as martyrs of the intefadeh.”
oooo“Then why didn’t you die with them?”
oooo“It was not Allah’s will,” the boy replied without hesitation. “Just as it was not his will that you should die.
oooo“You are a Christian. You wouldn’t understand. The Jews,” he said with emphasis. “They understand.”
oooo“If you imagine I intend to keep quiet about what I’ve seen and heard tonight,” Thompson asserted. “You’re mistaken.”
oooo“Justice is Allah’s,” said the boy. “Not yours or mine.”
oooo“Nevertheless, I’m not going to keep quiet. I can’t.”
oooo“That would be a great tragedy,” said the boy, lowering his head. “My friends will truly have died in vain.”
ooooThey walked on in silence to the outskirts of town. “I leave you here,” said the boy.
oooo“But, how will I find the airport.”
oooo“Straight. This way.” He pointed down the road. “May Allah keep your steps.”
ooooHe took the scarf from her head and draped it around her shoulders. “You are in Christian districts, now.” He turned and walked into the shadows of a side road lined with sheds and workshops of tarpaper and corrugated steel.
oooo“What’s your name?” she called.
ooooFor a moment she thought he’d already got out of hearing, then answer came, thin and distant. “Mohammed, of course.”
oooo“Thank you, Mohammed,” she said to herself.

Chapter Twenty One: A Cirle of Thrones

ooooMichael Cumio, a lapsed Catholic, was beside himself as he and Wingfield stood in the sparsely furnished, marble-floored reception room awaiting the arrival of the Pope.
oooo“What are you going to say to him?”
ooooWingfield didn’t respond. Not a religious man by any stretch of the imagination, he was, nonetheless, intensely uncomfortable in the present situation, especially since it was he, more than anyone else, who was perceived to have been steamrollered, once more, by Vatican pressure at the UN’s third Conference on Population and Development in Dubai. He’d passed the entire flight in a vain exercise of mental gymnastics, trying to find a way to extricate himself from the whole unbelievable mess.
ooooOnly one thing was sure, whatever the outcome, it would be wildly one way or the other, this time there was no middle ground.
ooooA door opened and closed nearby. “What do I call him?” said Wingfield, “Your Holiness, right?”
oooo“Yes,” said Cumio. His parents would be heartbroken that he wouldn’t make it home for Christmas – but more than compensated when they found out he’d met the Pope. At least his father would be. There’d be no living with him. His mother would be amused and stoic, good Protestant that she was. Still, she’d be happy for him.
ooooHe straightened his tie.
ooooA heavy wooden door, deeply set in white casing, opened to their left and the Monsignor returned. “Senator, Mr. Cumio, His Holiness.”
ooooThe Pope entered, leaning on his wooden cane but not as near death as the visitors had expected. Wingfield towered over him by nearly six inches. The Monsignor presided over the introductions. “Your Holiness, Senator Paul Wingfield.” The Pope held out his hand and Wingfield, forcing an even more supercilious demeanor than usual to mask his discomfort, shook it, much to Cumio’s chagrin.
oooo“Your Holiness,” said Wingfield perfunctorily.
ooooThe Pope smiled. “Senator Wingfield. I have heard much about you.”
ooooWingfield refrained from responding in kind.
ooooThe Monsignor gestured toward Cumio. “Michael Cumio, the Senator’s aid.”
ooooCumio took the Pope’s proffered hand warmly, knelt and kissed his ring. “Your Holiness,” he said, reverence and awe oozing from every pore, to Wingfield’s chagrin.
oooo“Cumio?” said the Pope, maintaining a firm hold of his hand. “You are Italian?”
oooo“My grandfather and grandmother were born here, Your Holiness,” Cumio beamed, “near Naples.”
oooo“But this is your first visit?”
oooo“Yes, sir.”
oooo“Then allow me to welcome you home.” He smiled warmly then turned to Wingfield. “Senator, we have business to discuss?”
oooo“The President has asked me to deliver this, Your Holiness.” He handed him the envelope that had been given him by the steward aboard Air Force Two, which bore the Presidential Seal, together with a copy of Dumas handwritten letter.
oooo“Heinrich, my glasses,” said the Pope, repeating the request in Polish. After the Monsignor had left the room, the Pope gestured to some ponderous wooden chairs. “Please, Senator. Sit.” Wingfield took a seat. “Mr. Cumio, would you be so kind as to move the other chair a little from the wall – facing the Senator so I can look at him as we talk?”
oooo“Certainly,” said Cumio, complying.
oooo“Thank you,” said the Pope, sitting down. “My hearing isn’t what it once was. I find it helps if I can read lips, a little.”
ooooAs there were no other chairs in the room, Cumio remained standing beside the Pope. “You are not of the same political party with the President, are you Mr. Wingfield?”
oooo“No.”
oooo“It is unusual, is it not, that he would have sent you on such a mission?”
oooo“To say the least. I’m sure, if not for the fact that the ambassador is back in the States for the holidays, he would have been here instead of me. As it is, I was convenient.”
oooo“Ah! yes,” said the Pope with a nod. “I hear you were in England. It is very good of you to make yourself available. Thank you.”
oooo“It’s not all that remarkable, Your Holiness. I may be of the opposing party, but – in matters like this – it’s no less my responsibility to do as the President requests. After all, the people elected him . . . after a fashion.”
oooo“Not the people of your state, though,” said the Pope with a sparkle in his eye.
oooo“No, sir,” said Wingfield. “Once again, they chose to be right rather than in the majority.”
ooooThe Pope laughed as the door opened and Heinrich returned with the glasses which he took and fixed to his nose. He opened the letter and began reading.
What color was in his face drained from his cheeks before he got to the second paragraph. He looked at Wingfield, who returned his gaze nervously. “You have read this?” he said visibly shaken.
oooo“Holiness,” said Heinrich, taking hold of the Pope’s shoulder. “Are you all right? Should I call for the doctor?”
ooooThe Pope waved him away. “Senator?”
oooo“Not the President’s letter,” said Wingfield. “But – the other is a copy of the original I received – presumably from Lord Dumas.”
oooo“Presumably?”
oooo“It was given me by a doorman at the Savoy.”
oooo“Heinrich, Mr. Cumio has never seen St. Peter’s,” the Pope turned to Cumio. “Would you like the Monsignor to show you around the place?” he said with a smile, though there had ceased to be any laughter in his eyes. “You have a tremendous heritage here, you should know it.”
ooooWith a nod of approval from Wingfield, Cumio and the Monsignor left the confines of the green walled reception room and embarked – from the papal apartments, through the museums and into the basilica itself – on a walking tour through two millennia of Christianity.

ooooAs a guide, the Monsignor proved more than equal to the task, and he was as comfortable with English – which he spoke with a Chicago accent – as with the works of Algardi, Barigioni, di Cambio and a host of faceless masters whose names are known only to God. In minutes, Cumio was absorbed by awe and lost in time.

ooooThe Pope leaned intently toward Wingfield. “A doorman, you say? Surely it’s not to be believed. There are many who would think such a thing nothing more than a joke. An empty threat, at best.”
oooo“It contains too much confidential information to be discounted, I’m afraid. The woman – Dr. Thompson – was kidnapped in Africa, with the virus in her possession. I made a few calls – there was a prisoner named Farhan al-Sa’di at Belmarsh Prison, but no one would part with any information concerning him. Likewise, there was an explosion at Westminster that killed two men. All of those things check out. There’s no reason to suppose the rest isn’t true as well.”
oooo“The names – the names of these men?” the Pope asked, shaking the letter.
oooo“I passed them along to Scotland Yard. But I had to leave London before they were verified, one way or the other.”
oooo“It is beyond belief,” the Pope whispered. “Impossible!”
oooo“Many things are beyond belief,” said Wingfield. “That doesn’t seem to keep people from imagining they’re true.”
ooooThe Pope chose not to respond to the barb.
oooo“Then – you concur with what your President proposes?”
oooo“As I said, Your Holiness, I don’t know what the President proposed. He called me in London, and asked if I would come to you personally – give you his letter and Lord Dumas’s note and ask if you had any suggestions. That’s all I know.”
oooo“Then, you haven’t seen . . . you don’t know what he’s suggesting?” said the Pope, raising the letter and waving it feebly.
ooooWingfield cleared his throat. “Yesterday Dr. Thompson was identified in Beirut. I know that plans were made to take what I would call – desperate measures – to prevent the possible release of the virus.”
oooo“This desperate!” snapped the Pope, throwing the letter at Wingfield. He opened the envelope, unfolded the letter, read it – and lowered it to his knee.
oooo“Yes.”
ooooThe Pope stood up and slammed the chair with his cane which splintered into twenty pieces under the force of the blow. “He can’t do this! To even think such a thing – is an abomination!”
oooo“Which is more abominable, Your Holiness, the destruction of Rome, or of the human race?”
oooo“I will cancel the Christmas Eve Mass!”
oooo“Then they’ll do it Christmas Day.”
oooo“I’ll cancel both!”
oooo“People will think you’ve died or been taken ill – and twice as many will turn up.”
oooo“Turn up?”
oooo“Attend.”
oooo“I shall show myself!”
oooo“And millions will flock to see you. Besides – most of them are already here – or on their way. What reason would you give for canceling the service?”
oooo“With this!” he said, snatching the envelope from Wingfield’s hand and shaking it in his face. “With this I need a reason?!”
ooooHe had raised his voice to such a pitch that an advance guard of nuns and functionaries tumbled into the room. “Out!” He commanded in several languages in rapid succession. They withdrew in confusion and disarray. He turned on the Senator. “This must not be allowed! Find the woman and apprehend this – this evil thing. This virus.”
oooo“No one knows where she is.”
oooo“Find her!”
oooo“I have no doubt we’re looking, Your Holiness. But terrorists are handling her, and they’ve been squirming in and out of Europe for years, like rats through cheese. I shouldn’t wonder if it’s even worse in the present climate; the riots in Greece since their economy collapsed, resurgence of fundamentalism in Turkey, riots in Italy and Spain. Warfare in Syria and Lebanon. Finding a needle in a haystack would be nothing to finding one woman in all that. I don’t give much for our chances.”
oooo“Then – as she makes the transaction – in the Square!”
oooo“Amid a half a million people?”
oooo“A million,” said the Pope on a sigh. “And another fifty thousand inside the basilica. They think I’m dying.”
ooooHe studied the letter again. “What is this?” He tapped the page. “Something is missing – ‘the exchange is to take place’ then there is a space before the words ‘in St. Peter’s Square’. What does this mean?”
ooooWingfield shrugged and shook his head. “I don’t know. It was that way when I got it. That part had been torn out.”
oooo“Torn out?” said the Pope. “Like my heart. By whom?”
ooooWingfield answered with a shrug.
ooooThe Pope bellowed something in a language Wingfield didn’t understand and a cardinal appeared in the doorway, his red beretta slightly askew.
oooo“Stefen Cardinal Wynyski. The Vatican Secretary of State.”
ooooThe introduction was unnecessary. “The Cardinal and I are old – acquaintances,” said Wingfield without rising. “Since Cairo.”
oooo“So you are,” said the Pope. “So you are.”
ooooCardinal Wynyski bowed stiffly. “Senator Wingfield.”
“Stefen – I wish the advice of the Academy.”
oooo“It’s a holiday, Your Holiness. There’s nobody there – even the Sampietrini are gone until January.”
ooooThe Pope seemed to shrink in stature. He gestured the Cardinal from the room. “Do you know that of seventy-odd scientists in the Pontifical Academy, over twenty are Nobel Prize winners?” he said.
oooo“I had read that somewhere,” said Wingfield.
oooo“And where are they when I need them? On holiday.”
ooooAgain and again he read the letter while Wingfield looked at the floor. There was nothing to say.
oooo“Martus, nubis oro” said the Pope at last.
oooo“My Latin’s a bit rusty, I’m afraid?” said Wingfield.
ooooThe Pope stared at him with unseeing eyes as he distilled the catastrophic information he had just received. “We will become a nation of unwilling martyrs,” he whispered. He sank to his knees, rested his elbows on the chair and began praying. Wingfield waited. Even he would welcome Divine intervention at the moment.
ooooA full ten minutes had passed before the Pope unclasped his hands. Sensing his struggle to rise, Wingfield took him by the elbow and helped him to his feet. “Thank you. I wish to speak to the President.”

ooooAt midnight Merchison learned that Air Force Two had left Dulles, empty. It’s flight plan was confidential. At 2 a.m., exhausted, she collapsed on the sofa in her office, instructing Quinn – who had already taken a nap – to wake her if anything happened during the night. It was five o’clock when Jill shook her awake.
oooo“Merch!”
ooooHer eyes felt like a combination of lead and sandpaper as she forced them open. “Jill? What is it? What time is it?”
oooo“We found out where Air Force Two went.”
ooooShe swung her feet to the floor, propped her elbows on her knees and dropped her head to her hands. “Well?”
oooo“London.”
ooooShe looked up. “Why?”
ooooJill sat on the arm of the sofa. “You’re not going to believe this. Are you awake?”
ooooShe raised his head. Her face was creased with wrinkles of sleep. “Do I look it?”
oooo“You will be. It was a touch and go.” He was reminded of Dubbya’s surreptitious trip to Iraq. He’d sworn then, that that would never happen again.
oooo“Picking someone up?”
ooooJill nodded. “Yes.”
oooo“Who?”
oooo“Senator Paul Wingfield.”
ooooMerchison was awake. Her eyes opened and the flesh on her face tightened. “Someone’s feeding you bullshit. I don’t believe it.”
oooo“A little like the sheep sending for the wolf.”
ooooShe took the coffee she handed him. “Anyone else taken aboard?”
oooo“Just Michael Cumio.”
oooo“Where did they go?”
oooo“Rome.”
oooo“Where?”
oooo“I don’t know, specifically. Just Rome.”
oooo“Who are your sources?”
oooo“Radio.”
oooo“Who?”
oooo“Brigit Kiley.”
oooo“Kiley! I told Quinn to get rid of her.”
oooo“That’s what he was about to do, when she dropped this.”
oooo“So, he didn’t can her?”
oooo“No.”
oooo“Good thing. She’d better get it right this time.” Merchison stood up and headed for the shower. “Have wardrobe send up a change of clothes. And no cleavage!”
oooo“Something tight enough to choke you,” Jill said under her breath. As Merchison swung out of the room. “Okay!” she called.
oooo“What time is it?”
oooo“A little after five.” She made the call while the water ran in the background. Then she positioned herself beside the bathroom door. “The clothes are on their way.”
oooo“What?”
oooo“I said, the clothes are on their way!”
oooo“Good. Who have we got in Rome?”
oooo“The bureau might as well be on vacation. We’ve got freelancers covering the Masses.” She consulted her iPad. “Mitchell Spang on-camera with Jimmy Guitierez directing. They’re picking up local crew.”
oooo“How many?”
oooo“Three in the basilica, three more in St. Peter’s Square, one on the streets of Rome for cutaways and contrast. All with GoPro cameras, so they’ll have no problem following the action – once they figure out what the action is.”
oooo“Good.” Merchison shut off the shower and toweled down.
oooo“Rome,” she said rhetorically, tying the belt of her navy blue terry cloth robe. “Why Rome?”
oooo“Beats me. Christmas Mass? There’s nothing else happening.”
oooo“Did you call his office?”
ooooShe nodded. “Nobody there.”
oooo“No – there wouldn’t be. Home?”
oooo“Nobody there, either. He lives alone.”
ooooMerchison dried her hair. “I’ll tell you one thing – something’s going on in Rome. And if it’s important enough to make Wingfield the President’s gofer, we should be there.” She began to dress. “And my bet is it’s got something to do with the little diddling we got at the White House yesterday. It’s got to.” She stopped suddenly. “Get me on the next flight to Rome.”
oooo“I’ve already called,” said Jill. “They’re all booked solid.”
oooo“I’ll be at LaGuardia at one o’clock – ready to leave. Get a plane there, whatever it takes. Meanwhile, call Jenny and tell her to anchor evenings ’til I get back – she can get whoever she wants to do the breaks.”
oooo“How long will that be?”
oooo“As long as it takes to uncover whatever’s being covered up.”
oooo“We do have people out there, you know. Professionals.”
oooo“There are no professionals at Christmas,” Merchison snapped. “Their brains go on holiday. Do you know if anyone else is on to this?”
oooo“Not off the top of my head.”
oooo“Let’s keep it that way, shall we?” She slammed the door behind them as they started down the narrow, gray-carpeted hall. “Have some breakfast sent up to Pete’s office. He’s there?”
oooo“Last I knew. What do you want?”
oooo“Surprise me.”
ooooShe took a sharp right at the next intersecting hall, she went left. “No bagels!” She called. “Bacon! Get me something with bacon!”
ooooThe door to Quinn’s outer office was open, and there were signs that he’d slept on the sofa at some time during the night. But he wasn’t there.
oooo“Pete!”
oooo“Just a minute,” said Quinn from his office. He was on the phone. “In here, Merch!”
oooo“What’s up?”
ooooQuinn held up a hand and continued listening intently. “Okay. Good.” Pause. “Yeah, I’ve got it. Thanks.” He started to hang up, but the person on the phone was still talking. He returned the phone to his ear. “What?” Pause. “Oh – right. Merry Christmas to you, too.” He hung up and turned to Merchison. “That was Brian Smith in Washington. What’s up, you said?”
oooo“Right.”
oooo“Well, if you’d asked me five minutes ago, I’d have said nothing.”
oooo“Now?”
oooo“Now – Smith says Brigid Kiley is missing.”
oooo“How so?”
oooo“According to her roommate, she got a call in the middle of the night – when she hung up, she said she’d be gone an hour or two, tossed on her coat and went out. She hasn’t come back yet.”
oooo“So? It’s practically the middle of the night now. She’ll turn up.”
oooo“She and the roommate were leaving at four to drive to St. Paul for Christmas.”
oooo“She’s late. She’s a big girl.”
oooo“Maybe so – but the roommate tried her cell phone and got no answer. So she called Smith to find out if he knew where she was.”
oooo“Why should he?”
oooo“Because the call that Brigid Kiley got in the middle of the night – was from the White House.”
oooo“The White House – called Kiley? That’s not likely, is it? Did they call anyone else?”
oooo“Not that we know of.”
oooo“Did Smith call Cory?”
oooo“Yeah. Woke him from a dead sleep, just before he called me. Said he had no idea what Smith was talking about.”
oooo“Maybe Kiley’s call wasn’t from the White House – somebody just wanted to get her out.”
oooo“She has Caller ID,” said Quinn. “I got the roommate to read the number back to me.”
oooo“And?”
oooo“It came from the President’s private line.”
oooo“Breakfast?” said Jill, as she arrived with a tray of coffee, juice, bacon and egg croissants and, brushing aside a litter of papers, set it on the desk.
ooooMerchison took a sip of coffee. “What a night.”
ooooQuinn agreed, then picked up one of the papers that had fallen to the floor and scanned it. “Oh, yeah. There’s this, too. Out of London. An American scientist named Patricia Thompson was apparently kidnapped in Kenya.”
oooo“When?”
oooo“Six days ago. Apparently she was doing some kind of viral research.”
ooooIt dawned on both of them as soon as the words were out of his mouth. “Ebola!”

ooooTo Stephson, Caesar Peruzzi was Avery Fuller with an Italian accent. Both men, though vastly different in their methods, were too sure of themselves – too fast and loose with the rules – to be trusted, imagining themselves superior not only to convention and tradition – but the law itself. To them it was a tool that could be manipulated any number of ways to achieve the desired ends, while to Stephson it was a monolith, if not a monument. To his mind, therefore, the only things that distinguished such men from criminals were a badge and a pension.
ooooAll of which made their successes that much more galling.
ooooIt was a rare instance indeed – as with the Cezane – when Scotland Yard was of more service to La Polizia, Peruzzi in particular, than vice-versa. Indicative of Peruzzi’s arrogance was the fact that he had relocated his tiny division, which he called L’elite, over which he ruled like a militaristic potentate, from the Ministry of Justice to the only habitable offices remaining in the old Palazzo di Giustizia.
ooooIndicative of the government’s regard for Peruzzi, was the fact that they had not only postponed the buildings’ destruction – once thought inevitable – but had absorbed the expense of the emergency maintenance necessary to keep it from falling in upon itself as well as some modest refurbishment, at least in the immediate precincts of Peruzzi’s office.
ooooIt was to the ornate second floor lobby of the Palazzo that Stephson was shown upon his arrival in Rome, and it was there, forty-five minutes later, he remained cooling his heels and beguiling the time with thoughts that bespoke his mother’s brooding Celtic blood.
ooooAt last the functionary who had been plying him with coffee and bombolone, ushered him into Peruzzi’s sanctum sanctorum, a cavernous monstrosity in marble with three large windows overlooking the Castel Sant’ Angelo.
ooooPeruzzi was standing at a massive hand-carved desk in the middle of the room. He held out a hand in greeting. “Chief Inspector. A pleasure seeing you again so soon.”
ooooStephson shook his hand stiffly. “Senor Peruzzi. The pleasure’s mine, I’m sure.”
ooooPeruzzi didn’t fit the filigree delicacy of his surroundings. He was a huge man, not fat, but very solid, with a balding head and small, expressionless eyes set in an expressionless face. He could have been a dockworker in Liverpool, a train conductor, a farmer – even a Caesar – but never a gentleman. He gestured to an ornate high-backed chair. “Please.”
ooooStephson sat down. He knew Peruzzi had orchestrated things to put his visitors at a psychological disadvantage. That was the sole reason behind it all – the opulence, the vast wasteland of an office, and the oversized windows that poured a harsh light into the eyes of anyone in front of the desk, while making him, Peruzzi, little more than a hulking silhouette.
ooooIt worked. Stephson was ill at ease, and kicking himself for it.
oooo“Forgive me for keeping you waiting,” said Peruzzi. “I’ve been on the telephone with several people, Henri Coutoire among them.” He seated himself. “I assume that is what you have come about, this . . . ” he consulted a paper on his desk, “this Lord Dumas?”
oooo“I trust you’ve been keeping an eye out, as I requested. Have you found him?”
ooooPeruzzi replied softly. “Yes, and no. Yes, we are keeping an eye out, no – he has not been reported. This means nothing, though. He may not have arrived. This would be the case if he was traveling by any means other than plane, no?”
oooo“Then again,” said Stephson, “there are many ways into Rome.”
oooo“Alas,” Peruzzi gestured widely, “it is where all roads lead.”
oooo“And Interpol?”
ooooPeruzzi shook his head. “Owing to the holidays, there are two problems: too many travelers, and not enough manpower.” He shrugged. “It is to be expected, no?”
oooo“It can’t be that hard to find a group of that description.”
oooo“Among millions? And if they split up? Not difficult. Impossible!”
ooooStephson had already thought of that, but hoped Dumas wouldn’t be so innovative. “We’ll see.”
oooo“So we will,” said Peruzzi. “Have you had coffee?”
oooo“I could piss the Tiber,” said Stephson. He stood up. “One more question.”
oooo“Please.”
oooo“I have reason to believe that U.S. Senator Paul Wingfield is in Rome.”
oooo“Have you, indeed?”
oooo“And that he possesses information of vital interest to British security.”
oooo“And?”
oooo“And you know where he is,” said Stephson, holding up his hand. “Please, don’t say ‘do I?’ I just want to speak with him.”
oooo“Concerning?”
oooo“I’m not sure that’s your lookout.”
oooo“Everything that takes place in Italy concerns me,” said Peruzzi with an inscrutable smile.
ooooIt was a statement Stephson could appreciate. “Before departing London, he forwarded a memo to my office. It’s imperative that I discover where he got certain information.”
oooo“I see,” said Peruzzi. He walked to the window and stared across the river. “The Senator is at this moment at the Vatican.”
oooo“The Vatican?”
oooo“With His Holiness the Pope.”
oooo“Wingfield? Are you sure we’re talking about the same fellow?”
ooooPeruzzi turned, with his hands folded behind his back in Guerrian fashion. “You think that curious, do you?”
oooo“I do indeed.”
oooo“Mm,” said Peruzzi. “So do I.”
ooooStephson stood in the middle of the room, leaving his corporeal being to occupy his greatcoat while his mind chased rabbits. Peruzzi merely stared at him. Finally Stephson removed a photograph from an inside pocket and handed it to Peruzzi.
oooo“Who is this?” said Peruzzi.
oooo“A man named Avery Fuller. Late of M-I5.”
oooo“I know of him. Late? How so?”
oooo“Murdered. Assassinated.”
oooo“Most unfortunate. This concerns me?”
ooooStephson crossed the room and opened the door. “Only if he turns up in Rome. I’d keep a careful eye out, if I were you. That one . . . ” he pointed at the picture now in Peruzzi’s hand, “bears close watching.”
oooo“But he’s dead. Isn’t that what you said?”
oooo“All the more reason to keep your eye out,” said Stephson.”Touché!” he whispered as he closed the door behind him.

Chapter Twenty Two: Suspicions

oooo“I should never have signed that paper!” said Brigid Kiley as she paced wildly back and forth in short, tight steps. She stopped in her tracks and glared at the President, tossing the hair out of her eyes. “You can’t hold me to it!”
oooo“Didn’t the stipulations strike you as an extraordinary when you read them, Ms. Kiley?” said the President, leaning back in his chair with his hands behind his head.
oooo“Of course they did . . . “
oooo“Then why are you surprised to find out they’re prompted by extraordinary circumstances?”
ooooShe leaned on the desk. “This is beyond anything I ever imagined. You can’t keep something like this from the American public!”
oooo“Don’t give me any American public crap,” said the President, suddenly dropping his chair to the floor and thrusting his face to within an inch of hers. “You sanctimonious bloodsuckers in the press don’t give a rat’s rectum for the American public – all the human tragedy in the world is nothing to you but a byline – and you’d sacrifice your grandmother for thirty-seconds on the six o’clock news!”
ooooStunned by the vitriol of the President’s unexpected attack, Kiley sank into the chair beside the desk. “That’s not true!”
ooooHe thrust the phone at her. “Prove it! It’s all yours. Call any network but your own and tell them everything I’ve told you. Give ‘em the scoop – free and clear. Anonymously.”
ooooShe stared at the phone and feinted toward it twice, but drew her hand back indecisively. The President grabbed it and slammed it back into place.
oooo“Hypocrite!”
oooo“I’m not! I just – you didn’t give me time to think!”
oooo“You had a chance to tell your blessed American public, didn’t you? What more incentive does a First Amendment fetishist like you need? You blew it, Kiley. You lost the moral high ground, so climb down from the pulpit and join me for a day or two in the fishbowl.
oooo“Tonight at midnight I’m going to Rome, and you’re going with me.”
oooo“You can’t do that!”
oooo“We’ll arrive at six a.m. Tomorrow our time, three in the afternoon local time. I’ll spend the four hours or so at the embassy, and at seven o’clock I’ll go to St. Peter’s Square . . . “
oooo“That’s suicide!”
oooo“For a brief audience with the Pope.”
oooo“The Pope! Does he know this?”
ooooThe President lowered his head. “We’ve spoken.” She started to say something, but he silenced her. “Until then, you’re not to leave my side. You’re going to observe in minute detail everything you see and hear.”
oooo“Why are you doing this?”
oooo“For posterity.” He tossed a yellow legal pad into her lap. “You’d better take this down.”
oooo“Oh, no!” said Kiley. She rummaged through her purse and produced an iPhone. “I want it all in your own words.” She selected the video app, turned it on and set the phone on the corner of the President’s desk, facing him.
ooooThe President sat down and stared for a long moment at the tiny, impersonal, accusatory eye of his electronic confessor. Kiley didn’t rush him. At last he sighed, and raised his eyes. “You’re here for two reasons: First, the emotional . . . ” he hesitated, “I was about to say ‘fallout’ – the emotional aftermath of an act that amounts to the destruction of Rome will be earth-shattering, like . . . tearing the soul out of the planet. That will be enough for everyone to contend with without adding confusion and recrimination.
oooo“I don’t want there to be any doubt that this action is mine and mine alone, and when it’s all over, I won’t even be able to prove it was necessary. I can’t help that. But I can take steps to shield innocent members of the government – of this administration in particular – from the inevitable accusations of complicity. I’m hoping your reports will help accomplish that, hopefully obviating the need for a lot of pointless, wasteful, and possibly damaging investigations. You’ll be able to document everything – that should be enough to allow a smooth succession of power. That’s the second reason.”
ooooKiley nodded knowingly. “Spoken like a true politician.”
ooooThe President gaped at her in disbelief. “You just don’t get it, do you?
oooo“Nevermind.” He sighed deeply. “My letter of resignation is with Secretary Marley. He and Freeman will hand-deliver it to the vice-president, who’s celebrating Christmas at her ranch in New Mexico, at nine o’clock local time tomorrow morning. It’ll be nine p.m. in Rome. Zero hour.”
oooo“What did the Pope say?”
oooo“That’s confidential.”
oooo“Confidential?! Come on – I thought this was going to be all up front – isn’t that what you said? Unrestricted access, you said.”
ooooThe President held up his hands. “You’re right. Calm down. You’re right. Sit down. Sit.”
ooooUnderstanding he was speaking to posterity, he chose his words carefully. “The Pope proposed scattering plainclothes Vatican guards and state police throughout the crowd and setting up a checkpoint at the mouth of St. Peter’s Square. I told him I feel that would too dangerous, because if the people behind this attack suspect a trap, or that they’ve been betrayed – they could apprehend Dr. Thompson and release the virus, and we’d have no way of knowing if they had until it’s too late.
oooo“Besides which, there are simply too many ways into the Square, especially with that many people . . .
oooo“He begged me to let them try. If the terrorists are caught, or the vials retrieved at least – then my measures could be called off. I agreed, with the understanding that if we’re not in possession of however many vials there are – Dr. Thompson’s colleagues think two – then that measure would have to be taken simply as a safety precaution.”
oooo“But, if they’re successful – if they get the vials before any harm is done, how will you keep them from dropping the bomb?”
ooooThe President removed a small plastic object from his jacket pocket and showed it to her. “This.”
oooo“A thumb drive?”
ooooHe studied it. “Sort of. It has two buttons – see? Simple enough for even someone of my limited technical know-how to operate. If I press the red one, the plane carrying the bomb turns around and goes home.
oooo“And the green one?”
oooo“The green one activates a homing beacon the missile will lock onto.”
oooo“Then, it’s a missile, not just a bomb.”
oooo“Not the Enola Gay, if that’s what you mean, no. It’ll be fired from somewhere over Sicily and manually guided to Rome by means of a video camera in the nose.”
oooo“Like the missiles in Baghdad. The bunker-busters?”
oooo“I guess. Then, when it’s in range, it’ll lock onto this beacon,” he tapped the device in his hand with his forefinger, “and automatically generate a signal to guide it the rest of the way.
oooo“I’m sure I’ve oversimplified the process, but you can get technical information, from Freeman, after it’s all over.
oooo“However it happens, whatever is to be done, has to be done before the crowd disperses – if even one infected person manages to get away . . . You’ll be gone by then. Air Force One will have instructions to take you anywhere you want to go.
oooo“But, there is hope,” said Kiley. “If the Vatican guards or the Italian police come up with the vials . . . “
oooo“It would take a miracle.”
oooo“But – if they do – there’s a way out. Your decision’s not written in stone.”
ooooThe President returned the device to his pocket. “Not stone, no. But fast-setting concrete.”
oooo“But there is hope!”
oooo“Why don’t you get some sleep, Ms. Kiley. You’re going to need it.”
oooo“You didn’t answer me. There is hope, isn’t there?”
oooo“That’s all there is,” said the President. “I’m going to spend the next few hours with my wife. Until then, you’ll be the guest of the people of the United States.”

ooooThere was a loud thud and a groan – then silence.
oooo“Lord Dumas?”
ooooIt was Mohammed.
ooooDumas and Miller scrambled to their feet and tumbled into the corridor, where Mohammed was standing over the senseless form of Andrew Connor.
oooo“What happened!” said Miller breathlessly.
oooo“I hit him with this,” said Mohammed meekly, holding up a large sausage.
oooo“A sausage,” said in disbelief.
oooo“It’s all right!” said Mohammed. “It’s halal,” He smiled and took a bite. “I saw you on the flyway – you began to run – and I soon saw why.” He pointed the sausage at Connor. “I ran after him – but I was too late.”
oooo“Too late, what do you mean?” said Miller. “I’d say you were just in time.”
ooooMohammed stepped aside so they could see the conductor on the floor at the far end of the car.
oooo“He’s dead?” said Dumas.
oooo“He shot him.”
oooo“Poor fellow.”
oooo“I didn’t hear anything,” said Miller.
oooo“You wouldn’t,” said Dumas. He knelt and pointed at the gun in Connor’s outstretched hand. “I don’t know much about such things, but I believe the attachment on the barrel is a silencer.”
ooooMiller bent to take the pistol. “No!” said Dumas, staying her hand. “Leave it!”
oooo“But . . . “
oooo“You go find a gendarme and report the murder – quickly before he recovers. Once the police have him dead to rights – with the gun in his hand, Mr. Connor will be one less tick in my ear. Once you’ve done so, see if you can slip away and hop the train to Nice at the Gare du Lyon,” he handed her a ticket and a fistful of Euros. “Take a cab. If you make it, I’ll see you aboard. If not – wish us luck.”
ooooMohammed glanced at his watch. “If we hope to make it, we had best hurry. Here.” He handed the sausage to Miller. “You may need this – and be careful, it’s loaded!”

oooo“That train is vacant, Madam. It is not in use,” said the gendarme, calmly surveying the train from the next quay over. He spoke to her in English despite her having addressed him in fluent French, and his accent was so thick the words were nearly unintelligible. “What were you doing on a train that is not in use?”
oooo“We were running to get away from him. An IRA terrorist named is Andrew Connor,” she replied, in French. “I explained that already.”
oooo“A terrorist, is it?” said the gendarmé, cocking a bemused eyebrow.
oooo“Yes, a terrorist. I work for the British Government.”
oooo“To be sure.”
oooo“You don’t believe me?”
oooo“Please, in English, madam. You do not speak French well.”
ooooMiller produced her French passport. “I am French, you pompous ass,” she said. “My mother was French – and I was raised in Normandy ’til I was eighteen !” She opened the passport and shoved it in his face. “I have dual citizenship.”
ooooThe gendarme pushed her hand away and responded again in English. “Eighteen, you say? That was a very long time ago. You have clearly forgotten much.”
ooooShe swore at him in French.
oooo“Madam!”
oooo“You had no trouble understanding that, did you?”
ooooFor the remainder of the conversation he spoke in English, and she in French.
oooo“Your name, please?” he said, removing a notebook from his chest pocket which he opened with a flourish.
ooooShe told him.
oooo“And you are coming from London?”
oooo“Yes.”
oooo“And you are going to where?”
ooooMiller was losing patience. “Listen, are you or are you not going to tend to that dead man and his murderer?”
oooo“I am ascertaining facts, madam. I find your story unlikely. You are hysterical, I think.”
oooo“Odd, I wasn’t a moment ago,” she snapped facetiously.
oooo“And you are going to where?” the gendarme repeated.
oooo“I don’t believe this!” said Miller. She seized the notebook and threw it to the ground. “There is a dead man on that train,” she said, pointing with the sausage. “His murderer is there also, knocked out with this.” She shook the weapon. “Which I’m of half a mind to employ again in the same fashion if you don’t stop mumbling foolishness and get on with your job!”
ooooThe gendarme retrieved his notebook, opened it and, once again, prepared to write. “In good time, all will be done according to procedure. You are going to where? You understand the question?”
oooo“That’s it!” said Miller, hurling the sausage onto the train tracks in emphasis. “I’ve got a train to catch.” She started off across the platform.
ooooFinally the gendarme was perturbed. “But you cannot!”
ooooShe backpedalled. “Why not?”
oooo“You say there has been a murder!”
oooo“And you say there hasn’t! But I’ll tell you something, floc, if you don’t get there before that fellow comes ’round, you’ll have more than a little trouble on your hands. He’s got a very big gun.”
oooo“A gun?” The gendarme suddenly reverted to his native tongue and glanced worriedly at the train. “I thought you said he was killed with the sausage.” When he turned back, Miller was gone.

oooo“Remarkable,” said Sir Richard Scott. He mixed himself a gin and tonic and offered a scotch to Harrison, who declined. “Oh, come Jack, it sounds like you could use one. Besides, it’s the weekend.”
oooo“No, thank you sir,” said Harrison. “Beer’s more to my taste.”
oooo“Shandy?”
oooo“Bitter.”
ooooScott sighed, raised an eyebrow and shrugged. “Do sit, please.”
ooooHarrison had never been in Scott’s office before. He glanced from one floral print sofa to the other, where the Foreign Secretary had settled in and chose a straight-backed leather armchair against the wall. It suited his purposes. The whole tableau struck him as almost laughable, like the caricature of a stereotype.
oooo“I don’t bite, you know,” said the Cheshire cat.
oooo“No, sir.”
oooo“So – you think Fuller is still alive?”
oooo“I seem to remember they thought he was dead once before, in Istanbul. Convinced the KGB.”
oooo“I remember.”
oooo“At any rate, his fingerprints seem to have a life of their own. Those on his security card, at any rate.”
oooo“And Lord Dumas is somehow involved?”
oooo“A patsy, I think.”
ooooScott took a long, loud sip of his drink. “And why do you – or does Stephson – imagine Fuller is going to such extremes?”
ooooHarrison shrugged. “Well, if indeed he has – I think he suspected you were on to him.”
oooo“So he faked his own death?”
oooo“No one’s going to press a case against a dead man.”
ooooThe Foreign Secretary studied his glass in the light. “Sounds a little far-fetched, to me. Then again, Fuller always was given to melodramatics. This Russell Church business reeks of him.
oooo“But why is everyone going to Rome?”
oooo“Stephson’s going to find Lord Dumas and ask him about . . . “
oooo“I understand that,” said Scott. “I understand that. What I don’t understand is why Dumas has gone there in the first place. You said there were others with him?”
oooo“Two women and a man.”
oooo“An Arab, you said.”
oooo“Yes, sir.”
oooo“Mm. How very curious. And they’ve all gone to Rome?”
oooo“It would seem so, sir.”
oooo“And Senator Wingfield – he gave you this – ” he waved a copy of Wingfield’s note, “and packed off to Rome as well?”
ooooHarrison nodded.
oooo“Curiouser and curiouser. He mentioned nothing to me about going to Rome – in fact, last I knew we were scheduled to meet the Prime Minister this afternoon at four.”
oooo“I understand the Senator bolted from the dais at the Earth Congress last night.”
oooo“You’re well informed.”
oooo“Do you know why?”
oooo“I think he wasn’t impressed with the way things were going,” said Scott. “That aside, he was upset about something. Didn’t talk about it, really. Apparently he thought the President was going to do something dreadful, then changed his mind.”
oooo“Dreadful?”
ooooScott shrugged again. “Something political, I assumed. He seemed concerned about how he’d come out of it. Wingfield’s a bit of a worrier – and a fierce politician.
oooo“Are you sure you won’t . . . ?” He held up his glass.
oooo“No, sir.” He pointed at the paper Scott still held in his hand. “What do you make of that?”
ooooScott tilted his head and gave the letter a sidelong glance. “I wonder how he came into possession of these tidbits. He would seem to be better connected than you and I, Jack. That doesn’t look good. It makes me wonder who’s more right about Fuller – Wingfield or you. Wingfield certainly seems to think he’s dead.”
oooo“How late were you with him last night, sir?”
oooo“With whom?”
oooo“The Senator.”
oooo“This is beginning to sound uncomfortably like interrogation.”
oooo“I’m just trying to establish the facts,” said Harrison, adding a perfunctory ‘sir’.
ooooScott ran languid eyes over him. “Of course you are.” He turned his attention to his fingernails. “Ten – thereabouts.”
oooo“And he mentioned none of this to you?”
ooooThe dart hit home. “No.”
oooo“Why, do you think?”
oooo“I have no idea,” said Scott flatly. He rose with difficulty from the sofa. “Our interview is ended, Jack. I trust you will inform me at once of any further developments.”
oooo“Rest assured,” said Harrison, “you’ll be the first to know.”

ooooWhen Harrison had left the room, Scott took a seat behind his Louis the XIV desk and pressed the button on his answering machine. There was a beep, and a message.
oooo“Sir Richard, this is Avril Miller. It’s 11:45 Saturday morning, the 22nd. I’m calling from a kiosk on White’s Row, Spitalfields. The most extraordinary thing has happened, and it’s most urgent that I speak to you. Obviously I’ve tried your home. I daren’t leave specifics on your machine. I will attempt to call again at 2 o’clock. Please be in your office at that time. It is most imperative!”
ooooThere was a beep, and another message.
oooo“This is Avril Miller, again. I meant to call at two, but was unable to get away. It’s now 7:10 p.m. We’re at the Savoy, room 709. Things are happening so fast, I’m not sure I know what to make of them.
oooo“I’m with Lord Anthony Dumas – I can’t say I’ve been kidnapped, exactly, but – Someone’s coming. I’ve got to go. I’ll call again at seven in the morning.”
ooooAnother beep, another message.
oooo“Sir Richard, where are you?! It’s just gone seven, and I’m calling as promised. Have security block access to Russell Church – it’s a secret identity that was set up by Avery Fuller. Dumas says he’s dead – Fuller that is – and that Daniel Rhodes died with him – in the Westminster bombing.
oooo“It appears we’re on our way to Rome. I don’t know what to make of Dumas. He seems genuine – but he could be mad, for all I know – but he seems to be acting on what he genuinely believes is the truth. I’m tagging along so I can keep an eye on him and will report to you at intervals as circumstances allow.
oooo“Meanwhile, could you check the status of a prisoner at Belmarsh – named Farhan al-Sa’di. And see if there’s any report of an American scientist being kidnapped in Africa. If so – we’ve got big trouble.
oooo“He’s up to something tomorrow morning – waiting for a package, is all I can gather, though where he intends to collect it I don’t know. We leave as soon as possible after that.
oooo“We’ll have to change trains in Paris. I’ll call you from there.”
ooooFor a moment Scott sat still, staring at the wall beneath heavy lids. It was the third time he’d played the enigmatic series of messages since he got to the office.
oooo“Lord Dumas?” he said reflectively. All at once he remembered seeing Dumas at the Savoy Grill last night – and the waiter slipping Wingfield a note. At the time, he was too drunk to care. Now, however, he didn’t like the way things were adding up. Rather than using the landline on his desk, he slipped his personal cell phone from his shirt pocket and dialed a number only he knew. As the ringing pulsed in his ears, he thought aloud. “I see you’re hand in this, my friend. Let’s see how the game goes if I take your pawn.”
ooooSomeone answered the phone. “Walter? I have a job for you – in Rome – very urgent.” Pause. “Yes – Lord Dumas – Anthony Dumas. May be traveling under the name Russell Church. Blond hair, gone mostly white, about my height. Unmistakably British. Reasonably fit. Looks like a puppy that’s been kicked. I expect if you take the next flight out, you’ll be on time to meet his train at San Pietro.” He hesitated. “Oh – and if you find a middle-aged woman in his company, gray hair done up in a bun, glasses – attend to her as well, would you please?” Pause. “Miller. Avril Miller.
oooo“I’ll call ahead to make arrangements.”

Chapter Twenty-Three: Atlas in Flames

ooooA thick fog had settled on the outlying neighborhoods of Podgorica and, while there was evidence of electric lights in the heart of the city, still half a mile away, the only illumination in the immediate vicinity – peeking through closed shutters and drawn curtains – was the warm, yellow glow of gas lamps and candles.
ooooIt had rained recently and the temperature had fallen with the advent of night. As a result, the pavement was treacherous underfoot as Thompson made her way toward the city’s smoldering heart. Despite her efforts to quiet them, her scuffling footsteps echoed like whispers from the barricaded houses and shops in the eerie silence that otherwise prevailed.
ooooThe metal case, wedged against her chest in the crook of her arm, had warmed to air-temperature. That was the bad news. The good news was that, as far as she could tell, there hadn’t been a leak of any kind.
ooooHer left hand had fused itself to the suitcase handle and her arm seemed to have stretched to the point she had to bend it just slightly to keep from scraping the ground. Her legs were weak and she had just enough sense about her to recognize that she was still in shock.
ooooShe stumbled numbly along the street.
ooooAccording to Alex she’d have no trouble finding the bus station at the center of town. Podgorica echoed Tito’s peculiar brand of communism that it was, arranged itself in orderly rows that shared all dimensions in common, each block so exactly the same that she began to wonder if she was dreaming, walking through the same neighborhood over and over again.
ooooShe quickened her pace, despite the cramp in her leg.
ooooSoon she had exhausted her tiny reserve of strength and collapsed on an icy bus bench, breathing long, tired wraiths of steam into the dead air, her suitcase on one side and the metal box on the other.
ooooThere were muffled sirens in the distance, presumably from the city center, though it was impossible to tell in the fog. They seemed to be getting neither nearer nor farther. Otherwise the only sound was the intermittent patter of water drops that coalesced from the mist and splattered on surrounding roofs and sidewalks.
ooooChimnies up and down the length of the street emitted a heavy, sulfurous smoke that congregated in a thin strip of cloud at treetop level and mingled with the fog, giving it a sick yellow cast.
ooooShe could see nothing in the direction from which she’d come. The fog seemed to have closed in behind her, like a ship’s wake. Ahead wasn’t much better, save for the pale diffusion against which the buildings hulked black and lifeless. A necropolis of giants.
ooooIt was a Jack-the-Ripper night.
ooooShe shuddered.
ooooThere was no choice, of course, she had to go on, despite her mental fatigue and physical exhaustion. She had to go on despite the pain.
ooooGo on.
ooooWhy?
ooooBecause they would harm her children. They would kill them if she . . .
ooooBut – if the ebola got into the wrong hands – to be used as a weapon? What other use would anyone have for it?
ooooIt would kill millions.
ooooBillions.
ooooAgainst those billions – two. Her children.
ooooShe could call her husband – warn him! Tell him to get the kids and take them – take them anywhere!
ooooShe could call the University! The army – the CIA!
ooooBut – she couldn’t. They were watching her.
ooooWatching.
ooooWho was?
ooooOnly Joseph had come with her to Peç. Everyone on the bus was dead – except Alex, and he had only survived by chance, just like her. Those Muslims weren’t her Muslims. They were fighting a different battle.
ooooWhere had Alex gone? What business did he have amid the shadows – in the dimly lit rooms behind the shuttered windows on the outskirts of Podgorica?
Suddenly she heard something in the direction from which she’d come. A footstep? Yes. And another, and another. Soft. Almost imperceptible. Stealthy.
oooo‘Someone will be watching you’ the letter said.
ooooSomeone other than Allah.
ooooPeering holes in the fog and dark, she could see nothing, then decided she didn’t want to. She got up, grabbed the cases and began lurching through the outskirts of hell, toward the fire at its core.
ooooNow and then she would stop to catch her breath and listen with all her might. She was imagining footsteps everywhere, as if she was being followed by an invisible army. Still, she ran.
ooooThe fog was so thick. Nobody could possibly see her. If she ducked into an alleyway, who would know?
ooooShe ran.
ooooThe ebola – if she could find an incinerator of some kind.
ooooNitrogen!
ooooNo, nitrogen would preserve it, not destroy it.
ooooShe ran.
ooooThe ocean? It was a possibility. But, what if it somehow survived the cold and the pressure? If this strain was resilient enough to survive direct exposure to sunlight – there was the chance it would end up in the food chain and begin mutating.
ooooNo. It had to burn. An enclosed fire. Not an oven. It would have to be superheated. A kiln. A locomotive engine. They didn’t make steam locomotives anymore, did they? Then again, this was Croatia. What was left of it since the resumption of hostilities?
ooooShe ran, as if trying to outdistance the unbidden thoughts clamoring to baffle her concentration. Thoughts of her children; her husband; her career; her life. And somewhere, beneath it all, her childhood images of God.

ooooShe became aware that she’d been expecting a solution to occur to her at any moment, if she just blundered in the right general direction – made it seem as if she was going to do the bidding of whoever was behind it all and thereby forestall any action against the kids. But no solution had presented itself. None had even whispered.
ooooShe began to cry, silently at first, hot tears that pooled in her eyes and blurred her vision, then sobs – then a loud wail from the primitive pit of herself that slapped back at her from the walls of the surrounding buildings and something in her snapped. It was an astonishing sound she would never have imagined herself capable of producing; primeval. Animal. She stopped in the middle of a large, barren square and spun on her heels.
oooo“Stop it!” she screamed at the fog. “Stop it! Leave me alone! You want this!” She flung the suitcase aside and shook the metal box defiantly at the darkness. “You want this! You can have it!” She pitched it into the fog where it crashed loudly to the ground. She waited, her heart thrashing in her chest and breath coming in sharp, angry bursts.
ooooNo one emerged from the fog.
oooo“There it is!” she cried. “You take it! I’ve had it! No more!”
ooooThere were no footsteps. Just the incessant dripping of rain from waterspouts and gutters.
oooo“Do you hear me?!”
Nothing.
ooooShe ran to the case, fell to her knees and began blindly, desperately digging at the clasp, tearing her nails on the locks, to no avail. She poked her finger at the bullet hole with the same result.
ooooShe began beating the container with her fists, harder and harder until, frustrated and frightened beyond reason, she stood and began stomping it with her heel.
ooooFinally it dented. At once her anger evaporated and she dropped again to her knees, picking up the case and cradling it in her arms, rocking it back and forth, like a madwoman with the corpse of her child.
oooo“I’ll go,” she said in the sweet, senseless delirium of exhaustion that followed. “I’ll go.”

ooooFor the lack of any other beacon, she was drawn to the persistent wail of the sirens. When at last she staggered into a floodlit square near the center of the city, she was confronted by a maelstrom of people whose cries, until then, had been drowned out by the sirens. She fell back into the shadows and watched.
ooooThe square was strewn with the burning or burnt-out hulks of cars and buses from behind which people exchanged epithets and gunfire with other people behind other barricades, some only a few yards away.
ooooAt first she thought some kind of revolution was underway, until she realized that people on both sides were wearing the same uniforms.
ooooFrom the detached archive of useless information in the abyss of her brain that cranked out absurdities at absurd times, came the memory of a Vietnam-era poster with the words: What if they gave a war and nobody came?
oooo“What if they gave a war – and you couldn’t recognize the enemy?” she said aloud.
ooooSoon she became aware that, peripheral to the mayhem, were currents and countercurrents of people, pressing themselves, their children and their possessions against the walls with their faces shielded against the heat of the fires. She was struck by the irony of their appearance, most of them were well-dressed, as if they’d just finished a day’s work in the city. Fashionable refugees trying to make themselves invisible to the bullets that crackled from the stone walls and statues in the square and sang their brief, shrill songs of death.
ooooClinging tightly to the Panaflex case and her satchel, she inserted herself into the nearest current, and was swept along toward the western end of the square.
ooooAs she pushed through the crowd, she asked people if they spoke English. No one did – or none had time to.
ooooShe noticed there were people in the buildings overlooking the square, too, either shooting indiscriminately down on the combatants or watching the chaos in morbid fascination. Off to the left, she spied an American Express office and, for no reason in particular, was making her way toward it when someone grabbed her arm and began running with her.
oooo“Come!” said a gruff voice sharply.
ooooShe had no choice. Exhausted as she was, she ran and not five seconds later a bomb of some kind tore through the first floor of the building that had been her destination, exploding the windows and tearing a gaping hole in the walls.
ooooShe wasn’t exhausted anymore, she ran and ran, reflexively shielding her face and eyes as the pavement at her feet came alive, roiling with bullets that ripped tiny craters from the asphalt and spat them angrily in the air.
ooooThe firm hand that held her never slackened its grip. If anything, it tightened and pulled her harder and faster. “Drop those things!” said the voice, and simultaneously the suitcase was wrested from her hand and flung into an alley. Before she could react, a hand was on the metal case as well, instantly she scooped it to her bosom with both hands and dropped to her knees, arching herself over it. “No!” she screamed.
oooo“Lady, nothing’s that important!” said the voice.
oooo“This is!” she cried. “You don’t know!”
oooo“Okay, okay,” said the voice reassuringly. “But let’s get out of here.”
ooooOpening her eyes she saw a pair of threadbare Converse sneakers and, raising her head, a young man, probably in his mid-twenties, with dirty blond hair, rising from them. The reflection of the fires danced in his eyes. He helped her to her feet and once again they were running.
oooo“Where are we going?” she asked breathlessly.
oooo“The mission,” he said.
oooo“Mission?”
ooooHe guided her around a knot of people who, incapacitated by fear, had tethered themselves to the meager shelter of a derelict telephone booth, and up and down the corner of a wide set of granite steps.
oooo“The Deaf School – it’s about five or six blocks away.”

oooo“It’s been threatening for a long time,” said the young man – an American relief worker who had introduced himself as Jason Shepherd. He poured steaming hot water into a mug of instant chicken soup and handed it to her. “It’s been like a pressure-cooker around here. Every faction has their mouthpieces – newspapers, radio stations, television stations, Twitter and Facebook – and the rhetoric just spiraled out of hand. We could see it coming after Ratko Mladic was sentenced by the world court. Society just started to unravel; like one of those Apocalypse games.”
oooo“Then why didn’t you get out?”
ooooHe smiled and took a drink of soup. “Getting out’s not our job,” said Alonya, a sturdy young lady in her early twenties, as she took a seat by Jason, draping a blanket over his shoulders. She had pale blue eyes and blond hair, indifferently cut, dimples you could get lost in, and was wearing the international costume of youth: blue jeans and a sweatshirt with a college logo on it – The Nittany Lions – and a camouflage jacket. A simple gold cross hung from a chain around her neck, completing the ensemble.
ooooThompson, who had introduced herself as Joan Ketchum, had already had three blankets draped on her and, sipping the soup, was feeling warm for the first time since she left Africa – a hundred years ago. Also, despite the concussion of bombs, some alarmingly close, she felt safe for the first time.
oooo“It’s not just the Muslims and the Christians, you know, Joan,” said Jason, “the way they make it seem in the states. It’s the Montenegrans and the Albanians, the Macedonians and the Serbs, Bosnians, Croatians, Slovenians, Kosovars. Ethnically, they all come from the same gene pool. Their DNA is indistinguishable, but their allegiance . . .
oooo“And their hatreds,” said Alonya, who had heard this speech before.
ooooJason absorbed the addendum and plowed on, “is determined by whichever faction conquered them a thousand years ago. Ironic, isn’t it?” he said rhetorically. Alonya nodded. “Just one big irony.”
oooo“After the First World War some commission drew up arbitrary boundaries around a collection of semi-independent states and called them Yugoslavia. For a long time they were sort of held together by totalitarianism . . . “
oooo“Communism,” said Jason. “Like a glue.”
oooo“That’s right,” said Alonya. “Like a glue – but when Tito died and communism vanished – that glue, that adhesive . . . ” she joined her fingers tightly and then pulled them apart, “was gone.”
oooo“After the Soviet Union collapsed, all you had left was a lot of ethnic groups, with suppressed hatreds going back hundreds of years, suddenly waking up and finding themselves living next door to one another.”
oooo“Worse yet, there’s not really any unity even among the factions,” said Alonya. “There are Christian and Muslim Republics that want to be sovereign nations, and others that want to revive the Yugoslav state in one form or another.”
oooo“Provinces that want to be republics . . . “
oooo“And divisions within the republics and provinces – among both majority and minority groups. You’d be amazed the number of Serbs who yearn for the days of Milosovic.”
ooooThe bulk of Thompson’s attention was on the soup which seemed to course through her veins like lava, prodding hosts of near-dormant corpuscles to life so that she tingled all over. She was not a political creature but, because her husband was an historian, and a vocal one, she had heard diatribes like this for years, and knew how to listen just enough to seem interested and, now and then, drop in a comment to keep the conversation flowing. “That’s why I saw soldiers in the same uniforms shooting at each other.”
ooooJason nodded. “For a while the UN forces seemed able to keep the military factions under control, but when they were recalled. . .”
oooo“All hell broke loose.”
ooooIt was Jason’s turned to nod. “Suddenly you couldn’t identify a particular faction by the insignia on the uniform. It’s all fractured into a hundred warring factions, each with their own hierarchy.”
oooo“And their own agenda. Little fiefdoms,” said Alonya. She threw up her hands and shrugged exaggeratedly. “This is the national gesture.”
oooo“Insane,” said Jason in summation.
ooooThompson smiled. The ingenuousness of youth reminded her of the time when she knew everything.
oooo“Funny,” said Jason as he looked at her with searching eyes.
oooo“What’s that?”
oooo“Your expression right now – it’s just like my dad’s.” He smiled.
oooo“Must be a generational, thing,” Thompson mused. “I remember my folks had it.”
oooo“Now, the big question,” said Alonya. “What are you doing here?”
oooo“And what’s so important about that case that you’re willing to risk your life – and my life, too, for that matter?”
oooo“I’m on my way to Rome.” She patted the metal case. “This has to be in St. Peter’s Square by Christmas Eve.”
oooo“Mass?” asked the girl.
ooooThompson nodded.
oooo“What is it, some kind of icon, or something?”
oooo“Not another piece of the vera cruz,” said Jason laughingly.
oooo“No, nothing like that. It’s – I’m delivering it – it’s very fragile.” Inwardly, she cringed in the sharp recollection that she had, so recently, flung it on the pavement, its brief, metallic complaint rattled through her conscience.
ooooJason poked the bullet hole. “So I see.”
ooooThompson put the case on the floor between her feet. “How can I get to the airport?”
oooo“It’s closed,” said Alonya. “The last evac flight left day before yesterday. Even the mainstream press is gone, only the guerilla journalists are left.”
oooo“Nice of them to tell me,” Thompson said below her breath. “Is there any chance it’ll reopen?”
oooo“Always a chance,” said Jason. “They say there’s a UN delegation coming any day now – but they’ve been saying that for weeks. And they’re not likely to come until there’s some kind of cease fire.”
oooo“Trains?”
ooooJason nodded. “Sporadically. They’re all crowded.”
oooo“Where to? Italy?”
oooo“No, the only train still in business, that I know of, is the one from Belgrade to Bar on the coast.”
oooo“Can I get a ferry to Italy from there?”
oooo“Theoretically, yes,” said Alonya. “But I don’t know if they’re still in business – fighting’s broken out all over the place.”
oooo“If so, they’re probably crammed with refugees.”
oooo“You don’t think they’d have room for one more?”
ooooJason studied her unabashedly for long seconds. “It’s that important?”
oooo“I can’t explain why,” said Thompson. “Not that you wouldn’t understand – but, I’m – I can’t. All I can say is – this is going to sound foolish – but if I don’t get this to Rome by tomorrow night, my children could die.”
oooo“You’re kidding!” said Alonya, and at once regretted it. “I mean, I know you’re not – nobody would joke about something like that, but – what I mean is – really?”
ooooThompson looked from Alonya to Jason and, considering their situation, decided she could be blunt. “I’m being blackmailed. Somebody wants what’s in here, and if I don’t get it to them by nine o’clock tomorrow night, they will – they’ve threatened to kill my children.”
ooooAlonya drew a sharp breath. “Who would do such a thing?”
oooo“And Joan Ketchum’s not my real name – that’s what they gave me – it’s the name on the passport they gave me. I’m Dr. Patricia Thompson.”
oooo“Doctor? What kind?” said Sarah. “One of the kids has had a terrible time with . . . “
oooo“A molecular biologist,” said Thompson. “I’m afraid I wouldn’t be much use.”
oooo“What’s in there?” said Jason, pointing at the box.
ooooThompson prevaricated. “I haven’t looked. It’s locked.” Her voice trailed off. “I’m just a courier.”
ooooJason stood up and walked toward another room. “Just a second. Alonya, come here, I want to talk to you.”
ooooThe discussion that followed were ernest, that much Thompson could tell from their tone – but she couldn’t tell exactly what was being said. She finished her soup and, cradling the warm cup in her hands, looked around the room.
ooooThe windows were barred and shuttered and only occasional flashes of light forced their way through the cracks and splashed brief geometric shapes on the walls.
ooooOtherwise, two candles provided all the light in the apartment and Jason and Alonya had taken one with them. The remaining candle was pushing the limits of its usefulness, and seemed to be shrinking before the darkness. It tossed a feeble circle of light on the far wall which was dominated by a cartoonish mural of Jesus doing a push-up with a cross on his back. Blood poured profusely from the crown of thorns on his head and spelled out the words – “can you lift this?”
ooooThe table where she sat was draped with a blue and white striped tablecloth and had seating for eight, one at each end and three on either side. A bowl of fruit aged ungracefully in a wooden bowl in the middle of the table, adding a pungent suggestion to the ambient perfume of mildew, detergent and chicken soup.
ooooWell-worn rugs were scattered over the stone floor and others, even more worn, hung from the walls – apparently to lend the illusion of warmth to the building which, as far as she could tell, was entirely heated by the fire that burned in a small cast-iron stove in the middle of the wall opposite the front door.
ooooThe stove was flanked by a door on either side, the nearest one going to the kitchen. Jason and Alonya had disappeared through the other and the light of their candle danced around the room in seeming syncopation to the fervor of their discussion.
ooooAt last her sight came to rest, as always, on the metal box. It was warm, now. The serum still hadn’t leaked, but she could sense it expanding, forcing the tight plastic caps, like shaken champagne. Of course, most of the ebola would not survive the journey.
ooooProbably.
ooooMost of them.
ooooBut millions of viruses could dance on the head of a pin, and it would take less than ten to infect someone – and that someone would become a breeding ground for billions more.
ooooIf fewer than ten of all those billions of ebola survived this journey, up to ninety-five percent of the human race could be wiped out in a matter of weeks.
oooo“We’re going to take you to the coast,” said Jason, reentering the room.
oooo“Oh, I can’t ask you to do that!” said Thompson, rising half out of her chair.
oooo“You didn’t,” said Jason. He began noisily collecting things from the cupboards in the kitchen while Alonya rummaged through a chest near the wall and took out some clothes which she proceeded to stuff in an oversized backpack.
oooo“Why don’t you take a nap until the fighting dies down,” said Alonya. “The kids could use the sleep, too.”
oooo“How many children are here?”
oooo“Usually seven,” said Alonya. “But most of them went home for the holidays before this round of fighting started.”
oooo“Now?”
oooo“Just two,” said Jason, returning from the kitchen with a canvas bag full of foodstuffs and other essentials. “Tik and Duha.”
oooo“And they manage to sleep through all this?”
ooooAlonya smiled. “This is a school for the deaf.”
oooo“So it is,” said Thompson, laughing at herself.
oooo“Besides, their rooms are at the back of the house.
oooo“Over here,” said Alonya, patting a cot she had been fixing up. “I’ll go get some more blankets.”
ooooThompson tumbled into bed and buried her head in the feather pillow. “I’m in heaven,” she sighed as the bombs dismantled the world outside.
ooooShe felt as though she’d been asleep for hours when she heard the voices, though it had probably only been minutes. Jason and Alonya were praying somewhere nearby. She didn’t open her eyes.

oooo“What did he say?” asked Alonya worriedly as Jason dodged across the square from the train station. The general fighting had ceased, but sniper fire crackled from the upper stories of the hulking buildings like fireworks.
oooo“Good news and bad news,” said Jason, pressing the group a little farther into the alley. “The track’s still clear and the train is running, but it’s not stopping in Podgorica.”
oooo“What’s the next stop?”
oooo“Only one between here and Bar – a fuel depot just this side of Lake Scutari – Skadarsko Jez.”
oooo“That’s twenty-five kilometers!”
ooooJason agreed. “Afraid so. And no guarantee they’ll be stopping there.”
oooo“How far is it to Bar?” Thompson asked.
oooo“About fifty kilometers,” said Jason.
oooo“Forty miles?”
oooo“Thirty-five, thirty-six. Thereabouts. But it’s farther than it sounds by anything other than train.”
oooo“Mountains?”
oooo“Yeah. I bet there’s forty-five kilometers of road between here and Skadarsko.”
oooo“At least,” Alonya agreed.
oooo“What kind of road?” said Thompson.
ooooJason pursed his lips. “Not too bad, usually – providing the rain has got rid of most of the ice.”
oooo“It could be clogged with refugees,” said Alonya.
ooooJason didn’t think so. “They’ve gone by train. Too much chance of getting shot at or robbed in the mountains.”
oooo“Great,” said Thompson. She began to descend to the pavement with the metal box clutched to her chest, but Jason caught her by the arm and pulled her to her feet.
oooo“However,” he said with a grin, “our chances aren’t much better here. Let’s go!”
oooo“I don’t feel right about this. What about the school?”
oooo“Here’s the school,” said Alonya, hugging the children. “We’ll come back by train.”
oooo“Lord willing,” Jason appended.
oooo“Lord willing,” said Alonya. “The trains are nearly empty on the return trip. Piecea cake.”
ooooBefore she had time to think, Thompson was once again being pulled down streets and through alleys in the pitch blackness until she had lost all sense of direction.
ooooNow and then a sniper took potshots at the sound of their footsteps echoing from the buildings, but they were long gone by the time the bullets hit, otherwise the city was deserted. The war was at rest.
oooo“Look at that!” Jason dodged into an alley at the end of the street and emerged holding Thompson’s suitcase aloft. “Spoils of war!”

oooo“Here we are!” said Alonya as a corrugated metal shack with a tarpaper roof became visible in the darkness. “I hope nobody’s got to it.”
oooo“Got to what?” said Thompson.
ooooJason flipped the padlock in the dark. “Nope. Still here!” He said the numbers out loud as he spun through the combination and the lock fell open.
oooo“Get in, quick! We’ve got to be gone before they notice the sound of the engine.”
ooooAs Thompson felt her way around the vehicle she recognized what it was. “A car?”
oooo“Not really,” said Alonya, with a soft laugh. “A Yugo. Don’t forget the battery, Jason.”
ooooJason, who was halfway in the car, backed out. “Oh, yeah.” He removed a battery from a pile of clutter at the back of the shed. By the time he’d returned with it, Alonya had opened the hood.
oooo“She drains the battery if it’s left in,” she explained. “Got it?”
oooo“Okay, try it.”
ooooA flick of the ignition produced a lively spark. “That sounds like it!” Alonya rasped loudly.
oooo“But it didn’t start?” said Thompson.
oooo“We don’t want to start it until we’re ready to go,” said Jason as he pushed the double doors open on their squeaky hinges. Alonya climbed in back with the children. Duha was a wide-eyed little girl, about five, with a gnomish face and eyes that seemed to see everything, but comprehend little. She wore a scarf over her head and was otherwise bundled in a big black Salvation Army overcoat from which sparkly red patent leather shoes protruded incongruously. “They came from our church in South Carolina,” said Alonya. “And you couldn’t pry them off her feet with a wrecking bar.” She held up some wool-lined boots. “But I have these, just in case.”
ooooTik was a dark-haired boy with coal black eyes and bushy black eyebrows who smiled whenever she looked at him and seemed perpetually on the verge of picking someone’s pocket. His thumb was seldom out of his mouth which, said Alonya, minimized the damage he could do by half. His thick blue ski-jacket fit him more closely than Duha’s, and the outfit was completed by a navy blue knit cap, red ski pants and white rubber boots.
ooooWhen they were secured in their seat belts, Jason pumped the gas several times and turned the key. The engine woke like a small bear from a long sleep, clearing its throat repeatedly, coughing – wheezing, then grinding to life. A moment later they were on the road.
oooo“Your headlights aren’t on,” said Thompson, alarmed as they sped through the darkened streets.
oooo“The parking lights are,” said Jason, leaning forward to see as much of the road as possible in the frail orange light. He reminded Thompson of the bus driver. What had become of him? Had be been killed? murdered like the rest. Or had he known about the ambush and escaped in time? Had he been a part of it? “We can risk the headlights once we’re out of town.”
ooooAt that moment they rounded a corner and nearly plowed into a barricade that had been hastily constructed of office furniture. In the dim orange glow of the parking lights they could see uniformed figures and the occasional glint of steel.
oooo“You’re deaf!” said Jason as one of the men approached the driver’s side of the car and tapped on the window. “Don’t react to any sound whatsoever. Pretend you’re asleep.”
ooooThompson closed her eyes, as directed, though her heart rattled against her ribcage like a wild animal.
ooooJason rolled down the window.
ooooThe uniformed man said something in a Slavic tongue.
oooo“We’re missionaries,” Jason replied in English.

oooo“American?” said the soldier, also in English.
ooooIt was a touchy question. “Yes.”
oooo“Show me your passports.”
ooooAlonya produced the passports, together with their visas and work permits. The soldier scanned them. “We do not recognize these. The government that authorized them is illegitimate.”
ooooHe tucked the passports in his pocket. “I will keep these until they are verified.”
ooooAlonya protested. “You can’t do that! We need those!”
oooo“Oh, but I can.”
oooo“By what authority?”
ooooThe muzzle of a submachine gun appeared over the lip of the window. “You are living in Podgorica?”
oooo“Yes,” Jason replied, patting Alonya’s knee reassuringly. “At the deaf school.”
oooo“The deaf school. And these?” said the soldier, shining his flashlight into the faces of Thompson and the children.
oooo“Clients.”
oooo“They are deaf?”
oooo“Yes.”
ooooThe soldier opened the rear door and pulled Duha into the street. She was sobbing quietly. He stood her on her feet, back-to him, and clapped his hands by her ears. She didn’t flinch. He then poked his head in the car and yelled in Tik’s ear. Tik didn’t respond beyond looking at him in bewilderment.
ooooHe looked at Thompson.
oooo“You!” he yelled.
ooooThompson didn’t move.
oooo“She’s Montenegran,” said Alonya.
The soldier repeated the word in Montenegran. She sniffed and turned toward him, apparently sound asleep, resting her head well back on the seat.
oooo“She is too old to be a student,” the soldier pronounced.
oooo“She’s a teacher,” said Jason.
oooo“Show me.”
oooo“Oh, come on,” Alonya objected. “Let her sleep! She’s had a hard time of it.”
oooo“Now!” the soldier commanded. “Wake her!”
ooooAlonya gently nudged Thompson’s knee until her eyes open slowly, rubbed them with the heels of her hand and looked around in confusion. “Duha,” Alonya signed, speaking aloud as she did so. “We have been stopped at a roadblock. This man wants proof you are . . . “
oooo“She can hear you!” said the soldier. “Just use sign language.”
ooooThompson watched the graceful motions intently, and responded with fluid gestures of her own. Tik joined the silent conversation.
oooo“She’s not saying anything,” he said.
oooo“We’re pretending,” Alonya signed. “Sign something to her – and when she answers, pretend she has said something.”
ooooTik did as directed, and Duha joined in as well, suddenly bursting into laughter at one of Thompson’s gestures.
oooo“She said ‘fart’!” Tik signed.
oooo“What did she say!” the soldier demanded.
oooo“She said something rude, because she is angry at being awaken,” Jason explained. “It’s late – and she’s very tired. We’re all tired.”
ooooThe soldier pushed Duha back into the car and shut the door. “Where are you going?”
oooo“To take these children to relatives in Cetinje – away from the fighting.”
ooooThe soldier slung the machine gun over his shoulder. “There is no place away from the fighting. Didn’t you know that? The world is on fire!” He threw their passports through the window and gestured to his comrades on the barricade to let them pass. “Drive around, to the left. Go!”

Chapter Twenty-Four: Satan and St. Peter

oooo“What time are we going to get there?” said Merchison, bending low to keep from hitting her head on the cockpit bulkhead of the network’s corporate jet.
ooooThe pilot looked at his watch. “Ordinarily it would be about seven and a half hours.”
oooo“Ordinarily?”
oooo“We’ve got to go around some weather.”
oooo“North or south?”
oooo“We haven’t decided yet. NOAA’s tracking it now. Depends how fast it’s moving. We’ll decide when we get a little closer.”
oooo“How much time is it going to add?”
oooo“No way of saying, really.”
oooo“An approximation,” Merchison snapped. “A rough idea.”
oooo“An hour and a half. Maybe as much as two hours. Either way we’re going to have to put down to refuel – at Shannon if we go north, the Azores if we go south.”
oooo“How long will that take?”
oooo“Half an hour in Shannon. An hour and a half in Ponta Delgada,” the copilot laughed. “Relax, Merch. We’re the ones you’re dragging halfway around the world the day before Christmas.”
oooo“You’re getting paid triple time.”
oooo“Triple time doesn’t buy family time,” said the pilot. “Either way, we’ll be in Rome for breakfast. Why don’t you get some sleep?”
oooo“I know I am,” said the copilot. He sat back in his seat and tipped his hat over his eyes.
oooo“You have a call, Ms. Merchison,” said the flight attendant, tapping her on the shoulder. “She asked for you, specifically, so I didn’t wake Mr. Quinn. Line two.”
ooooMerchison ducked down the aisle and dropped into her seat across from the sleeping Peter Quinn. She pressed the speaker phone. “Jill?”
oooo“Merch? Is it crowded up there?”
oooo“What do you mean?”
oooo“You’ve got company.”
oooo“Who?”
oooo“Air Force One, for starters.”
oooo“You’re kidding!”
oooo“It left just a while ago. Guess where it’s bound.”
oooo“Rome.”
oooo“Right the first time. And guess who’s aboard.”
oooo“The President?”
oooo“None other.”
oooo“Who else?”
oooo“I wish I was there to see your face.”
oooo“Come on, come on – who?”
oooo“Bridgit Kiley.”
oooo“Kiley?” mouthed Merchison, flabbergasted.
oooo“And that’s the manifest,” said Jill. “But you’ve got other company, too.”
oooo“Who?”
oooo“FOX.”
oooo“Crap!”
oooo“They found out about Air Force One – I don’t know if they know about Kiley.”
oooo“How?”
oooo“I don’t know. We probably buy information at the same stand. They’re flying blind, though, smelling blood. You’ve got a good hour on them.”
oooo“But I’ve got some kind of storm to contend with. Ernie says we’ll have to go around it, eventually.”
oooo“So? If you do, so will FOX.”
oooo“Not necessarily. They’re flying out of Atlanta – private?”
oooo“Yeah, corporate, as far as we know.”
oooo“That’s what I mean. If they take the southern route, they might not have to jag around it – or refuel.”
oooo“I got that other information.”
oooo“Thompson?”
oooo“Yeah.”
ooooQuinn woke up. “Who’s that?”
oooo“Shh!”
oooo“Quinn?” said Jill. “Is that you?”
oooo“Yeah.”
oooo“You sound like a male Lauren Bacall.”
oooo“You oughtta hear my Mae West. What’s up?”
oooo“I’ll fill him in on all that,” Merchison interrupted impatiently. “Go ahead – Thompson?”
oooo“I talked to the head of her department at the Fogarty Center – a Dr. Isobel Stalsberg – she says Thompson was working to isolate a filovirus.”
oooo“Ebola?”
oooo“A new strain. Not even named yet, as far as Stalsberg knows.”
oooo“And?”
oooo“When she went missing, she had two vials of the stuff in her possession.”
oooo“Went missing? I thought reports said she was kidnapped.”
oooo“That was an assumption, apparently. It still is. Nobody seems to know, for sure.”
oooo“Safe assumption, I’d say,” said Quinn.
oooo“How does the stuff travel?”
oooo“Pretty well, for a virus. Extremely well in this instance.”
oooo“How so?”
oooo“Thompson’s assistant, a Kenyan named Hailu Abraham, says she’d packed it in nitrogen containers in an insulated metal case, of some sort. She was planning to hand-carry them back to a place called the Institute, in Maryland – when she came home for Christmas.”
oooo“And now she’s gone.”
oooo“Gone,” said Jill.
oooo“It all ties together somehow,” Merchison pronounced finally. “The kidnapping – that’s what I’m calling it ’til I find out otherwise – the virus, the President and Wingfield, the news conference that never was.” She formed a bridge of her perfectly manicured fingers and let them overlap one another, “it all ties together, somehow.”
oooo“Not to mention Bridgit Kiley – and Rome,” Quinn parenthesized.
oooo“Get somebody on this Institute place, right away.”
oooo“I don’t know if there’s anyone available on this short notice.”
oooo“Use local, if you have to. Shouldn’t be hard to find someone who’d kill for a little exposure on network. And I want a full team on Dr. What’s-her-name at NIH. And the V.P. What’s she up to?”
oooo“Nolan’s on her. Last he knew she was home with the hubby and kiddies. No sign of anything. Nothing.”
oooo“The Speaker?”
oooo“Christmas in Minnesota. Now – are you ready for the final bombshell?”
oooo“Another?”
oooo“Wingfield’s business in Rome – was with the Pope.”
ooooMerchison nearly choked on a mouthful of tea. “Wingfield and the Pope?!”
oooo“What in hell, if you’ll excuse the expression, would Satan and St. Peter have to talk about?” Quinn puzzled.
oooo“And Kiley’s on her way to Rome with the President,” Merchison reflected flatly.
oooo“She is?” said Quinn.
ooooMerchison ignored him. “Anything else?”
oooo“Yeah,” said Jill. “I’m going to bed.”
oooo“Sleep Tomorrow,” Merchison barked. “You keep the phone lit up. Something’s got to give, and when it does, you let me know.” She pressed the button and hung up the phone.

oooo“Santissimo Padre did not sleep well,” said Sister Maria. A pall of uneasiness rose with the cold gray dawn and settled on the papal apartments. It was Sister Maria’s job to knock on the Pope’s bedroom door at 5:30 every morning and wake him, but this morning she found him already awake – “Rather, still awake,” she explained as she poured his tea. “He hadn’t been to bed.”
oooo“Not to bed!” said one of the other Sisters.
oooo“Not at all?” said another.
ooooSister Maria shook her head as much as her habit would allow. “I knocked – and there was no response. I knocked again,” she knocked on the kitchen door in illustration, “like this – still nothing.”
oooo“He’s all right?!” said the first Sister in rising alarm.
oooo“This is what I think,” said Sister Maria. “I think – should I go and wake the Monsignor? Should I go in to the Pope’s bedroom myself?”
oooo“Surely you didn’t!”
oooo“I did!” Maria announced. “I was afraid he might be dying!”
oooo“And?”
oooo“He was praying.”
oooo“Praying?”
oooo“Yes. On his knees, still in his robes – beside his bed. Lost to the world in prayer. ‘Your Holiness,’ I say so softly. He doesn’t look up. I hear his lips move – so I close the door and leave him.”
oooo“You left him?”
oooo“I did. What could I do? he was praying. Just him and God Almighty.”
oooo“What about breakfast?”
oooo“We will put it on a tray. Wake the Monsignor – ask him to take His Holiness some breakfast,” said Sister Maria.

ooooThe five nuns whose job it is to attend the Pope accompanied Heinrich to the bedroom door and held their collective breath as he knocked.
oooo“Come,” said the Pope.
ooooThe Sisters exhaled, patted one another on the back and, with parting peeks over the Monsignor’s shoulder as he entered the bedroom, went about their business.
ooooThe Pope was standing at the window, leaning on his favorite cane, looking out over the city. As reported, he was still in his vestments from the previous day. “Your Holiness,” said Heinrich, hesitantly. “Shouldn’t you be in bed?”
oooo“Lolek,” said the Pope softly, without turning. “Just Lolek. You remember how I would fall, Heinrich, when we were learning to ski?”
oooo“I remember,” said Heinrich, smiling at the bittersweet memory. Somehow he had a hard time dressing the Pope in the rags of youth. “You were – enthusiastic.”
ooooThe Pope laughed, but the laughter died away, absorbed by other thoughts.
oooo“St. Francis was gardening when someone asked him what he would do if he found out the world was going to end that day. He said, ‘I’d finish my garden.’”
ooooHeinrich wasn’t sure what that meant, but he knew it was a prelude to something.
ooooSlowly the Pope turned and faced him. “What would you do, Heinrich? What would you do if you discovered this was to be your last day on earth?”
oooo“I’d pray,” said Heinrich without hesitation.
ooooThe Pope nodded. “Exactly so,” he said.
He turned back to the window. “I was thinking of Clement the Seventh.”
oooo“The early Sixteenth Century,” said Heinrich, dipping into his knowledge of church history. “A difficult time to be Pope.”
oooo“Yes,” said the Pope. “A difficult time. You remember – when the Vatican was under siege – Charles the Fifth, was it?”
oooo“The Emperor Charles, yes. But it was Constable de Bourbon who looted the city.”
oooo“So it was,” said the Pope. “Clement had fled to Sant’ Angelo – through the Passetto.”
oooo“The Corridor, yes. As had Alexander the Sixth.”
ooooThe Pope’s thoughts were elsewhere. “No – I was thinking of the sack of Rome – under Clement. It went on for months, did it not?”
oooo“The worst of it lasted about a week,” said Heinrich. “But yes, off and on for a number of months.”
oooo“Horrible things happened.”
oooo“Yes. The Tiber was choked with corpses.”
oooo“Mm – it often has been. Popes among them.” The Pope was staring out the window, but Heinrich perceived that his eyes were fixed on something no one else could see. “We have seen horrible things, as well.”
oooo“We have.”
oooo“And still I wonder,” said the Pope, his voice growing softer as he spoke, “how it is that men can do such things to one another.”
oooo“And not only men,” said Heinrich. “Women harbor the same capacity. Don’t forget Morozia and Theodora – Lucrezia Borgia – the Viking Freida . . . “
ooooThe Pope turned half way and held up his hand. “Have you become a convert to feminism, Heinrich?” he said with a smile. “I understand that women are the men of the new millennium. Both sexes share the nature of disobedience in equal measure. I was speaking of the race of man.”
ooooRelying heavily on his cane, he walked to his bed. “I have answered my own question.
oooo“There is no refuge from the kind of destruction of which mankind is capable today. No Sant’ Angelo for the Pope – or for anyone.”
ooooHeinrich was becoming frustrated. “I can’t read your thoughts, Lolek. What are you talking about? Do you not feel well? You should be in bed.”
ooooThe Pope looked at the Monsignor for the first time with clear eyes. “You are right. You cannot read my thoughts. “It’s not my death I’m concerned with. It is the death of us all.”
oooo“You’re the Pope,” said Heinrich, not comprehending. “If you don’t concern yourself with such things, who will?”
ooooThe Pope lowered himself feebly to the edge of the bed.
oooo“You need rest Your Holiness. You’ve taken on too much. Do as I’ve begged you – cancel the Christmas Eve Mass.”
oooo“It’s too late.”
ooooIf the Pope said it was too late, it was too late.
oooo“You said that if this was your last day on earth, you would pray?”
oooo“I would.”
oooo“Then pray,” said the Pope. “Tell everyone to pray.” Suddenly he stood up, his eyes bright and searching. “Wait! Wait!” He said. “It wasn’t St. Peter – it was Constantine!”
oooo“I beg your pardon?”
oooo“The angels were trying to tell me, in my dream, to celebrate the mass at Constantine’s chapel – the Lateran!”
oooo“Move the mass to the Lateran!” said Heinrich, stunned. “Why? There’s not enough room – San Giovanni only holds . . . “
oooo“Let them fill the Piazzas – let them fill the streets and the alleys, let them fill the Sancta Sanctorum itself!”
oooo“But – why are you doing this at the last minute? Christmas Eve is tonight!?”
ooooIt was as if the Pope had been infused with a new soul. His mind raced as he paced the cold stones of his floor, ignoring the pain in his hip, thinking aloud, orchestrating the air with his cane as he spoke, examining the notion from every angle. “No time for questions,” he said “There’s too much to do! Call Senator Wingfield. I must speak to him.”
oooo“I don’t know where he is. Probably on the way back to the States.”
oooo“Is he?” The Pope breathed a note of irony. “I mustn’t be surprised. Then – call the American President.” He fixed the Monsignor with a determined eye. “It is most important!”

oooo“What did you do this afternoon?” said Kiley. She’d been staring at the President for some time. He was sitting back with his head on a pillow and his eyes closed, but he wasn’t asleep.
oooo“Is this an interview?” he asked, without moving.
oooo“No. Just conversation.”
oooo“I spent time with my wife and kids.”
oooo“Doing what?” said Kiley. She’d been in the press cabin before, but it had never been empty like this. Dark and quiet.
ooooThe President didn’t respond for a while. “Talking,” he said finally. “I played Chutes and Ladders with Jeremy. Put presents under the tree. Drank eggnog.”
oooo“Made love?”
ooooThe President opened one eye. “I think you’ve just crossed that fine line between journalism and proctology. The only thing more infuriating than hearing questions like that asked, is hearing them answered.” He closed his eyes and draped his arms over his head.
oooo“This isn’t for the record.”
oooo“Isn’t it? You’re never going to share the intimate details of this trip? That would be quite a surprise. I imagine you’re going to be a pretty hot commodity once all this is over and done. You’ll be able to write your own ticket. All because you hate me.
oooo“Besides, whether it’s for the record or not, the question is impertinent and offensive. I’m not Clinton.”
oooo“I don’t hate you,” Kiley protested mildly. “I hate what you stand for.”
oooo“What I stand for, is what I believe. What I believe is what I am. What you see is the personification, I hope, of those beliefs. Ergo,” he said with a smile, but without opening his eyes, “if you don’t hate me, either I’ve failed to live up to my beliefs – or my beliefs aren’t so bad after all. Did you get that?”
oooo“I’m not writing anything!” Kiley objected.
oooo“I know, you’re recording it.”
oooo“I told you I was going to.”
oooo“Even things that are off the record?”
ooooShe put her hand in her breast pocket and shut off the tape recorder.
oooo“I’d have made a lousy reporter,” said the President.
oooo“Why do you say that?”
oooo“Because I’d never have done what you did.”
oooo“I wasn’t going to print it!”
oooo“Off the record is off the record, in my book. That means off the recorder, as well.” He opened his tired eyes and stared at her. “As much as you hate my values – they’d never let me stoop so low that I’d break my word.”
oooo“I’d have made a lousy President.”
oooo“You’d never have destroyed Rome, you mean?”
oooo“That’s right.”
oooo“What would you have done instead?” said the President, leaning forward eagerly. “If you’ve got an answer, let me here it!”
ooooShe squirmed under his intensity. “I don’t know – there’s got to be another way. There’s got to.”
ooooHe leaned back again and closed his eyes. “If you come up with it, I’ll do it – and happily give you the credit.”
ooooOnce again he closed his eyes. He’d expected his last afternoon with his family to be a bittersweet, sentimental affair, but the image of his wife and their children by his side in front of a roaring fire as they leafed through photo albums, was bitterly dashed by reality. Jeep insisted on knowing what was so important he had to leave his family on Christmas. They fought. Jeremy reminded him that he’d be missing the Christmas pageant – in which he was a wise man. And Emily cried and told him to stop being President.
ooooHe’d spent his last hour at home alone in his study, drinking eggnog, and trying to write a note that would make sense of the unexplainable.
ooooHe left it under the Christmas tree, marked ‘Don’t open until Christmas.’
ooooThe phone rang. He picked it up. “Yes?” Pause. “The Pope?” He sat up, straightened his tie and raised a wondering eyebrow at Kiley. “Of course. Put him through.”

oooo“Senator Wingfield!”
ooooMichael Cumio instantly positioned himself between Wingfield and the overcoated individual lumbering toward them across the piazza in front of the Hassler and the Trinia dei Monti.
oooo“I’m afraid the Senator has to get to the airport,” said Cumio, holding up a cautioning arm. Wingfield, acutely aware that the stranger was groping for something among the folds of his coat, hastened toward the Spanish Steps.
oooo“Senator!” said Stephson. He produced his ID card and flashed it at Cumio. “Chief Inspector Stephson, Scotland Yard. I must speak to Senator Wingfield.”
oooo“He’s from Scotland Yard!” Cumio yelled.
oooo“Who cares?” Wingfield called over his shoulder. “Deal with it.”
oooo“Sorry about that,” said Cumio, shrugging. “The Senator’s in a hurry to get to catch a plane.”
ooooStephson, not accustomed to being ignored, snapped. “You don’t ‘catch’ Air Force Two. It waits for you.” He was wishing desperately that he had some sort of jurisdiction. “It’s very important that I speak to him,” he said.
oooo“He’s not usually like that – he’s been up all night.”
oooo“He’s not alone.”
oooo“No, I don’t suppose so – I wasn’t trying to make excuses.” Cumio brushed the hair out of his eyes. Excuses were exactly what he was making, and he was getting tired of it. “Maybe I can help.”
ooooStephson produced a piece of paper. “Do you know anything about this?”
ooooAs Cumio read the letter his expression became more and more puzzled. “Where did you get this?”
oooo“Isn’t that the Senator’s signature?”
ooooIt was.
oooo“It was sent to my office – in London,” said Stephson. He took the letter back, folded it and returned it to his pocket. “I need to know where he got this information.”
ooooCumio was nearly speechless. “I swear, Inspector – I don’t know anything about it.” He exhaled loudly in frustration. “Which isn’t saying a whole lot – I seem to be pretty much in the dark about a lot of things – I don’t even know why we’re in Rome.”
oooo“Wingfield met with the Pope, didn’t he?”
oooo“Word gets around.”
ooooStephson let the statement lie.
oooo“Yes – he saw the Pope – but I still don’t know what about. He had a letter for him.”
oooo“Like this?” Stephson tapped his coat front.
oooo“I don’t think so – it was from . . . ” Cumio suddenly thought better of what he was about to say. “It wasn’t that.”
oooo“From whom?”
oooo“That’s confidential.”
oooo“You were about to say.”
oooo“But I didn’t.”
oooo“The President?”
oooo“Don’t bother, Inspector.”
oooo“Whatever it was, it must have been awfully important, for the President to send Wingfield all the way to Rome – on his own plane – to see the Pope.
oooo“Perhaps if we pooled what we know, we could begin to make sense of some of this.”
oooo“It’s not my job to make sense of it,” said Cumio, feeling uncomfortable even as he spoke the words. “The Senator’s privy to information I don’t have – so he’s bound to make decisions I don’t understand.” He looked after the Senator who was already halfway down the steps. “I haven’t understood much, lately. I’ve got to go.”
ooooStephson stayed him by the shoulder. “Be that as it may, I have to speak to him.”
oooo“You heard him. He’s not in a good mood.”
oooo“Blast his mood! I’ll involve the Polizia and Interpol, if I have to!”
ooooCumio laughed bitterly. “I’ll let you in on a little secret, Chief Inspector. The Senator is too powerful to care.”
oooo“Listen, Mr . . . ?”
oooo“Cumio.”
oooo“Mr. Cumio,” said Stephson, suddenly more conciliatory, “help me get ’round him. I must know how he came by this information – British security . . . “
oooo“Hey! Wait a second . . . “
oooo“What is it?”
oooo“I remember now! Someone slipped the Senator a note at the Savoy Grill the other night. A waiter.”
ooooStephson, playing a hunch, withdrew two photographs from his pocket, one of Dumas and the other of Fuller. “Did you see either of these men there?”
oooo“Sure, that one,” said Cumio, pointing at Dumas’ picture. “There was a cute redhead seated at his table. We were eye dancing.”
oooo“Eye dancing?”
oooo“You know – checking each other out.”
oooo“I see.”
oooo“Come to think of it – their waiter’s the one who brought the note. That must be where it came from. Who is he?”
oooo“Lord Anthony Dumas.”
oooo“Did the information check out?”
oooo“You heard about the Westminster bombings?”
oooo“Couldn’t help it.”
oooo“Yes – it checked out. To a point, at least.”
oooo“Then it looks like he’s the one you should be talking to.” He tapped Dumas’ photo.
oooo“I intend to, Mr. Cumio. He’s in Rome, as well, or on his way here.”
oooo“Really?” said Cumio, starting down the steps. “What a coincidence.”
oooo“Isn’t it, though?” said Stephson to himself. He watched as Cumio joined Wingfield at the bottom of the steps where, together, they dissolved into the crowd on the Piazza di Spagna. He checked his watch. “Nearly train time.”

oooo“Call a cab,” said Wingfield, stopping in front of an antique shop on the Via del Babuino.
oooo“What about the Inspector – did you write that note?”
oooo“I was given a note – by Lord Dumas, as you said – it was long and rambling – and, frankly, I didn’t have time to look into it – but there seemed to be some items that might be of interest to Scotland Yard, those that applied to the bombing – so I copied them down and passed them along. All right? Nut case. I get ‘em all the time. Is the Inquisition over?”
oooo“He said they checked out.”
ooooWingfield studied Cumio for a second. “Did they? Too bad.”
oooo“Why too bad? I don’t understand.”
ooooWingfield turned the question aside and, speaking to nothing in particular, said. “By this time tomorrow, people will have forgotten the Middle East exists. The cab, please? I’m just going to nip in here for a moment.”
ooooMichael gave the storefront a glance. “What do you need in there?”
oooo“A souvenir,” said Wingfield softly. “I want to have something to remember Rome by.”

oooo“He has just gone,” said the desk clerk at the Hassler, a well-fed, graying Sicilian.
oooo“Gone? What do you mean ‘gone’?” said Calvin, mimicking the clerk’s thick accent. “Gone where?” said Calvin.
oooo“He did not tell this information for me.”
oooo“He did not tell this information for you, didn’t he? Well, when is he coming back?”
oooo“He makes not to return. He checks out.”
oooo“Out?” said Calvin, grabbing the guest register and turning it toward him. “That’s impossible. He just got here!”
oooo“Si. But – he goes! There! You see!”
ooooCalvin slammed the register shut. “I was going to give him one last chance,” he said under his breath. “How long ago did he leave?”
oooo“Five minute,” said the clerk, beaming helpfully and holding up five fingers. “Cinque.”
ooooCalvin ran out the door and across the piazza to the top of the Spanish Steps where he was drawn up short at the sight of Michael Cumio, halfway down the steps, talking with a frumpy man he didn’t recognize.
oooo“Well, well. What have we here?” He leaned against a lamppost and watched.
ooooThe men talked animatedly for a minute or two, then Cumio descended the steps. Calvin followed at a safe distance, mincing past the frumpy gentleman who stood as still and colorless as an Englishman and was talking to himself. Calvin didn’t stop to listen. Cumio had joined Wingfield and they proceeded down one of the crowded streets together, Cumio did most of the talking, and Wingfield seemed to be half-listening in that irritating way of his.
ooooEventually they came to a stop outside a store and Calvin managed to dodge into a doorway just in time to avoid being spotted by Wingfield’s nervous eyes. He wasn’t close enough to hear what they were saying, but seconds later Cumio, clearly irritated, strode past him in the direction of the Piazza de Spagna.
ooooCalvin peeked out of the doorway, but there was no sign of Wingfield. Tossing a backward glance at Cumio – who had arrived in the square and was trying to hail a cab – he jogged toward the store in which Wingfield had shown an interest. He read the sign aloud. “‘W Appolini, Antiquario’.”
ooooThe window was tastefully decorated with assorted treasures; ornate silverware, old paintings and some delicate furniture. Calvin pressed his nose against the glass and cupped his eyes against the glare of his own reflection. Wingfield was talking with one of the salesclerks about an object he held in his hand. Apparently they were bargaining. Several times Wingfield feigned to put it back in the display, but each time the clerk took it out again and handed it back to him, and negotiations resumed.
oooo“I think he’s buying you a present, Calvin,” said Calvin, the sound of his voice was raspy and close in his cupped hands and his face was cold against the window. A thrill of delight ran through him and he began to wave frantically, but Wingfield didn’t notice. Finally, unable to contain his excitement and longer, he burst into the shop, pranced up to Wingfield and put his hands on his shoulders. “Peek-a-boo!”
ooooWingfield, by far the taller of the two, spun on his heels. “What are you doing here?!”
oooo“Are you buying me a present?” said Calvin who, failing to detect the anger in Wingfield’s eyes, laughed as he tried to get at the trinket. “Let me see! Let Calvin see!”
ooooWingfield replaced the music box among others on the shelf and, taking Calvin by the hand, dragged him out of the shop and into an adjacent alleyway.
oooo“What are you doing here?”
oooo“I found you! I found you!” Calvin sang, clapping his hands. “I should be a detective, shouldn’t I? Calvin, PI.”
ooooWingfield grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him until he stopped laughing. “I told you to stay in London!”
oooo“I didn’t want to stay in London,” Calvin pouted. “I wanted to talk to you. I’ve wanted to talk to you for days – you didn’t even come see me in London! I went to the Savoy to have dinner with you and Scott – and they threw me out! Right out into the street – like garbage.” He sniffed back a tear. “Can’t we go somewhere? I have something important to tell you.”
oooo“Not now, Calvin. It can wait until we get back to London.”
oooo“No! Now!” said Calvin, stamping his foot. “Now!”
ooooWingfield glanced at his watch. “I don’t have time for this.”
oooo“Why? Where are you in such a hurry to get to?”
oooo“My hotel,” Wingfield improvised. “I’ve got to get back to the hotel and change for an important meeting.”
ooooCalvin pulled away from Wingfield’s grasp. “No you don’t. You checked out of your hotel.”
oooo“Ah – there you are!” said Cumio. His eyebrows creased in confusion as he looked from Wingfield to Calvin. “The cab’s here. He says if we want to get to the airport, we’d better go now – pilgrims are already starting to block the roads.”
oooo“Airport!” said Calvin indignantly. “Why are you going to the airport?”
oooo“Michael – go get in the cab,” Wingfield ordered. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”
oooo“Is he your new boyfriend?” Calvin hissed.
oooo“Am I what?”
oooo“Calvin! Shut up. Go on, Michael. Go!”
oooo“Yeah,” said Cumio hesitantly. “Sure – are you going to be okay?”
oooo“Go on! I’m all right.”
oooo“Okay,” said Cumio. He went to the cab and leaned against it, casting frequent glances at his watch as he waited.
oooo“I thought you said he was straight,” said Calvin, when Cumio was out of sight. Wingfield grabbed him by the shoulders and threw him against the wall.
oooo“Listen, Calvin – what’s the one thing I told you? What’s the one thing I told you never, never to do?”
oooo“I don’t remember!” cried Calvin. “You’re hurting me!”
oooo“I told you not to speak to me in public. Ever!”
oooo“I won’t! I didn’t mean to! I won’t!” Calvin cried.
oooo“No, you won’t! Not again. You get back to London – and don’t so much as breath until I call you. Do you understand?” With that, he threw Calvin among the trash cans where he fell to the ground.
oooo“You can’t do that!” said Calvin.
oooo“Watch me.” As he turned to leave, a rotten orange hit him in the back. He stopped, picked it up and walked calmly to where Calvin was lying. “You dropped something,” he said, smashing the fruit into Calvin’s face. Once again he turned to leave.
oooo“I won’t be your friend anymore,” Calvin sobbed, rubbing the juice from his face. “I’ll tell,” he whimpered.
oooo“I beg your pardon?” said Wingfield, stopping, without turning.
oooo“I’ll tell – everything. Everybody will know. All the newspapers and magazines and TV. I’ll tell them all – everything. I will.”
ooooWingfield turned and Calvin could see by the hate in his eyes that there was no hope. “Nobody cares, Calvin. You think anyone’s going to take your word over mine? Nobody cares if I’m not straight – hell, it’ll do wonders for my standing with GLAD. I’ll be Ellen’s poster child, lucky if they don’t try to make me President!”
ooooCalvin struggled to his feet, his tears flowing freely. “I won’t tell you my secret!” he said, leaning into the words.
ooooWingfield put on his gloves. “You keep your secret, Calvin. You’ve just become a luxury I can’t afford. Don’t ever let me see your face again. Never. You understand? Parasite!”

Chapter Twenty-Five: Deus ex machina

oooo“Janine!” Dumas whispered sharply. He leaned a little further into the compartment. “Janine!” The only other occupants, an Italian couple of advanced years who had boarded the train in Ventimiglia with armloads of fruits and vegetables, stirred and looked at him through sleepy eyes.
oooo“Eh?” said the old man.
ooooDumas pointed at Janine. “Mi scusi,” he said. “I’m trying to wake her.” He closed and opened his eyes a couple of times, supplementing his shaky Italian with pantomime.
ooooThe woman reached out and poked Janine’s knee and, when she opened her eyes, directed her attention to Dumas.
oooo“Thank you,” said Dumas, with a slight bow. “Grazie.”
ooooThe woman mumbled something and snuggled down on her husband’s shoulder. He was already asleep.
oooo“Dumas?” said Janine, rubbing her eyes. “What time is it?”
oooo“Nearly five.”
ooooShe lifted the curtain and looked out the window. “It’s still dark.”
oooo“Yes. I expect it will be for a while.”
oooo“We’d have been there by now if there’d been room on that bullet train in Genoa.”
oooo“The Pendolino. Yes. However, we’re nearly there. About forty minutes, I gather from the conductor. Though, given my Italian, he might have said forty days and forty nights.” He smiled and she reciprocated sleepily. “I just wanted to double-check – you have your passport and the money I gave you?”
ooooShe rummaged through her belongings and produced both items.
oooo“Good. And you remember the plan?”
oooo“What’s to forget? I scream, he runs.”
oooo“Very good. I’ll see you there, then.”
oooo“What are you going to do in the meantime?”
oooo“I haven’t slept a wink all night. I’ll check into the hotel, have a wash up and a nice long nap.”
oooo“Ooh, that sounds delicious! A bath!”
oooo“It wouldn’t be amiss, I’m sure.”
oooo“Did Ms Miller ever turn up?”
oooo“If so, she’s keeping well hidden. I haven’t seen her.”
oooo“What about Mohammed?”
oooo“There are a group of teenagers in his compartment – American or Canadian, I believe – and they’ve been awake all night as well, playing guitars and singing.”
oooo“Poor Mohammed.”
oooo“More the other way ’round, I should think,” Dumas smiled. “Mohammed was doing most of the singing.”
ooooJanine laughed and somewhere in the forgotten climes of his heart a chorus responded.
oooo“Needless to say, I couldn’t do more than wink and nod without giving away the fact that we’re more than casual acquaintances. But I’m sure he’s got everything down.”
oooo“Do you know where he’ll be staying?”
oooo“No. I’m not sure he does. His cousin’s going to meet him at the station and they’ll be looking for Abu Musab Al-Suri. He thinks it best not to drag me along – for fear my presence would close people’s mouths.”
oooo“How will he get in touch with you if they find him?”
oooo“He’ll leave a message at my hotel.”
oooo“And if they don’t turn him up?”
oooo“That’s when we fall back on the second option.”
oooo“The last option,” she said softly.
oooo“Yes.”
ooooJanine fell into a brown study.
oooo“What are you thinking?”
oooo“This is it. Tonight. It all seems so unreal. Doesn’t it to you? I mean – doesn’t it seem like we’re just being swept along, somehow? I don’t even feel like I’m me – not really here on this train, not going to Rome. Just hours ago, really, I was in Waterloo Station, ready to do . . . just about anything for my next meal. And now . . .
oooo“I read about out-of-body experiences once – this must be what it’s like. Like you’re not really a part of anything – you’ve got no control, you just float along. Not even floating, though. Bouncing, more like. Like rafting down a wild river. Have you seen them do that on telly? That’s what it’s like. And there’s rocks everywhere.”
ooooShe raised her eyes. “There are going to be thousands and thousands of people at St. Peter’s tonight, you know. What will happen if we miss the ones we’re looking for? Just think all the things that could go wrong – and what will come of us if they do. All of us.”
ooooThe chatter of the rails became suddenly louder and subsided as a door opened and closed at the end of the train. Dumas turned reflexively to see who had come in. A conductor rounded the corner.
oooo“It’s just the conductor,” said Dumas. “If you’re sure you have everything you need, I’ll be getting back to . . . “
oooo“Russell Church?” said the conductor from the end of the corridor. Dumas looked up again in surprise.
ooooThe conductor was standing with his feet apart, his thumbs draped casually from the watch pockets of his vest. He had short-cropped silver hair, pale blue eyes and an accent Dumas couldn’t make out. Definitely not Italian.
oooo“Yes?”
oooo“Or should I say, Lord Dumas?”
ooooDumas, who had been leaning with arms outstretched on either side of the compartment door, pushed himself back and stood up. “I beg your pardon?”
ooooAs if from nowhere a gun appeared in the conductor’s hand and it was fixed on Dumas, wavering only slightly to counteract the rocking of the train. “If you don’t tell me, I shall probably kill you.”
oooo“Yes – yes – ” Dumas stammered. “I’m Lord Dumas – how did . . . ?”
oooo“Thank you.” The words had just left his lips and he was squeezing the trigger when the atmosphere was concussed by the thunderous rush of a passing train and, for a fraction of a second, he looked away. Simultaneously the gun went off. When he looked back, Dumas was lying on the floor and a chorus of screams and moans was coming from the compartment. He quietly returned the pistol to his shoulder holster and left the way he’d come.
ooooJanine threw herself to her knees at Dumas’ side, loosened his tie and unbuttoned his shirt collar while searching him for the wound. There was none.
oooo“Where is he?” he said faintly.
oooo“Gone – ” she said, glancing frantically up and down the corridor. “He’s gone – who was it, the conductor? Where were you hit?”
oooo“Contrary to the popular notion, God apparently does play dice. He missed.”
oooo“You faked it? I would have bet anything you were hit.”
He hadn’t the heart to tell her he’d fainted. “Go get the conductor – the bald one with the walrus mustache who took our tickets. Tell him I’ve been shot – it’s important we let our friend think the job’s done – else he may try again.”
oooo“How?”
oooo“I’ve got an idea. You go find the conductor. Put on a good show – lots of tears.”
oooo“Not to worry. Who was it? Did you see him?”
oooo“I haven’t the foggiest – never saw the chap in my life! Now, run along.”
ooooHe looked at the old couple who clung to one another, their eyes wide in awe as Dumas rose from the dead.
ooooHe struggled to his feet. “A game,” he said with a feeble laugh. “Just a game.” He brushed himself off.

ooooThe train arrived at San Pietro station at ten after six, a snub-nosed orange and white Croce Verde ambulance was waiting, it’s red lights flashing impotent alarm off the walls, the girders, and the knot of spectators that had gathered to watch as the stretcher bearing the English gentleman was rolled off the train.
ooooJudging from the size of the crowd, word had spread quickly. Any speculation that he might have survived the unexplained attack was silenced when the stretcher was lowered to the platform: a shroud covered it from head to foot. A silver-haired conductor stood at attention nearby, watching closely and listening carefully. The redhead was in attendance, he had no business with her. Nor the Arab, wherever he was.
ooooA noisy group of Canadians debarked at the far end of the train, oblivious to a tragedy that didn’t concern them.
ooooThere must be no doubt.
ooooThe conductor chose his target, an elderly nun who was just descending the stairs. Under cover of the black coat that was draped over his arm, he screwed a silencer into the barrel of his pistol and, selecting the moment carefully, took aim and squeezed off a single fatal shot.
ooooThe old woman issued a brief cry, slumped and fell headlong down the last flight of steps. The effect was immediate. A number of people ran to her aid, and when one of them announced she’d been shot, the rest either clustered around or fled in terror. In the pandemonium, the paramedics abandoned Janine who, alone, remained with the gurney.
ooooThe conductor stepped quietly to the stretcher’s side and, removing the gun from the folds of his coat, pressed the silencer firmly down on the shroud in the vicinity of the forehead. At that moment Janine, who’s attention had been momentarily diverted by the death of the nun, turned and locked eyes with the conductor, who was smiling a cold, malevolent smile.
ooooImmediately she perceived the situation. “No!” she screamed, her alarm going unnoticed amidst the general uproar. Too late. The conductor fired two quick shots into the shroud. He watched for a second as rich red fluid oozed through the sheets, winked at Janine who gaped at him in shock, tucked the gun under his coat and melted into the crowd.

oooo“I’m sorry, sir, the Foreign Secretary’s in a meeting and can’t be disturbed. If I may have your name and number.” Pause. “Yes? Fait accomplis?” The receptionist wrote the words down phonetically. “Very well.” Pause. “Yes. From Walter. Just Walter?” She listened to the response. “Yes, I’ve got it. Is that all?”
ooooThe line went dead. “Hmph. Excuse me, I’m sure, Wally,” said the receptionist as she transferred the cryptic note to longhand and put it in Sir Richard’s personal tray.
ooooAt that moment the door opened and a young man emerged, flushed and nervous, from Scott’s office. The Foreign Secretary appeared in the door and watched after him as he left, glancing neither to the right nor the left. “The phone rang, Pamela?”
oooo“Yes, sir.” She handed him the note. “I hope you make more sense of it that I can. Manners these days, honestly!”
oooo“Abominable,” said Scott as he read the note, his expression revealing nothing, and tucked it in his pocket. “Most satisfactory.” He said. “When wanting a bit of work done ’round the house, Pamela – always go with a familiar firm, and damn the cost. Is that all?”
oooo“That’s all.”
oooo“Now we shall sit back and await events.” He took his coat from the closet and held it out. Pamela got up from the desk and helped him on with it. “Cancel all my meetings. I’ll be at my club should Jack Harrison call – or this gentleman.” He tapped the pocket where he had deposited the slip of paper.
oooo“But you have an appointment at nine with that environmental group.” She rifled through her appointment book, “Earth Rights? It’s been planned for weeks.”
oooo“So I did,” said Scott, putting on his hat and hooking an umbrella on his arm. “Good-day.”

oooo“Your performance in this matter has been disgraceful, Sergeant. You say you thought the woman hysterical. Is it your job to make that determination? Are you a psychiatrist?”
ooooIt was a rhetorical question. The Sergeant had tried to respond the first two or three times it was asked, each time by a greater authority. Now he thought it best to keep quiet and let the Chief Inspector’s wrath run its course.
oooo“You say you believed she was exaggerating? You know this woman, do you, that you can make this judgment? You say it is because she says the sausage was used as a weapon that you disbelieved her? Why? Simply because it sounds silly? Can a person be murdered with a pillow, Sergeant? Can they?”
oooo“Yes, Chief Inspector,” the Sergeant replied with downcast eyes.
oooo“Then why is it not possible someone could be rendered unconscious by a sausage? I have seen sausages that would stun an elephant. Is it likely someone would make up such a thing? You say you did not check out her story at once, because someone asked you for directions. But tell me, Sergeant, when at last you found the time in your busy schedule, what did you find?” Pause. “Sergeant?”
oooo“The body of a railroad worker.”
oooo“The body of a railroad worker. Exactly so. And – what else did you find?”
oooo“Nothing.”
oooo“Nothing. That is correct. No murderer. Why? Because he’d only been hit on the head with a sausage. He had all the time in the world to come to his senses. Mon Dieu! He had time to eat the sausage – while you were busy disbelieving an eyewitness and showing tourists to the W.C.! That is why!
oooo“And he is armed?”
oooo“According to the woman.”
oooo“Oh – and she has given us reason to doubt what she says?”
oooo“No, sir.”
oooo“And where is your description?”
oooo“As I said,” the Sergeant mumbled, “she was about five feet four inches tall, with blond – “
oooo“Not the witness, you imbecile!” snapped the Chief Inspector. “The murderer.”
ooooThe Sergeant hung his head. “No, sir. No description.”
oooo“Yet, she even gave you his name, did she not?”
oooo“Yes, sir.”
oooo“But?”
oooo“I didn’t write it down.”
ooooThe Inspector, who had been in the Sergeant’s face, sat on the edge of his desk. “What would you do to an officer who had so grossly failed in his duties, Sergeant?”
ooooThe Sergeant folded his hands behind his back and stood at attention. “I would dismiss him from the force, sir.”
ooooThe Chief Inspector pressed his hands together. “As Nathan said to King David, ‘You are the man.’”
oooo“Sir?”
oooo“You have judged yourself.”

ooooAs Jason had anticipated, the road to Lake Scutari was relatively free of traffic, owing more to the lateness of the hour and the frigid rain, than lack of refugees, Thompson guessed, considering the odd-job clusters of cardboard huts and tents at the sides of the road from which anemic wraiths of smoke wound straight up in the still air.
ooooSince the Yugo didn’t have a functioning heater or defroster, Jason had to stop periodically to remove the slush that caked on the windshield wipers. If not for these unscheduled lay-bys, Thompson would have been sick a number of times as a back seat passenger on a road that twisted through precipitous mountain passes on its way to the lake. The children had grown sullen, too, and didn’t look well.
ooooAround every other turn the single functioning headlight shot off the road altogether, searching the vast darkness of empty space, illuminating intermittent curtains of rain or snow that tumbled to the valleys, thousands of feet below.
ooooHalf asleep, it took a while for Thompson to realize that Jason was turning the engine off, whenever possible, and coasting downhill.
oooo“Are you afraid someone will hear us?” she said softly.
ooooAlonya had covered herself with a thick blanket, buried her head in a pillow against the door, and was fast asleep.
oooo“No,” said Jason calmly. “We’re almost out of gas – the more we can coast, the better our chances of making it to the Lake.”
oooo“There’s a gas station there?”
ooooJason laughed. “A gas station? No – not at Scutari. Just coal for the train.”
oooo“Then how will you get back to Podgorica?”
ooooHe shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe we won’t go back.”
oooo“But you can’t just leave.”
oooo“Why not?”
oooo“Well, the children . . . “
oooo“They’re safe with us.”
oooo“But the others – what if they’re sent back and nobody’s there?”
oooo“They won’t be sent back while all this is going on. Not until the fighting dies down.”
oooo“Well – I still don’t see how you can just leave. I never meant to . . . “
oooo“Don’t worry about it. You know, Scripture is full of people who just left because God had something for them to do. Abraham, Moses, Elijah – when Jesus called Simon, Andrew and Matthew – they were right in the middle of their jobs. They just dropped everything and went!”
ooooThompson was looking at the little orb of condensation on the window near her mouth that expanded and contracted as she breathed. “Well, I’m not exactly Jesus.”
ooooAlonya smiled, but Thompson didn’t see.
ooooFor the rest of the drive Jason talked, and Thompson listened. His thoughts were the exact opposite of hers. His values, his reasoning – or lack of it – his faith, his beliefs – everything was exactly backwards. She’d always experienced a vague discomfort around people who spoke languages she didn’t understand. Here, though, was someone who spoke the same language, but with a different mind. His words could barely keep pace with his enthusiasm.
oooo“It makes no sense!” she said finally.
oooo“No,” said Alonya softly, but with a curious edge of excitement. “It doesn’t make any sense to us either.”

ooooThe emergency fuel depot at Scutari was a rundown brown brick structure that hadn’t been used, Jason explained, since the rail system went to diesel in the late sixties. As the wars progressed, however, and the supply of diesel fuel had become unreliable, at best, the depot had been re-commissioned to feed coal, the only locally abundant fuel, to the World War II-era coal-burning locomotives.
ooooAfraid they wouldn’t be able to get back up the muddy little hill that sloped to the station, Jason parked the car on a slight decline in case he had to jump start it. He and Alonya got out. “You wait here,” said Alonya.
ooooA single kerosene lamp burned in the smoke-blackened window of the coal man’s shack, adjacent to the depot on the left. A series of bumps and rustles as they approached preceded the appearance of a gaunt, disheveled man in a dirty sweatshirt and black wool pants from which long suspenders hung unused. He stood in the door with a shotgun in one hand, shielding his eyes against the cyclopic glare of the Yugo that silhouetted the young missionaries.
ooooThompson, exhausted, was happy to stay put. Duha’s head was in her lap and she stroked it as if the little girl was one of her own. She listened intently, but couldn’t make out the words, only the tone of the exchange as the coal man, angrily at first, confronted the young people, waving the gun from one to the other of them, and Jason responded in a calm, conciliatory tone.
ooooAfter a minute, the coal man lowered the weapon and trudged with Alonya and Jason to the car where he peeked in the window, evidently to corroborate what they had been telling him. Thompson didn’t know if she was still supposed to be deaf, so she didn’t say anything.
oooo“Ah!” said the man. He opened the door and held a hand out to Thompson.
oooo“What does he want?” said Thompson, gently laying Duha’s head on Tik’s shoulder, waking neither.
oooo“He says the train is due in about thirty minutes and it’ll have to stop for fuel. He’s also willing to sell us a few gallons of fuel, for a price.”
oooo“How much?” said Alonya.
oooo“Twenty Euros a gallon.”
oooo“Twenty Euros! That’s our grocery money for the whole week! He’s a pirate.” She turned to the man and, in order not to waste the sentiment, repeated herself in Montenegran.
ooooHe smiled and shrugged. “Is business,” he said.
ooooThompson, raising her purse.
oooo“Oh, no – don’t waste your money,” Alonya protested. “We’ve got it, it’s just that . . . “
oooo“It’s just that you have to eat,” said Thompson. “Don’t be silly. This money isn’t mine, anyway. It was given to me by – the people I told you about.”
oooo“The Lord provides in mysterious ways,” said Jason smiling.
ooooAlonya observed that the man watched a little too hungrily as Thompson unzipped the pocket of her overcoat and began to take out a wad of money. “You can see better this way,” she said, spinning Thompson around to face the headlight. She whispered, “Don’t let him know you’ve got all that money. Make him think you’re giving him all there is. And don’t take your eyes off him for a minute.”
ooooThompson removed all the money from the pocket and slipped in under her coat. Turning, she handed the man sixty euros and, displaying the pocket into which he peered eagerly, showed that it was empty. “That’s all I have,” she said. “Three gallons.”
ooooEvidently the man had expected more. “No good,” he said, thrusting the money back at her. “Like this,” he said, flicking his fingers open ten times.
oooo“I don’t have a hundred euros!” Thompson protested, displaying the empty pocket again. In frustration she grabbed the money from his hand. “All right, if sixty euros isn’t enough – you won’t get any!”
ooooHe hesitated for a moment, rubbing his whiskered chin. “Okay. Okay. Give.”
oooo“No!” said Thompson.
oooo“Joan!” said Alonya.
oooo“No. I don’t like the looks of this man. I think he’d just as soon sell you water and call it gas – wouldn’t you, my friend?”
oooo“Yes. Yes!” said the man, not understanding. “Sixty. Sixty you say. Sixty euros.”
oooo“Forty.”
oooo“No. No! Sixty!” said the man, casting an appealing glance at Jason. “Sixty she say? Sixty!”
oooo“It’s her money,” said Jason.
oooo“Twenty!”
oooo“Eeee!” the man wailed. “No good!”
ooooThompson put another twenty back in her pocket. “Three gallons,” she said, holding up three fingers. “Twenty euros. That’s all.”
oooo“Twenty. Twenty!” the man cried. “Okay. Good. Twenty.” He lunged for the money, but Thompson whisked it out of his reach.
oooo“Give us the gas first.”
oooo“Eh?” he said, again questioning Jason with his eyes. Jason translated the demand.
oooo“No! Bad!”
ooooThompson began to return the last twenty dollar bill to her pocket. The man’s eyes stood out on stalks of alarm. “Okay! Okay. Good! Twenty!”
oooo“Go get the gas, then.”
ooooAgain Jason translated, adding ‘please’.
ooooThey accompanied the man back down the hill where he disappeared around the back of the building.
oooo“That was wonderful!” said Alonya, patting Thompson on the back. “I’d love to have you with me on market day!”
oooo“I get lots of practice in Kinchassa.”
ooooJason didn’t say anything. He was intently watching where the coal man had gone. “Quiet!” he said. “Listen!”
ooooThey all listened. “I don’t hear anything,” said Alonya at last.
oooo“Me neither,” said Thompson.
oooo“You’re right,” Jason agreed. “No gas cans – nothing.” In the brief stillness that punctuated the statement, he heard a muffled click in the darkness. “Down!” He threw himself at the women, nearly knocking them off their feet and dragging them up the hill toward the Yugo just as a shotgun blast fractured the night and chorused from the mountains like thunder.
ooooThe pellets ripped a score of tiny holes in the side of the car making a sieve of the gas tank.
oooo“We’ve got to get the kids out!” said Alonya. She began to get to her feet, but Jason pushed her back down.
oooo“You stay here. I’ll get them.”
oooo“Get the case, too!” said Thompson, to whom there weren’t only two children in the car – there were four. “You must!”
ooooJason got to his knees, pulled open the door and, after wrestling frantically with Duha’s seat belt, at last got her out of the car. “Here!” he said, passing the sleep-drugged child to Thompson. “Take her up the hill!”
ooooThompson clutched the child to her shoulder. “Don’t forget the case!” she begged.
oooo“Go!”
ooooThompson ran up the hill and threw herself to the ground behind an outcropping of rocks. Seconds later Alonya appeared beside her, cradling the sleepy Tik in her arms.
oooo“Did he get the case?” said Thompson.
oooo“He’s just . . . “
ooooBoth the women started violently as another shotgun blast fractured the night. They looked over the shoulder of the rocks just as the Yugo burst into flame, silhouetting Jason, scrambling up the hill – and tossing light into the shadows of the depot where the old man had taken cover and, clearly startled by the explosion, was shielding his eyes.
ooooJason, the suitcase in one hand, the Panaflex case in the other, dove over the ridge, landing with the force of his weight on the metal case. As he bounced from it, the clasps sprung open and it tumbled down a small embankment, coming to a rest in the hollow, open to the world. Thompson thrust Duha into his arms and, screaming in alarm, started after it.
oooo“There’s no time for that!” Jason called. “We’ve got to get out of here before he’s had a chance to reload.”
oooo“It’s too late!” Thompson cried as she climbed, slid and fell down the hillside, numb to the pain. “Too late!”
oooo“Jason! Look!”
ooooAlonya and Tik were peering, wide-eyed, over the ridge as Jason clambered to them with Duha over his shoulder.
ooooThe Yugo’s rusted emergency brake cable burned through, snapping like a bowstring and the car, reduced to a ball of red hot flame, rolled down the hill toward the depot. By the time the coal man recovered his senses enough to run, there was no where to go: he tripped and fell. He would have been safe where he landed had The Yugo’s left front wheel not hit a rock. The skeletal remains of the steering wheel turned in the fiery hands of an avenging angel and, picking up speed on the steeper grade, drove the car into the Coal man just as he was getting to his feet.
ooooHe threw up his arms in horror, an unwitting farewell wave to life.
ooooThe car plowed through the coal shed, across the gentle slope to the shore and into the lake where the flames died, crackling and hissing, amid billows of steam that leapt to embrace the snow that had begun to fall.
oooo“They’re gone!” Thompson screamed.
ooooIt took a second for the missionaries’ eyes to adjust to the dark as they peered into the hollow below them.
oooo“They’re gone!” Thompson screamed again.
oooo“Here,” said Jason, handing Tik to Alonya. “I’ll be right back.” A moment later he was in the hollow where Thompson was deliriously ransacking the shadows in search of something.
oooo“Be careful where you step!” she yelled. “Don’t step on them!”
oooo“Step on what?”
oooo“The vials! Don’t step on them.” She suddenly burst into tears and dropped to her knees. “Albert! Helen!” As Jason knelt beside her, she threw herself into his arms, sobbing uncontrollably.
ooooAlonya was trying to deal with Tik and Duha who, over the initial shock, had begun to wail the pathetic shriek of the deaf and were writhing in her arms. She pulled them up over the ridge.
oooo“What vials?” said Jason, when Thompson’s sobs had subsided enough to make communication possible.
ooooShe looked up suddenly, grabbed him by the collar and shook him. “You’ve got to see if you can find them.” She let him go and, standing up, began clawing up the hill. “They must be here somewhere.”
oooo“Just vials – like in a lab?” said Jason who had retrieved the case and was right behind her. Just then his hand touched upon something smooth. He grasped it in the dark and held it up. “Here’s one!”
ooooThompson instantly stopped scratching and took the vial from him as gently as if it had been the last living embryo of the species. She ran her fingers around the thick plastic cap. “There’s no seal!” she said in alarm. “They removed the seal! They must have opened it!”
oooo“The terrorists?”
ooooShe began to laugh hysterically. “They opened it! What time is it?”
ooooJason pushed a button on his watch and the dial lit up. “One fifteen,” he said.
ooooShe suddenly grew deathly still. “It’s all over.”
ooooTaking her firmly by the shoulders, Jason searched her eyes for a glimpse of reason. “Doctor Thompson,” he said. “I don’t understand what you’re saying. Think! What are you trying to tell me?”
ooooHer gaze returned from the visualization of distant terrors and focused on him as if surprised to find him there. “This is what was in the case. Vials of – disease. A deadly – horribly deadly virus.”
oooo“Virus?”
oooo“There were two of them.” In clipped sentences, punctuated by expressions verging on both tears and laughter, she unburdened herself of the whole story. At its conclusion Jason, adopted into her terror, clutched her to himself and, for a long time, they rocked back and forth.
oooo“If they opened it in Beirut . . . “
oooo“They must have – the seal is gone.”
oooo“Then . . . “
oooo“It’s too late?”
oooo“For everyone,” said Thompson. “I’ve been trailing it through Beirut – through Kosovo – from Peç to Pedgorica – that Muslim boy – you and Alonya, the children. The coal man had the best of it.”
oooo“Maybe they just removed the seals – but didn’t open the vials,” said Jason. “They must have had some idea what they were dealing with – how deadly it is.”
oooo“The people behind it would know. Yes. Which is why they wouldn’t come within miles of it.”
oooo“They would have hired flunkies to do the dirty work.”
oooo“Zealots, more likely – no shortage of them. Someone who had no idea what they were dealing with. They’d be tempted to take a peek, just out of curiosity, wouldn’t they? Thinking it must be worth a lot of money.”
oooo“And the more strongly they were warned not to, the more likely they would.”
ooooThompson nodded.
oooo“Still,” said Jason, rising to his feet and hands. “There’s always hope.” He resumed searching the hillside for the companion vial.
oooo“This is all my fault. I should have given the man his hundred euros. It wouldn’t have cost me anything.” Her shoulders sagged. “I’m just so tired of being threatened and pushed around.
ooooJason was about to say something, but she didn’t want to hear it. “It’s pointless,” she said lethargically.
oooo“It’s pointless not to.”
ooooShe stared at him sightlessly for a minute, and had just resolved to join in the search when her hand came down on a little nest of wet broken glass. “Jason!”
ooooHe scurried to her side. “What is it?”
oooo“I found it.” She held up one of the shards, the top half of a vial, the white plastic cap still securely in place. “There’s no hope now,” she said.
ooooJason sniffed. “What’s that smell?” He held his nose close to the glass.
oooo“Don’t do that!” Thompson warned, snatching it away as soon as she realized what he was doing.
ooooHe started to laugh.
oooo“What!?” she said. “Don’t! What are you laughing at?”
oooo“Smell it.”
oooo“No!”
ooooHe rummaged through the earth and, finding another piece of glass, held it up to her nose. “Sniff,” he said, his eyes sparkling even in the dark.
Hesistantly, she obeyed.
oooo“Tea,” he said.
oooo“Tea?” she said, bewildered in the extreme.
ooooJason removed the cap from the other vial, stuck the tip of his little finger into the amber liquid and touched it to his tongue. “Tea,” he proclaimed, repeating the process and placing the finger on Thompson’s tongue. “Unless viruses come in flavors, these days.”
ooooIn the distance a train whistle sounded it long lament through the mountains and Thompson felt herself spinning, suspended from the final, fraying threat of sanity.

Chapter Twenty-Six: Crosshair Ballet

ooooThe tiny port city of Bar clings by its fingernails to a narrow ledge of land between the ragged cliffs and the Adriatic. Thus severed from the rest of the warring nations of the former Yugoslavia, it presented a prospect of almost otherworldly calm as Thompson, the missionaries, and their charges worked their way from the train station to the harbor without incident. The streets were draped, not in deadly silence, but peaceful quiet, the blissful ignorance and easy fatalism of people who live their lives in the shadow of a smoking volcano.
ooooThompson cradled the broken Panaflex case with its counterfeit contents. She could think of nothing else to do. The terrorists must believe she still had it.
ooooMost of the refugees went straight to the harbor from the train station, without detouring through the city, and an impromptu marketplace that had sprung up near the waterfront to service their needs, real or imagined. Vendors of everything from fruits and vegetables to counterfeit Rolex watches, video cameras, cell phones of dubious lineage, and novelty toys, plied their trade under cover of a patchwork of tents and awnings from the posts of which hung shielded candles and lanterns, reflected a thousand times over in the fools gold surrounding them.
ooooThe air was cold and fresh and good in their lungs.
ooooOn the train from Scutari – whose engineers had apparently taken the destruction of the coal depot in stride – a lecherous man of indeterminate age with garlicky breath had stood in Thompson’s face the whole way, chomping, alternately, on a raw onion and a loaf of black bread, hardly blinking as he stared at her. Alonya’s advice to ignore him had been impossible to follow. Since it was equally impossible to move for the press of people, she closed her eyes, and took deep breaths through clenched teeth, holding it in as long as possible. More than once she felt woozy, but took slim comfort in the fact she couldn’t fall. It was too crowded.
ooooJason and Alonya passed the time signing with the children, reassuring them with hugs and pats on the head.

oooo“They have actual policemen!” said Jason, returning to the group from a browse among the stream of refugees.
oooo“Do their phones work?” Thompson asked eagerly.
ooooHe shook his head. “‘fraid not. Most towers are out. But they have a YWAM.”
oooo“YWAM?” said Thompson.
oooo“Youth With a Mission,” Jason explained enthusiastically. “They have missions all over the world – I spent a summer with them in Ecuador.
oooo“He says they’ve taken over an abandoned Catholic church. I bet we can stay there ’til things quiet down back home.”
oooo“Thank you, Jesus,” Alonya said under her breath.
oooo“You guys go ahead – the policeman will show you where it is.” He waved to a uniformed man at the end of the block, who waved back. I’ll join you once I’ve got Joan aboard one of the ships.”
oooo“But . . . ” Alonya began to protest.
ooooJason held up his hand. “We’ll get her out of here a lot quicker if we don’t have to worry about the kids falling overboard. Go on. I’ll be okay.”
Alonya embraced Thompson warmly. “God bless you,” she said. “I hope everything works out. She handed Thompson a dog-eared paperback Bible.
oooo“Oh, I couldn’t possibly . . . ” Thompson objected. She had enough to carry.
ooooAlonya tucked it in her pocket. “There! Just fits!” She kissed her, took the children by the hands and strode confidently out of Thompson’s life without a backward glance.
oooo“She’s quite a girl,” said Thompson, watching after her.
oooo“That makes two of you,” said Jason with a smile. He picked up Thompson’s suitcase. “The policeman said every ship along the coast has gone into the refugee business, so there’s no guarantee what kind of accommodations you’ll get – or where you’ll land. Some boats have been sent back by the Italians.”
oooo“You mean – I was expecting an ocean liner. A ferry of some kind.”
oooo“With a going rate of six hundred euros a head, if it floats, it’s a ferry. Do you have that much?
ooooThompson nodded.
ooooThey had arrived at the docks, together with hundreds of others who had shuffled through hell and arrived at this unlikely oasis with all their worldly possessions in hand, clinging to one another like refugees everywhere; desperate, confused and shell-shocked. Thompson didn’t realize how well she fit in.
ooooJason left his charge sitting on a bench overlooking the harbor while he went to arrange passage. She was so tired. All she wanted was to close her eyes. Sleep was the thing. If she wasn’t asleep, how could she ever wake from this terrible dream? She draped a blanket over the metal case, to use it as a pillow, and was just about to go to sleep when her face touched the metal case. It was cold. Freezing cold! She sat up with a start, staring at it in disbelief.
ooooTearing the blanket away, she knew the truth at once. This was not the same case she had carried – so far. It was clean and new. It was not the same case she had had to tie together with string. It’s hasps were in perfect working order. No dents. No bullet holes. Airline tags with her name on them were still tied to the handle.
ooooAnd it was freezing cold.
oooo‘We’ll be watching you.’ The words sent a chill through her. They had been watching her, all this way. Was it possible?
ooooIt suddenly occurred to her that whoever had switched the cases must be nearby. She searched the crowd, but was too tired, too stunned to discern individuals among the ragged tide of humanity, much less a single metal case tied with string among the many tied with the tattered threads of hope.
ooooHer gaze returned to the case and was still resting there, dazed, when Jason finally returned.
oooo“Come on!” he said, holding out his hand. “I’ve found one.” She gave him her hand but didn’t budge when he tugged her. “Come on! We’ve got to hurry – it’s a ferry! Just what you wanted!”
oooo“They switched my case,” she said expressionlessly.
oooo“What do you mean? That case?” Even in the poor light he could see she was right. “How?”
ooooShe looked at the crowd. “One of them – just switched it.”
oooo“Is it . . . ?”
oooo“No apple juice this time,” she said. “Touch it.”
ooooHe complied. “Cold.”
oooo“Nitrogen. This is my case. The real one.”
oooo“The other was a decoy?”
ooooShe nodded. “They said they’d be watching. They have been. All the time.”
oooo“That’s not possible. They can’t have.”
oooo“How else do you explain it? They knew where I was – they made the change, just before I board a boat for Italy.”
oooo“Speaking of which,” said Jason, pulling her to her feet and grabbing the Panaflex case. “We’d better get moving. Don’t forget your suitcase.”
ooooShe picked it up and stumbled along after him. “How did they know?”
oooo“I think it’s more likely they had someone here waiting for you,” said Jason as he threaded them through the slow-moving mass of people.
oooo“How could they know I’d end up here?”
oooo“Not hard, really, if you think about it. That’s probably why they put you off in the mountains where there’s only one way to Peç. And from there only one place to go, Podgorica.”
oooo“And from there – only the train to Bar.”
oooo“Alonya and I apparently didn’t figure into their plans. But we don’t seem to have made much difference. All they needed was enough eyes in Bar to pick you out of the crowd. Not the local population – they’re Catholic.”
oooo“The vendors?”
oooo“Probably. Here it is!”
ooooThe Korzo was a three-deck coastal car ferry that had seen better days. Under two hundred feet in length, the thick hemp bumper that ran from bow to stern had worn through to bare metal and hung in tatters. Large dents in her hull gave her sunken cheeks that made her seem refugee herself. She had been painted recently, but not well or carefully. Nevertheless, even loaded with the refuse of war-torn shores, she rode well above her waterline and seemed to maintain a kind of faded grace. Whether or not that dignity was delusional remained to be seen.
oooo“She’s going straight across to Vieste.”
oooo“Vieste?” Thompson repeated thoughtlessly, staring numbly at the Korzo as if it was a ghost ship taking her not to freedom, like the refugees, but from one terror to another.
oooo“You know the little spur that sticks out on Italy’s boot?” Thompson didn’t respond. “Vieste is there, that’s where you will probably end up, since Bari is already overrun with refugees from the Middle East. From there you can get a bus to Foggia – remember the map we looked at?”
oooo“I remember.”
oooo“There’s a bullet train – I forget what it’s called. You can pick it up in Foggia. It goes across to Naples, then straight up to Rome. One change, in Naples – then straight through.” He sliced the air with his hand. “Three hours, tops.”
ooooThompson’s recent experience made her wonder that there could be anyplace in the world where trains ran on time. “How long will the crossing take?”
oooo“I talked to one of the longshoreman, he figures on a calm night like this, maybe nine hours. Ten at the most.”
oooo“Ten hours.”
oooo“You can sleep.”
ooooHe’d said the magic word. Suddenly there was no place on earth she’d rather be than aboard this soggy old dame that squatted in the water like a wingless duck.
oooo“Well,” said Jason, a little awkward at the inevitable good-bye. “I guess this is where we part company.”
ooooShe swam up through the fog of her reason and looked at him. “What do I do now, Jason?”
oooo“You go.”
oooo“But – when I get there.” She lifted the Panaflex case between them. “You know what’s in here?”
oooo“Armageddon,” he said softly.
oooo“They want me to trade it for my children.”
ooooHe put his arm around her. “They don’t want it out any more than you do.”
oooo“What do you mean?”
oooo“It’s just a bargaining chip for them. Something they can trade for this prisoner you told us about. They’ve had it all this time, haven’t they? But here it is, safe and sound. My guess is they want to get rid of it. And this Englishman you’re supposed to give it to? He must be with the British government. They’ll know what to do with the stuff, won’t they? You can even go with him once the exchange is made.”
oooo“I’ve got this terrible feeling they’re just going to kill us all. I just know it.”
oooo“That wouldn’t make any sense. Like I said – they don’t want that virus released any more than you do. And they don’t want to hold onto it. It probably scares the crap out of them.”
ooooWithout realizing it, Thompson had started to cry. Jason wiped her cheeks with his sleeve. “Don’t give up. Remember Moses.”
oooo“Moses?”
oooo“Josephus says Moses led the children of Israel out of Egypt into a trap: mountains to the north and south, Pharaoh’s army sealing off retreat to the west – the way they’d come – and the Red Sea before them. No possibility of escape. You know what he said?”
oooo“Josephus?”
oooo“No, Moses.”
oooo“What?”
oooo“He said ‘God’s gonna have to do something miraculous to get us out of this! This is going to be amazing!”
ooooShe laughed amid her tears.
oooo“That’s better,” said Jason. He cradled her face in his warm hands, tilted her toward him and kissed her forehead. “Be ready. When the Red Sea parts, don’t hang around on the shore wondering what you’re supposed to do.”
ooooHe guided her to the foot of the gangplank where she bought a ticket and, her suitcase in one hand and the Panaflex case in the other, boarded the ship.

oooo“What did you find out?”
ooooMerchison had just cleared customs and was making her way across the concourse toward the cab line when Quinn arrived carrying the bags.
oooo“I talked to one of the ground crew. Air Force Two left twenty-five or thirty minutes ago. He didn’t know for sure who the passengers were, but from their descriptions it had to be Wingfield and Cumio.”
oooo“Bound where, the U.S.?”
oooo“He didn’t know.”
oooo“How about security?” said Merchison, following Quinn into the cab.
oooo“No help. As far as they’re concerned Air Force Two was never here – neither is Air Force One, for that matter – and it’s sitting on the damn tarmac!”
oooo“Piazza San Pietro,” said Merchison and the cab squealed away from the curb. “Let’s look at the facts. Hold on a second.” She leaned forward and addressed the cabby over the seat. “Parla inglese?”
oooo“No, no, no, signora!”
ooooMerchison leaned back. “Good.” She turned to Quinn. “In sequence – Dr. Thompson is missing – was probably kidnapped. In her possession? A new strain of virus – probably ebola. Deadly.” She ticked off the first item on her fingers. “Two – the President schedules a conference call with half the leaders of the known world – and asks to address the UN Security Council. Talks gibberish at the conference call – and cancels the address.” Digit two is folded down. “Kiley says she sees the Toby Phillips apparently under house arrest at the White House – he appears later and tells her – in person – it never happened.”
oooo“Bearing in mind,” Quinn interrupted, “he’s a man who’d deny he was born of woman, if he felt it politically expedient.”
ooooMerchison folded down another finger. “Next? The President sends Air Force Two to London to pick up Wingfield. That might be the strangest sum in the whole equation – I’d have been less surprised if he’d picked up the Queen – and sends him to Rome . . . “
oooo“One queen’s as good as another,” said Quinn with a chuckle.
oooo“To see the Pope,” Merchison continued without responding. “And finally, Kiley goes missing – and where does she turn up? Aboard Air Force One – with the President – on their way to Rome.”
oooo“Meaning?”
oooo“Meaning,” said Merchison. “The President had reason to beleive the virus was – I don’t know – was released, somehow?”
oooo“Or someone was threatening to release it.”
oooo“Thompson?”
oooo“No. As you said, she was probably kidnapped. Besides, she’s apolitical, by all accounts. No agenda. Okay. So why was she kidnapped? For herself? No. No ransom demands . . . “
oooo“For the virus!” said Merchison.
oooo“By terrorists.”
oooo“Blackmail. They contact the President . . . “
oooo“Or SECDEF – more likely.”
oooo“Okay, Freeman – he tells the President – who sets up the conference call and asks to speak to the UN Security Council! But – something happens.”
oooo“They find Thompson?”
ooooMerchison shook her head. “Or they think they find her.”
oooo“Or the virus.”
oooo“Or the virus – but it’s too late to cancel the conference call, so the President ends up looking like an idiot.”
oooo“And withdraws the request to speak at the UN,” Quinn concluded. “It’s the closest thing to sense we’ve got.”
oooo“Not all of it,” said Merchison. “If terrorists have the virus – why doesn’t the world know about it?”
oooo“Maybe they’re not looking for publicity.”
oooo“Exactly! Which means they want hard currency – something valuable enough to them to exchange for the virus.”
oooo“That’s not their M.O., though,” said Quinn. “They could turn the screws a thousand times harder if the story was public.”
“I don’t know – they’re playing it close to the vest for some reason. But let’s assume that’s the scenario. What could this currency be? What could possibly be worth all this trouble; all this planning and risk?”
oooo“This wouldn’t be your garden-variety terrorist, either,” said Quinn. “They’d have to be awfully well connected. This is a brand-new discovery. Even bigwigs at NIH are sketchy about it. It would seem Thompson’s in a class by herself.”
oooo“An inside job? Someone on the team?”
oooo“Certainly not out of the question.”
ooooThe cell phone in Quinn’s valise rang. “Jill?”
oooo“What does she want?”
ooooQuinn listened. “Which one?”
oooo“What’s she saying?”
oooo“Shh!” said Quinn, sifting through the clutter of the valise. “Hold on a second, Jill.” He turned to Merchison. “Do you have a pen?”
ooooMerchison produced a pen from her purse. “What is it?”
oooo“Shut up for a second will you! No, not you, Jill. Go ahead.” Pause. “San Pietro – okay. Okay. Anything else?” Pause. “Where’d you get that?” Pause. oooo“Well done.”
oooo“Ask her if she booked our rooms at the Grand.”
oooo“Did you hear that?” He wrote as she spoke. “Okay. Good job, Jill. Thanks.” he hung up. “The Grand’s full.”
oooo“You have to bribe, them. Did she bribe them?”
oooo“I didn’t ask.”
oooo“The Italian economy’s based on bribery. Any fool knows that. I can’t believe she didn’t even try.”
oooo“Maybe she did.”
oooo“I doubt it. What rat hole did she book us in?”
oooo“The Nazionale on the Piazza di Montecitorio.”
oooo“Oh – that’s a five star. That’ll do. It’s across from Parliament.”
oooo“You know it?”
oooo“I was bureau chief in Rome back in the early nineties. It was my first overseas assignment.”
oooo“Really? For the network?”
oooo“No. The Chicago Trib.”
oooo“You worked for the folding news?”
oooo“We all have dark places in our past. What else did she say?”
oooo“She couldn’t get through to Spang or Jimmy Guitierez. There’s a unit at San Pietro, doing cover shots of people coming in on the trains. Pilgrim shots. They’re our best bet.”
oooo“One camera?”
oooo“Plus sound and light.”
oooo“Okay.” Merchison leaned forward and tapped the cabby on the shoulder. “Take us to San Pietro instead,” she ordered in Italian.
oooo“She also found out from someone at NIH that Dr. Thompson kept her private little virus in a double-walled Panaflex camera case.”
oooo“That’ll be about as hard to spot as an Airstream trailer.”
oooo“Inside that she had some kind of special insulated nitrogen container that held the vials, all nestled in a foam rubber cutaway.”
oooo“How many?”
ooooQuinn shrugged. “Who knows? One’s enough.”
oooo“Call Cine’talia, and have them cab a Panaflex case over to Saint Peter’s.”
oooo“Cine’talia?”
oooo“It’s a film company on the Via dei Fienili in the Aventine. Ask for Micky Rocco.”

oooo“They say it’s all right with them,” said Tosci Galietta, returning from a conference with his tech crew. “Triple overtime, right?”
oooo“That’s right,” said Quinn.
oooo“It’s a deal. We’re finished here anyway. What do you need?”
oooo“Static talking head shots. CYA stuff, mostly – in case a lead we’re working on turns into a story. I guess that’s what he wants.”
oooo“Here?”
oooo“Probably a shot or two, with a train arriving for a little motion in the background. Then St. Peter’s tonight for the mass.”
oooo“It’s been moved,” said Galietta slipping charged cells into the battery pack on his digital Canon.
oooo“Moved? What has?”
oooo“Mass.”
oooo“They’re not having mass at St. Peter’s?”
oooo“That’s the big news,” said Galietta. “You haven’t heard?” He flipped a switch, raised the camera to his shoulder and focused on Merchison who was walking toward them from the women’s room.
oooo“Where are they moving it to?”
oooo“Moving what?” said Merchison.
oooo“They’re moving Christmas Eve mass.”
oooo“Moving it!? Where to?”
oooo“The Lateran,” said Galietta, directing their attention to a large blue and white sign on the wall behind them, telling of the move in six languages.
oooo“Why?”
oooo“Who knows?” said Galietta, who had been joined by the crew and was setting the camera on a tripod and directing it at Merchison. “Here comes a train. I’ve got a white balance. Whenever you’re ready.”
oooo“Hit me,” said Merchison. A mini-light on the camera and another spotlight with a diffusion panel were switched on. Instantly a crowd of onlookers began gathering in a rough semicircle around the media icon, speaking to one another in hushed tones and many languages. “I can’t see the monitor. Can you, Quinn?”
oooo“Yeah. Looks fine.”
oooo“Not too washed out – I didn’t bring any foundation.”
oooo“It’s a remote. You’re supposed to be washed out. Cinema verite.”
oooo“Give me a level,” said the sound man in Italian, listening intently to his headphones and watching the VU meter as Merchison counted down. After a few seconds he gave thumbs up. “Good. Okay.”
oooo“I just put in a new 8 gig disc,” set Galietta. “That’s all I’ve got with me, but it should be plenty.” He flicked a switch. “What are you gonna need for tonight?”
oooo“The 8 gig should be plenty – I can’t imagine more than fifteen or twenty minutes of HD apart from what we do here,” said Quinn.
oooo“Hurry up,” said Merchison, organizing a handful of notes she’d made on the cab ride.
ooooGalietta was born and raised in the Bronx and had worked for an alphabet soup of networks before chucking it all to go urchin diving in Maine. One winter was enough. He found freelancing in Europe more to his liking. He’d worked with Merchison before. “Triple time,” he reminded himself below his breath.
ooooThe train was just pulling into the station when Quinn started the countdown. “Ready? In three, two, one!” He cued Merchison.
oooo“‘Plague. The word has greater meaning in Europe than in America. A third of the population was wiped out by recurring waves of Bubonic Plague – otherwise known as The Black Death – during the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. Whole families were erased forever from the record of humanity.
oooo“‘Cities, villages, and towns from the Baltic to the Irish Sea still bear mute reminders of those terrible times’ – We’ll do cutaways here: gargoyles, deaths heads there’s some colorful stuff at the necropolis. Still rolling?”
oooo“Rolling.”
oooo“Where was I?” She shuffled through her notes. “‘Still bear reminders’ – that’s it. ‘Still bears reminders of those terrible times, once thought to be gone forever.
oooo“‘But are they?
oooo“‘In recent years, as man has encroached on . . .’”
oooo“You’d better make that ‘humankind.’” Quinn interjected.
oooo“Okay.” Pause. “‘In recent years, as humankind has encroached on uninhabited …’ wait. I want to do that again. Ready?”
oooo“Still rolling.”
oooo“‘In recent years as humankind has trespassed further and further into nature’s last reserves – the equatorial forest – she has unleashed her deadliest secrets: strange, unknown viruses of which HIV is only a tame forerunner, and with which she threatens to repossess the earth from the stewards who have been systematically destroying her.
oooo“‘One such virus, called ebola, of which there are several strains, is known to have an 80% kill rate – meaning it kills 80% of those it infects. Already it’s made alarming incursions into population centers of the western world and only miracles – such as sudden wekending of a strain of ebola in the mid-80‘s – have prevented it from devastating the planet.
oooo“‘As I speak, it’s Christmas Eve in Rome – a time of miracles . . .’”
oooo“Oh brother,” Quinn rasped into his headset.
oooo“‘But how many miracles remain? The Black Death had a 33% kill rate. Ebola, 80% – and now there are reports of another, even more deadly strain of ebola – which we will call Ebola Thompson – thought to have a kill rate of over 95%.
oooo“‘Where is this deadly virus? No one knows. All that is known is that Dr. Patricia Thompson, of the National Institutes of Health, who isolated the virus, has been kidnapped by terrorists from her research center in Africa . . .’”
oooo“She doesn’t know that,” said Quinn beneath his breath. “She’s editorializing.”
oooo“‘And when last seen had a metal suitcase, like this, in her possession’ – we’ll cut to a beauty shot of the case here, okay? – ‘The suitcase containing vials of the deadly new virus – Ebola Thompson.
oooo“‘Where is the serum now? Possibly in Rome.
oooo“‘Most of the people you see here are pilgrims, having come hundreds – some even thousands of miles – to attend the special Christmas Eve Mass, probably this Pope’s last, only to find that the service was suddenly and without explanation relocated to the Lateran Palace. It has yet to be determined whether the move has anything to do with the Ebola Thompson.’”
ooooShe turned halfway and let the camera pan on the milling crowd over her shoulder. “‘Is one of these Pilgrims, knowingly or unknowingly, about to unleash a plague of apocalyptic proportions on the unsuspecting inhabitants of the world?
oooo“‘Time will tell. This is Sara Merchison, reporting from San Pietro station, in Rome.’”
ooooQuinn tore off his headset. “What in hell are you doing, Merch? This isn’t A Current Affair.”
Merchison unclipped her Lavaliere. “Relax, Pete. We can edit whatever doesn’t turn out to be true.” She smiled. “That’s the beauty of Premiere.”
oooo“We use Final Cut.”
ooooMerchison ignored the correction. “Don’t forget the beauty shot of the case – then cab it back to Rocco. Make sure these guys are at St. Peter’s Square by eight-thirty with a night vision lens. More, if they can get their hands on them.”
oooo“You mean the Lateran,” said Quinn.
oooo“I mean St. Peter’s,” said Merchison, tapping her nose. “Any idiot knows it’s the hand you’re not looking at that does the trick. See you at the hotel. Don’t forget the lens.” She hailed a cab.

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Eternity’s End

ooooMiller stepped off the train at San Pietro and stopped in her tracks when she recognized Connor, standing half a head taller than anyone else in the crowd that had collected around the American television crew. Fortunately, he was back-to her. They’d met once, when he’d been brought in for questioning, but any apprehension she had of being recognized was eased by the attention he fixed on the television camera. He seemed mesmerized by it. Not by the newscaster. Not by the lights or the crowd that clustered about with a reverence befitting the season, but the great, all-seeing eye itself. He was fastened upon it with almost predatory fascination, stationing himself in front of it. When it moved, he moved – staring at it. Almost daring it, or the world he imagined was watching.
ooooIf, as she suspected, Dumas had arrived on an earlier train, Connor would be looking for him. If she could keep him in sight, at least have a rough idea of his whereabouts, she might be of some use.
ooooAs soon as the television lights were turned off, the crowd began to disperse. Connor stayed behind for a moment, chatting to one of the crew and tracing his forefinger along the opening of the Panaflex case. Finally he departed, and she followed him aboard a bus for Vatican City.

oooo“Do you know what I did this morning?” said the Pope. His hands were folded behind him as they stood overlooking the Piazza Santa Marta, his eyes were nearly closed in reverie and the light dusting of snow melted on his eyelashes. “I had them dress me in one of my old suits – with an overcoat – a hat and my reading glasses, mingled with the sightseers in the Cistine Chapel – and went out with them – into the streets!” He smiled. “I’ve always wanted to do that!”
ooooThe President regarded the enfeebled pontiff skeptically, and wondered if he might be delirious.
ooooThe Pope responded to the look in his companion’s eyes. “I was in my wheelchair – pushed by one of the sisters, also in street clothes.”
ooooThe President smiled.
oooo“I went to the Spanish Steps – just like all the other tourists, you see?
oooo“Here, in St. Peter’s, I am a prisoner. Out there on the Spanish Steps, I was just a tourist. An old man in a wheelchair who kept getting in people’s way. Nobody knew me. Nobody cared, or even looked twice. I didn’t realize how much I’d missed anonymity. It was wonderful.
oooo“Rome is a microcosm of mankind, I feel. This city has seen men and women at their best – and at their worst.” He loosed a monosyllabic laugh. “I think such things.
oooo“As I sat, I watched all those people. Every size and color. Every race – God’s handiwork – and prayed for them.”
ooooThe two men sat on a bench beneath the leafless trees outside St. Stephen’s Chapel and collected a mantle of snow, only the warm blue steam of their breathing differentiating them from a thousand statues dotted around the landscape. “You have not responded to my idea,” said the Pope at last.
oooo“I’ve been thinking,” said the President. “I admit, I discarded it at first. It seemed too easy – but, the more I’ve thought about it – the more I like it. You may have had a stroke of genius that would have done Michaelangelo credit.”
oooo“I prefer to think of it as inspiration,” said the Pope with a wink and a smile. “If it works. If not…” he gestured widely “it is merely hopeful thinking.” He looked at the President. “Something to do instead of nothing.”
ooooThe President tapped the fingers of his gloved hands. “If the word gets out – and everyone shows up at the Lateran instead of here…”
ooooThe Pope laughed. “Every nun in the city is spreading the word! While on the Spanish Steps, I heard one woman say she felt the City had been overrun with penguins!”
oooo“Then it’s got to leave St. Peter’s nearly deserted, doesn’t it?”
oooo“Relatively.”
oooo“And if Thompson shows up according to plan – it won’t be hard to spot her. Can’t be. That’ll be half the battle. The Vatican guards will be ready to move when the exchange takes place?”
oooo“They have been told what they need to know, yes. Once an exchange is made – they will do their best.”
oooo“And, you don’t you think they’ll be a little conspicuous?”
oooo“Only eight will be in ceremonial dress – it would arouse greater suspicion if they were absent. The others will be in civilian dress, among the crowd.”
oooo“I thought there wasn’t going to be a crowd.”
oooo“You forget, Mr. President, this is the Catholic church. Several hundred people will show up simply because it is what they’ve always done.”
ooooThe President laughed. “They’re good?”
oooo“The guards? They are very well trained, like your Secret Service. I trust them with my life.”
ooooThe President chose not to entertain thoughts about the exploits of the Secret Service in South America during Obama’s visit. There was no more conversation for a while. Each man was turning over new ground in himself. Digging deep.
oooo“I almost wish I was Catholic,” said the President at last.
oooo“Why is this?”
oooo“I’d ask you if I’m doing the right thing, you’d tell me and – there I’d have it. Pope’s are infallible, right?”
ooooThe Pope smiled warmly. “Martin Luther certainly didn’t think so.”
ooooThe President laughed. “I guess I was thinking of confession, too. It would be nice to – confess my sins, and be forgiven. To hear someone actually say the words – and not just have to accept it on faith.
oooo“If tonight – if it comes to – what I have to do…”
oooo“Please God, may it not,” the Pope said, lowering his head and shuddering in the reaches of his soul.
oooo“Amen,” said the President. “But if it does – I’m going to have a lot to answer for. Maybe not in this world…”
oooo“You believe, in your heart – that you are sacrificing one city, to save the whole world. It is an act of mercy – but a terrible one.”
oooo“Funny – Director Freeman said very much the same thing.”
oooo“Then the man of war understands more than the man of peace.”
oooo“How do you mean?”
oooo“I, too, have been thinking. One of my greatest fears in my pontificate was that some madman – the late Mr. bin Laden, or Hussein, some other demon yet unnamed – would come into possession of an atomic weapon – and use it. Imagine how those fears increased when I believed that madman to be you! With access not to one bomb, or two – or even ten – but hundreds!
oooo“You’ll forgive me, but your background came to mind.”
oooo“My background?”
oooo“I read you were once a Navy Seal, were you not?”
oooo“Yes.”
oooo“I confessed one, once. Not long ago – two, three years. He came all the way to Rome and asked to see me, so I could confess him personally.”
oooo“And you did?”
oooo“After three weeks I was made aware that he’d been coming every day, and wouldn’t settle for anyone else. So, like the judge and the persistent woman in Matthew, I saw him.”
oooo“Then you do know.”
ooooThe Pope nodded. “He didn’t need confession. He needed exorcism. He was full of demons, many of his own making.”
ooooThe President hung his head. “Vietnam?”
ooooThe Pope nodded.
oooo“Those were terrible times.”
oooo“He seemed a little – unbalanced. Just – at certain times. Certain things he said – I confess, I wondered at the time if some subtle kind of insanity wasn’t requisite for such a job.”
oooo“And you wondered again, when you discovered what I planned.”
oooo“I did.
oooo“My first thought was that you were using a sledge hammer to kill an ant. But – upon reflection – having seen the video program you showed me – and having read the report – I see you have no choice. The ant must die. Nothing of him can remain. There can be no question. No doubt.
oooo“And – I respect that you have come to Rome yourself.”
oooo“I’m not sure why I’m here. I guess I’m trying to buy some kind of absolution with my life. I don’t know. But I couldn’t consign all these people to death – and just sit there in Washington. Safe. A million miles away.
oooo“Then again – perhaps I’m a coward.”
oooo“A coward?”
oooo“I won’t have to live through the hatred and recrimination that will follow.”
oooo“For whatever it might be worth – I will write a letter on your behalf.”
oooo“Where will you put it?”
oooo“I will put it in the drawer of my desk,” said the Pope, slapping his knees as he rose from the bench, “in the firm belief that both it and my desk will be here in the morning – and I will be here to destroy it, because it is not needed.”
oooo“Maybe you should e-mail it to someone,” said the President. He stood as well, thrust his hands into his pockets and studied the dome of the basilica. “St. Peter’s buried here?”
oooo“He is. Down in the necropolis – directly below the dome.”
oooo“He was crucified upside down, wasn’t he.”
oooo“Yes. At his own request. He didn’t feel himself worthy to suffer Christ’s death,” said the Pope. “It happened at Nero’s circus, which once occupied this site – probably not more than a few yards from where we stand.”
oooo“Hm.” The President nodded and became quiet. “I’d like to pray. Is this little chapel open?”
oooo“St. Stephen’s. Of course,” said the Pope, extending a hand. “I come here often, myself. Do you wish to be alone – or may I join you?”

ooooKiley wasn’t pleased at having been banned from the meeting between the President and the Pope. Closer to the key players at a pivotal moment in history than anyone since Bill Shirer in Berlin – she was hamstrung by a patriarchal prohibition.
ooooIt was the men adjourning to the billiard room for a stogy to talk of important things while the women stayed behind and compared hairstyles.
ooooShe’d tried to follow them, but the Vatican guards prevented her.
ooooAngrily pacing the empty basilica, which the Pope had closed to the public, the echo of her high heels rattling from the 16th-century marbles, she was oblivious to the ages that looked down at her, scolding herself for having let them get away with it.
ooooAfter what seemed ages, a door opened in an alcove to the left of the transept and the President entered.
oooo“Well?” she snapped.
ooooThe President glanced passively at his watch. “It’s about time you were leaving, isn’t it?”
oooo“Not until you tell me what went on between you and the Pope. That was part of the deal, wasn’t it?”
oooo“Not much,” said the President. He brushed the snow from the sleeves of his overcoat. “We talked about his plan – then we prayed.”
oooo“You’re not Catholic.”
ooooThe President smiled at the naiveté of the statement. “Does that mean he and I can’t pray together? I think God accepted both our prayers.”
oooo“What about it? Will it work?”
oooo“I don’t know. It’s definitely worth a try.”
oooo“Where is he now?”
oooo“On his way to the Lateran, I suppose.” The President had stopped about twenty feet from her, overwhelmed by the basilica. “This is incredible.”
oooo“What are you going to do?”
oooo“Listen,” he said, holding up his hand.
ooooShe listened. “I don’t hear anything.”
oooo“That’s right. Nothing.” He breathed deeply. “It seems like time stands still here, doesn’t it?”
oooo“It’s not standing still. It’s nearly seven o’clock.”
oooo“I know.”
oooo“What are you going to do?”
oooo“Wait. Walk around here a little. Think.”
oooo“That’s it? You’re just going to walk around?”
oooo“What do you want from me, Brigit?”
oooo“What do you mean ‘what do I want?’. I want the story. What are you doing to avert this disaster? I want to know what’s going on in your mind. That’s what you brought me along for, isn’t it?”
oooo“I brought you along so you’d know who was involved, and who wasn’t. You came along for the chance to get the story of a lifetime. I respect that. I understand it. Both aims will be met if you just report truthfully on what you see.”
oooo“Are you questioning my integrity?”
oooo“I don’t have any questions at all about your integrity.”
oooo“What’s that supposed to mean?”
oooo“Stop – let’s just stop it, can’t we? I’m not questioning much of anything, anymore,” said the President. “As you said – time isn’t standing still.”
ooooShe stared at the floor for a few seconds. “They wouldn’t really do it, would they? The terrorists…even they wouldn’t do something so…so…it would kill Muslims, too.”
ooooThe President shrugged. “Maybe, but do they really know what they’re in possession of? Or what kind of damage it would do?” He stared sightlessly at the horizon. “Besides, they’re fanatics. They don’t care if they choke the gates of hell with the dead, so long as they get to Paradise. As for this,” he added, gesturing around him, “remember what they did in Mali, destroying shrines and monuments to great men of their own spiritual legacy; the Buddahs in Afghanistan…to such minds, reducing St. Peter’s to rubble would be quite an accomplishment.”
ooooSilence enfolded them for a minute.
oooo“What’s happening now – technically. What are the specifics?”
ooooThe President began wandering through the basilica, absorbing the immense complexity of human genius in the service of spiritual devotion. “A laser-guided Patriot missile has been fitted with a nuclear warhead.”
oooo“What’s the megatonage?”
ooooThe President sighed. “About forty.”
oooo“Forty! That’s twice what was dropped on Nagasaki.”
oooo“It’s the smallest there is apart from the suitcase variety. Nuclear weapons aren’t exactly designed for surgical strikes. At 8:45 a Stealth bomber from one of our bases in the Gulf will release the missile over Malta at an altitude of three miles. From there, guidance will be taken over by a special crew aboard the Aegis destroyer Phoenix, harboring at Palermo.”
oooo“What time will the bomber leave the Gulf?”
ooooHe glanced at his watch. “Three hours ago.”
oooo“What if something goes wrong?”
oooo“I’d almost be relieved.”
oooo“What does the Italian government know about this?”
oooo“At present, nothing. If we let them know, word would be on the streets in seconds. The resulting panic – especially with all these people in town for the Mass – would almost certainly spook the terrorists, force them to change their plans. The last thing we want right now is for them to start improvising. Not while they’ve got that virus.
oooo“The only thing we’ve got working on our side is the information Wingfield came by…”
oooo“From this Lord Dumas?”
 “Yes. As long as they stick as close as possible to the program, we’ve got a chance.”
oooo“What if the information is inaccurate – or even faked?”
ooooHe shrugged. “It’s all we’ve got.”
oooo“Won’t they be spooked, as you say, when they get here and find out the Mass has been relocated?”
oooo“Maybe, but they’ll still have to go through with the transfer by then. They can’t get in touch with Dumas.”
oooo“Whom they think is – what’s his name”
oooo“Avery Fuller.”
oooo“But what does Dumas have to exchange for the vials, with Sa’id dead?”
oooo“I don’t know what he has in mind. According to the note, he has a plan. I hope it’s a good one.”
oooo“Are you going to try to find him before the exchange takes place?”
oooo“No. We’re going to do our best to stay out of sight.”
oooo“Your surroundings have gone to your head, Mr. President.”
oooo“What do you mean?”
oooo“You’re using the royal ‘we’.”
ooooThe President grinned with half his mouth and shook his head. “I was referring to the Vatican Guards and me.”
oooo“Oh – I…”
oooo“That’s nice to see.”
oooo“What?”
oooo“You’re blushing. Hopefully that means your ashamed. You should be.”
oooo“I’d be careful how I spoke, if I were you,” she said, wagging her notebook at him. “I’m holding your posterity here.”
oooo“True. Not often someone gets a chance to write history, is it? Should make interesting reading.”
oooo“Riveting. That much I guarantee.”
ooooThey stopped in front of the Pieta. “I was naive,” said the President, staring at the statue.
oooo“About what?”
oooo“You.”
oooo“Me?”
oooo“I thought I’d be able to find the woman beneath all that – news person. I hoped I’d be able to make you understand that I’m doing what I’m doing, not because I’m good, or bad – but because it’s all I can see to do. That’s all.
oooo“Some people in history haven’t had the luxury of choosing between good and evil – all they’ve had is a choice of evils. It strikes me that people like you tend to judge people like that – people who just happen to be in a certain position at a certain time – unforgivingly, shall we say?”
oooo“I know you didn’t intend it as a compliment,” said Kiley, “but I take it as one that you recognize in me objectivity without sentiment. Anyway I’m not here for a history lesson. I’m here to find out what you think your place in history will be, if the Pope’s plan fails, and your plan is enacted.”
oooo“A man doesn’t determine his place in history. Neither do his contemporaries. Frankly, I don’t care anymore. The Pope says the streets will be too crowded to get to the airport, so he’s told them to have his helicopter ready for you. I’d leave now, if I were you. It would be a waste if your story never gets told, wouldn’t it?”
ooooThey came to a stop in front of Pieta.
oooo“Tell me something,” the President said softly. He inclined his head toward the statue. “What do you see there?”
ooooKiley surveyed the dead Christ draped across Mary’s knees. “It’s incredible,” she said.
oooo“Why?”
oooo“Why is it incredible?”
ooooThe President nodded.
oooo“Well – it’s obvious. The craftsmanship. The fact that Michaeanglo could take a chunk of rock and produce something so lifelike. I mean – look at the hands. You can almost see blood coursing through the veins. He was only in his twenties when he created it, you know.”
oooo“Mm,” the President sighed thoughtfully.
ooooKiley turned to him. “Why? What do you see?”
ooooFor a long moment the President was silent. He didn’t take his eyes from the statue when he finally spoke. “I see a man who gave his life to save the world.”
oooo“Oh, brother,” Kiley protested on a sharp guffaw. “This place is getting to you. What are you now, the Messiah?”
ooooThe edges of the President’s mouth curled in a distant, melancholy smile. Not taking his eyes from the statue, he responded: “No.” She followed his gaze to the fallen Christ. “I’m not.”

ooooShe left him sitting on the cold marble floor with his legs tucked under him at odd angles, staring at the Pieta. Haloed by a spotlight, he seemed like a statue himself. Halfway down the nave she turned. “What happens if the Pope’s plan works?”
oooo“Tell the pilot to turn around and pick me up. I’d love to be home for Christmas.”
oooo“But, I’ll miss it.”
oooo“That’s a choice you’ve got to make. Whatever you decide, you’re on your own. Just remember, I’ve ordered it to be in the air by 8:50, with or without us. Now, the interview’s over as far as I’m concerned. I recommend you go home. Whatever happens, this is going to be a very dangerous place to be in a couple of hours.”
ooooShe left the way she’d entered. The heliport was at the far end of the Vatican. It was a long walk. There’d be time to think.

oooo“You are Dr. Joan Ketchum?” said the customs official as he looked from Thompson to her picture in the passport.
oooo“Yes.”
oooo“You do not look well.”
ooooShe didn’t feel well. Thirty minutes into the voyage she became seasick, and spent the next nine hours leaning over the rail. She was exhausted and nauseous, dizzy with weakness.
oooo“I’d like to sit down.”
oooo“In time. As you see, we have no facilities.”
ooooA large striped circus tent had been taken out of mothballs and set up in the yard of the little cinder block customs house at Vieste to handle the influx of refugees. Thousands of tramping feet had churned the earth to a muddy mulch and the legs of the card tables set up to process documentation had sunk into the mud so papers kept sliding to the ground. Long lines of people queued at the portable outhouses, the only concession to comfort.
oooo“This is?” He tapped the Panaflex case.
oooo“Serum.”
oooo“Serum?”
oooo “Medicine.”
oooo“Ah!” He perused the passport. “You are American?”
ooooShe choked down a sarcastic response, given that he was staring at her American passport. “Yes.”
oooo“How come you among these refugees?”
oooo“It’s a long story.”
oooo“A camp has been set up in Lido,” he pointed to the south.
oooo“A camp?”
oooo“For the refugees.”
oooo“I can’t stay in a refugee camp!”
oooo“You must. All refugees must be processed. We can’t simply release you into the streets, you see?”
oooo“I’m not a refugee. I have a home – in America. I’m simply traveling.”
oooo“With refugees?”
oooo“It was the only way out!”
oooo“This box is molto freddo. Very cold.”
oooo“It’s liquid nitrogen – to preserve the – serum. I must get it to Rome. Peoples’ lives depend on it.”
oooo“Aperto, per favore.“
oooo“I can’t.”
oooo“Scusi?”
oooo“Please – it is very sensitive – if light touches the serum – it would damage it.”
oooo“Come with me, please, Dr. Ketchum.” The official led her to an auxiliary tent that had been set up to process those to whom normal procedures did not apply. Here there were folding chairs. She was told to sit and wait.
oooo“I haven’t long,” she pleaded. “Please – let me go through!”
ooooA woman in front of her looked at her contemptuously. “Yankee!” she said, and spat on the ground.
ooooThree hours later she was taken behind a blanket draped over a rope and told to undress. She put the case down long enough to pull the sweater over her head, and when she reached for it, it was gone.
oooo“Where is the case!” she asked the woman attendant.
oooo“Non capisco,” said the woman, quickly and efficiently attending her duties.
ooooThompson leaped up and down to see over the blanket. A man was walking away with the case. The attendant grabbed her by the waist and made signs for her to stand still then, having completed her examination, handed her clothes. “Sempre dritto,” said the woman, ushering her along an aisle between two ropes.
oooo“But – my case! I must have it.”
oooo“Sempre dritto!” said the woman.
oooo“Ah! Here you are,” said the customs official. He was standing at the exit, holding up the Panaflex case. “Is done!”
oooo“Done?” said Thompson, taking the case. “What did you do?”
oooo“X-ray!” said the man, holding his hands up to his eyes as if he was looking through binoculars. “She is as you say. Bottles, si?”
ooooSlowly, at first, Thompson began to laugh. The customs official, bemused, not knowing what was funny, laughed along. But in seconds Thompson’s laugh had become delirious – nearly deranged. She convulsed uncontrollably and was only able to bring herself under control when she began to choke on the bile that burned up her throat. The Red Sea had parted.
ooooThe official put her aboard a bus to Foggia. As he handed her up the steps, fixing her suitcase in one hand, and the Panaflex case in the other, he shook his head worriedly at the driver. Thompson took her seat, staring at him. “La stazione Pendolino.”
oooo“Si,” said the driver, closing the doors.

ooooThe Stazione Termini in Rome was nearly deserted when Thompson arrived, and seemed to spin about her as she got off the train. She had slept, but was still half-starved and dehydrated, wobbling dizzily as she started across the concourse. With difficulty she focused on the lighted red numbers that flickered across a black board, telling the time: 8:39.
ooooShe heard someone running long before she was aware they were running at her. By the time she realized, it was too late. She had been knocked to the ground and the Panaflex case ripped from the fingers she had locked about the handle. Her head hit the pavement with a crack and her brain was full of camera flashes as she tried to focus on the fleeing thief.
ooooA balding old man who had been on the train helped her to her feet. He spoke consolingly in Italian, shaking his fist angrily at the darkness at the far end of the terminal.
oooo“I’ve got to get it back!” she said, holding her head and trying to steady the scenery.
oooo“No!” said the man, still holding her arm. “No. Mi chiama la polizia. Wait!”
oooo“There’s no time to wait for the police!” she said, pulling down and away from his grasp. Leaving her suitcase on the platform, she started running. In the background, the old man calling out: ‘Aiuto! Polizia! The last thing she needed was the police. Especially the Italian police. She ran faster.
ooooShe burst through the main doors onto the Piazza de Cinquecento which, aside from a few taxicabs, was as empty as the station. Had she come so far, suffered so much – for nothing? Falling to her knees, she wept.
oooo“Are you all right?” said the old man, trotting up to her. Once again he helped her to her feet. He was carrying her suitcase, which he handed to her. “You forget this, no?”
ooooShe stared at him dumbly. “Thank you.”
oooo“No polizia,” he said, gesturing with both hands. “Gone! Capiche?”
ooooThompson nodded. “I understand. Thank you.”
oooo“Not good place here for woman,” said the man. “Bad mens. Go for hotel, okay?”
oooo“Okay.”
ooooA cab pulled up and the driver rolled down the window. “Dr. Ketchum?”
ooooThompson looked at him in disbelief.
oooo“Dr. Ketchum?” he repeated.
oooo“Yes?” she stammered.
ooooHe reached behind him and opened the door. A metal Panaflex case rested on the seat, tied with string. It had a bullet hole in it. “That’s the wrong one,” she gasped.
oooo“No,” said the driver. “You come.”
oooo“Si!” said the old man, believing the crime to have been solved. “Si! You go to hotel! Bon Natale!” He put her suitcase on the floor and helped her into the car. “Bon Natale!” Too stunned to speak, she watched through the rear window as he happily waved her away.
ooooOperating purely by instinct, she placed her hand on the Panaflex case. It was freezing cold.
ooooWhy? The word echoed through her entire being, but there was no reply, and she was too tired to think anymore. Too tired to reason. There was nothing to do but what she had been told to do.
oooo“Saint Peter’s,” she said.
oooo“Si,” the cabby replied. He was already on his way. The clock on the bottom of the meter read 8:47.
oooo“Quondo tempo ci vuole per andare a la Vatican?” she asked.
oooo“Dieci minuto,” said the cab, removing his hands from the wheel and holding up ten fingers.

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Vortex

ooooCalvin had been crying, off and on, all afternoon as he wandered the streets of Rome, his mind a chaotic jumble of all that had happened in the last three days, things he had seen and heard: things he suspected. For the first time in his life – thinking with the unimpeachable moral clarity of an eight-year-old – he felt the tug of destiny.
oooo“He called you a parasite, Calvin. That’s what the man said in London. We’re all parasites. That means you, too, Mr. Wingfield. You’re a parasite on Calvin.” He picked up a piece of litter from the street. “Look at the garbage everywhere.” He spun in a circle. “Garbage. Parasites, is what we all are. That’s all, isn’t it?” He dropped the litter into a trash can. “The whole human race is just a disease on the earth – and we’ve turned it into just a little ball of garbage floating around in space.” The words of the conference speakers rang in his ears.”
oooo“Mother earth.
oooo“You’re getting rid of us all, aren’t you? You’re going to be clean, and fresh. No more pollution and chemicals. A nice clean sky, like a blanket. And all the animals will be safe. And the whales.”
ooooA thought suddenly occurred to him, and he stopped walking. “But Calvin won’t be here to see it, will he? Earth is ridding herself of him first of all,” he whispered.
ooooHe stared up into the gentle rain that had begun to fall and let it wash the crusted orange juice from his face. “Then it will get rid of Senator Wingfield. He shares my secret, and he doesn’t even know it.”
ooooFor the last hour he had been making his way, almost unconsciously, toward St. Peter’s, asking directions of passersby. Finally, at eight fifty-three, he arrived. The rain was turning to snow, and the wind had picked up.
oooo“Where is everybody, Calvin?” he said as he crossed the small piazza at the Vatican end of the Via di Conciliazione at the mouth of the Piazza. He’d expected hundreds of thousands of people. Millions. Instead, there were a few hundred, all of them wandering around, looking as confused as he. “Where is everyone?” he asked an elderly couple. They looked at him askance. “Speaky English?”
ooooThey shook their heads.
oooo“Oh, poop. Go away, you smelly old people! Does anybody here speaky English?” he called.
ooooA Vatican guard was standing at the mouth of the colonnades. “May I help you, sir?”
ooooCalvin gave the guard, in traditional uniform, a critical once-over. “Yes. Don’t give me the name of your tailor.”
oooo“I beg your pardon?”
oooo“Where is everybody? I thought the Pope was giving a speech tonight.”
oooo“Mass,” the guard clarified, “has been moved to the Lateran.”
oooo“What’s that?”
oooo“The Lateran Palace – in the center of Rome.”
oooo“I thought this was the center of Rome,” said Calvin examining the piazza. “What are all these people doing here?”
oooo“Like you, sir – they did not hear of the change. It all happened very suddenly.”
oooo“Well – what am I supposed to do now?” Calvin protested, putting his hands on his hips. He turned to leave and nearly walked into the path of a cab that sped past him, and came to a screeching halt about fifty yards away, between the encircling arms of the colonnades. “They nearly ran me over!” he complained to the guard once he had caught his breath. “Did you see that? That taxi nearly ran me over!”
oooo“This is Rome, signore. You must give way.”
oooo“Calvin’s not giving way any more,” said Calvin. He marched purposefully toward the cab. “They’re going to get a piece of his mind.”
ooooThe driver got out of the cab and opened the door for his passenger. Even from a distance Calvin could see that she looked ill. He stopped. “What’s her problem?”
ooooWith a squeal of tires, the cab was gone and the woman left standing alone, staring blankly around her – especially at the oblisque in the middle of the piazza. In one hand she had a suitcase that seemed to be falling apart. In the other, a silver metal case.
oooo“It’s her!” Calvin gasped. “It’s her, Calvin!”
ooooThompson began to walk slowly toward the monument, stumbling often as she did. He followed her at a distance.
ooooA huge Christmas tree was anchored to the oblisque by guy wires and, at its base a lifelike creche had been set up, with living animals and terra cotta figures of the Holy Family and the shepherds. The tree was dark, with the exception of the golden star at it’s peak illuminated by a single spotlight. A long aluminum extension ladder leaned against it, apparently left by workmen in the midst of preparations for mass when word came down that the celebration would take place at the Lateran, instead.
ooooIt was perfect for Calvin’s purposes, but he was not a good runner, so he’d have to wait until Thompson was closer to the oblisque. Timing had to be just right.

oooo“Do you see that?” said Quinn, tapping Merchison on the shoulder.
oooo“What?”
oooo“That woman who just got out of the cab.”
oooo“I don’t even see a cab. What are all these people doing here?”
oooo“Short notice,” said Quinn. “They didn’t get the word. She’s carrying a Panaflex case.”
oooo“Quick!” said Merchison, kicking open the mini van door. “Get out!”
ooooThey got out and stood on tiptoe to see over the heads of the crowd. “Where? I don’t see it?” said Merchison, craning her neck.
oooo“I’ve lost her.”
oooo“Let me see,” said Merchison, taking the night vision binoculars from her producer. “Point – whereabouts? I see her! She’s got it! It’s her! Where in hell is the crew?” She flung a glance at her watch. “It’s nearly nine.”
oooo“Caught in traffic?”
oooo“I doubt it. It’s just the blasted Italians. Time doesn’t exist over here. Eight-thirty means sometime before midnight. If we miss this – “
oooo“We could go talk to her.”
oooo“We can’t – it’s going down now – “
oooo“What is?”
oooo“Whatever’s happening. That’s the whole point. If we stop it – it doesn’t go down. And if it doesn’t go down – “
oooo“No story.”
oooo“Bingo. She looks like something the cat dragged in,” said Merchison, scanning the crowd in Thompson’s vicinity through the binoculars, “Afterwards. We’ll interview her afterwards. I don’t see any other media – nothing.”
oooo“Good.”
oooo“Great! Ten to one they all think the story’s about the move to the Lateran. Gotta be a circus over there, chasing themselves up each other’s orifices. Suits me fine. What have we here?”
oooo“What?”
oooo“Looks like she’s got a guardian angel. See the black guy – ten or fifteen feet behind her. He’s following her.”
oooo“Guardian fairy, I think you mean.”
oooo“Who do you think he is?”
oooo“Nobody. Coincidence,” said Quinn. “What if they’re right?”
oooo“Who?”
oooo“The guys at the Lateran.”
oooo“They’re not,” said Merchison. “The story’s here. I can taste it.”
oooo“Quinn!” He almost dropped the binoculars.
oooo“What?”
oooo“Look!” said Merchison, holding the glasses up to Quinn’s eyes with the strap still around her neck. “Do you see what I see?”
oooo“What am I looking at?” said Quinn, squinting into the lenses.
oooo“All the way across – pacing back and forth in front of the – two, four, six, eight – tenth and eleventh column.”
ooooQuinn adjusted the focus. “I don’t believe it!” He stared at Merchison. “The President!” He swept the area. “All alone. No secret service – nothing. Wait – there is somebody.”
oooo“Where?”
oooo“In the shadows – four or five columns to his left. I can’t make ‘em out.”
ooooMerchison grabbed the glasses back. “I don’t see anything.”
oooo“Keep looking.”
ooooMerchison was impatient. “You’re seeing things.” She turned the glasses on the President. “This is incredible! What do you think he’s up to?”
oooo“Whatever it is – we’re the last people he wants to know about it.”
ooooMerchison laughed. “Have you got a still camera?”
oooo“My old Pentax.”
oooo“Where’s your digital?”
oooo“I hate that thing.”
ooooMerchison fumed. “Film? You’ve got to be kidding.”
oooo“Old dog, I guess. Been a long time since I’ve shot anything.”
oooo“What film?”
oooo“400 in it, but I’ve got some 1000.”
oooo“If it’s not as desiccated as Ramses. Get it. Load up. What lens?”
oooo“1.4X with a NiteSite,” said Quinn, producing the camera case from among his belongings on the back seat of the mini van.
oooo“Perfect. He’s seen her!”
oooo“What’s he doing?”
oooo“Nothing. He took a couple of steps in her direction. Then stopped. Now he’s backing into the shadows – but he’s watching her like a hawk.”
oooo“Then she is Thompson.”
oooo“Gotta be.”
ooooQuinn pressed a button and the rewind motor wheezed a high monotone as the old film spooled back into the cartridge. He popped the back of the camera open and took it out, replacing it with the 1000.
oooo“This is my only roll.”
oooo“Thirty-six?”
oooo“Yeah.”
oooo“Then we’d better make ‘em good. Get a shot of Thompson.”
oooo“Where is she?”
oooo“Approaching the tree. Twenty-five, thirty feet away – see the nun with the seagull hat?”
oooo“Yeah.”
oooo“Just to her right.”
oooo“Got her!” He clicked off two quick shots.
oooo“Is there enough light? Can you tell who she is?”
oooo“I can count her freckles,” said Quinn.
oooo“Perfect,” said Merchison, jerking an impatient glance toward the street. “Where are those guys?” Merchison swept the glasses over Calvin. “The fairy’s still tailing her.”
oooo“You want a shot of him, too?”
oooo“Couldn’t hurt. Just one.”
ooooQuinn focused and shot.
oooo“Don’t let that case out of your sight.”
oooo“Wait a second,” said Quinn. He scrambled to the hood of the van.
oooo“What is it?”
oooo“Three people – “
oooo“Where?”
oooo“Just coming through the colonnade, halfway between the President and the end of the piazza.”
oooo“What about them?” said Merchison, trying to find them in the glasses.
oooo“Of all the people here – the only ones going anywhere are Thompson, the queer and these three.”
oooo“Got ‘em!” said Merchison. “A woman, a man – and somebody in a blanket. Walks like a man. They’re headed toward the tree.”
oooo“Take a shot and stay with ‘em. Then get down from there, you stand out like a sore thumb. I’ll keep an eye on Thompson and the President. She glanced at her watch. “8:59. Whatever’s going down here, nine o’clock is the magic hour. That makes it three o’clock in New York.”
oooo“What are you thinking?”
oooo“I want you to arrange a feed from here.”
oooo“It’s too late.”
oooo“Wrong,” said Merchison. “Once we’ve seen all there is to see, you get over to the Lateran and grab every network camera in sight. Tell them to maintain the satellite link, or reconnect if they have to. Then call Rocco at Cin’italia and get this developed,” she tapped Quinn’s camera. “If they still have the technology. Have the shots blown up – 8 by ten at least. Bigger if they can. One way or the other, we’re going to be on the air in three hours. I’ll call New York.
oooo“I can’t believe I lost my iPhone.”

oooo“Nobody’s seen him,” said Stephson who had wedged himself sideways into the phone booth. His stress level, low at the best of times, was rendered volatile by his inability to find Dumas and the knowledge he’d have to give account for a fruitless trip to Rome at next month’s budget meeting. Crowning his frustration was his experience with the Italian telephone system – and the fact it had taken him nearly two hours to track down the only public phone operating in Rome after eight o’clock, at the Palazzo della Poste. “Peruzzi was no help whatsoever, the ass.”
oooo“Dumas is the least of our worries now,” said Guerra through the static.
oooo“What do you mean? He’s an eyewitness – “
oooo“You recall the leak I told you about?”
oooo“What of it?”
oooo>”I’ve found it.”
oooo“And?”
oooo“My jurisdiction is – somewhat circumscribed on the home front. How would you like to be the next Superintendent of Scotland Yard? We could do one another a lot of good in future.”
ooooStephson forgot his discomfort. He forgot Dumas and Peruzzi. Even Fuller. He blessed the Italian phone company and, producing a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket, held it up to the light. “There’s a plane leaving just after midnight.”
oooo“Be on it,” said Guerra. “And Stephson – ?”
oooo“Yes?”
oooo“Happy Christmas.”

ooooA coffee vendor, identifying a market and a need, had set up a tea and coffee wagon in the northern wing of the ellipse at St. Peter’s. Ordinarily such a liberty would have been frowned upon, but he intended to stay until he was thrown out – and so far, for whatever reason, the Vatican guards were looking the other way.
ooooCustom, while not apt to make him rich, was brisk and the four chairs and two little tables he had set up were consistently occupied. Among the patrons, a redheaded man with nervous eyes that scanned the crowd, visually frisking every new arrival to the Piazza.
ooooIt had begun to snow hard now, and the wind blew in icy gusts. Good for business.
oooo“I’ll have another,” said Connor, holding his Styrofoam cup on the little tin counter.
oooo“Il caffé? Si!” said the vendor, adding cream and sugar as he poured. Except for a glance now and then, the customer didn’t take his eyes off the people in the ellipse. Who was he looking for, the vendor wondered. A girl, perhaps? A friend? No. That was not the look of someone expecting a friend.
ooooHe wondered if the redhead knew that someone was watching him as well, from the shadows behind the créche: a woman of about fifty, with glasses – her hair in a bun. She walked in tiny circles, folding and unfolding her arms about her to keep warm. But she stayed there, looking away at irregular intervals as if she, too, was searching for someone else, but most of the time her attention was on him.
ooooClearly she didn’t want him to know she was there.
ooooIt was none of the vendor’s concern. He had a lot of business to conduct before everyone found out there would be no Mass at St. Peter’s this Christmas Eve. “Una euro,” he said, holding out his hand and wondering what a euro would convert to when the government reverted to lira. The papers were full of it, and the news was even worse on the internet. The Arab spring, the Occupy movement, the fall of Syria and the massacre of its Christians by the new Shiite government, the coup in Iran, riots in Russia, and the Pope on his deathbed. The world may be falling apart, he considered philosophically, but it would still need a good cup of coffee.
ooooHe picked up the five euro note his customer had tossed on the counter.
ooooConnor waited while the vendor made change. “What time is it?” he said, tapping his wrist.
ooooThe vendor pulled his coat sleeve over his watch and held it up to the kerosene light.
oooo“Nearly nine,” said Connor.
oooo“Nine,” parroted the vendor. “Si. Nove. Nine!”
ooooConnor went back to his table but, instead of sitting down, surveyed the crowd on tiptoe between sips. “What have we here?” he said aloud. The last person he’d expected to see was the slinky black Yank who’d accosted him on Westminster Embankment, but there he was. Even with the addition of a full-length fur coat, there was no mistaking Calvin.
ooooAs he watched, it became evident that he was following a woman. Not trying to catch her up, which he could have easily done in a few steps: just following at a distance. “Now what might he be up to?”
ooooThe woman’s actions, on closer inspection, seemed equally out of place. Unlike the others, who milled around in groups large and small, she was making her way deliberately toward the créche, darting anxious stares into the crowd on either side. Was she looking for someone, or fleeing from someone? It was impossible to tell.
ooooThen he saw what she was carrying, and the newscasters words came back in a flood.
oooo“Bloody hell!” he said, flinging his cup to the ground. Impelled by hunter’s instinct, he weaved through the crowd, stationing himself behind the creché, where he could watch without being seen. His attention was riveted on both Calvin, whose actions he couldn’t account for, and the metal case the woman gripped tightly in her hands, which despite being blue with cold, seemed fused to the handle.
ooooMiller, taken by surprise, at first thought Connor had seen her. Momentarily stunned, she only managed to get out of his way at the last second.
ooooComing from the other side of the Christmas tree, Dumas spotted Thompson seconds later. “There she is!” He recognized her, and the Panaflex case, from the Polaroids that had been enclosed with the vial he’d intercepted.
oooo“I don’t see anything!” said Jannine.
span style=”color:white;”>oooo“Do you see them?” said Mohammed. “Is anyone with her?”
oooo“Not that I can see.”
oooo“Does she have the case? I see her!” said Jannine. “Good lord, she looks like death.”
ooooDumas turned to Mohammed. “You’re sure you want to go through with this?”
oooo“It’s not a question of wanting, is it? All of us were born to accomplish one great thing, but most never recognize it when it comes. I am blessed.
oooo“My cousin is waiting in his car, out there.” He nodded through the eastern colonnade toward the Via dei Corridori. “We rehearsed this afternoon. When Jannine screams, I run like hell!”
oooo“Doesn’t sound like much of a plan, when you put it that way.”
oooo“Allah is the Supreme Plotter. It was he who inspired you to feign your death on the train and put the rolls of blankets on the gurney – “
oooo“You’re the one who gave my rag man a pomegranate for a head. That was inspiration.”
oooo“It was! Praise to Allah! You must see that he won’t abandon us now.
oooo“Besides, how often does one get to do something noble these days? Martyrdom is not easy to come by when everyone is a fanatic!”
oooo“Don’t say that!” Jannine protested.
oooo“Not that I’m intending to become one – just that I am not afraid.” He pulled the covering a little further over his head. “Allah forgive the lie.”
oooo“Wait here, ’til I call you, Mohammed – “
oooo“Rashid.”
oooo“Yes – to be sure. Rashid. Thank you. And you, Jannine, stay put. I have no idea what might happen and I don’t want any harm to come to you.”
oooo“Taken a fancy to me, have you?” said Jannine with a wink. Mohammed laughed nervously.
oooo“Please,” said Dumas. “Just – stay put. Please. Watch Mohammed, and just as he gets to the colonnades – “
oooo“I know what to do. Let’s get on with it.”
oooo“Wish me luck.”
ooooJannine kissed him on the cheek.
oooo“May Allah go with you,” said Mohammed.
ooooDumas shook his hand. “‘God bless us, every one.’”
ooooThe crowd was thickest in front of the creché where snowflakes steaming on the floodlights gave the illusion of warmth. The harsh lights themselves created an almost lunar spectacle in which glaring brightness gave way abruptly to impenetrable shadow. Dumas shielded his eyes as he approached the woman with the metal case.
oooo“Dr. Thompson?” he said softly. She spun toward him, inhaling sharply and seizing him with eyes wide with terror and set in deep purple sockets of exhaustion. “Fuller?”
oooo“Avery Fuller,” said Dumas, himself shocked by the death-masque that confronted him. “Yes. This is it?” he reached for the case.
oooo“No!” Thompson started, drawing back. “I can’t let you have it until – “
oooo“Of course – I’m sorry.” He beckoned to Mohammed, who pulled the cloak a little lower over his eyes and shuffled toward them. He hadn’t taken five steps when two men materialized from different parts of the crowd and, taking him by either arm, led him away.
ooooConnor’s attention was drawn to the man with whom Thompson was speaking. He was back-to the light, so his face was totally obscure until someone in a nearby knot of people moved out of the way and let another light fall on his face. “Dumas!” he hissed in disbelief. “Impossible!” He drew the gun from his pocket and stared at it as if it had betrayed him. He’d felt the unmistakeable kick as the bullet had left the barrel and bored a hole through Dumas’ skull. But there he was, living. Breathing. No hole. No blood. And he was no ghost. Almost reflexively he raised the gun, carefully pointed the barrel at Crisp’s forehead, and gently squeezed the trigger. At the same instant, a deafening cry concussed his left ear.
oooo“Dumas!” Miller shrieked as she threw herself into Connor, knocking him off balance at the precise second he fired. Somewhere in the shadows overhead, the bullet struck a stone Apostle and ricocheted harmlessly into space.
ooooInstantly, hundreds of people dropped to the ground, hundreds more screamed and ran into one another – while others stood as if they’d been hypnotized. The animals around the manger, already edgy due to the climatic chaos, tugged at their restraints.
ooooConnor whipped about in a paroxysm of rage and shot blindly at Miller who screamed in the dark. The instinct to pull the trigger two more times was almost overwhelming, but he reigned it.
ooooOnly two bullets left.
ooooAt the sound of the shots, The plainclothes Vatican guards, who had been trying to squeeze their way through the crowd that had collected in the center of the square, dropped to the pavement as well and began crawling toward the creché.
ooooCalvin seized the moment’s confusion and panic to wrench the Panaflex case from Thompson’s claw-like grip. It dropped to the ground and fell open within the confines of the rope tied around it. Before anyone could react, he had scooped it together and was halfway up the ladder that leaned against the Christmas tree.

oooo“What is it! Who’s been shot?” said Quinn, prodding Merchison for a look through the glasses.
oooo“Shut up! Shut up! Take pictures!”
oooo“I can’t – there are too many people in the way!”
oooo“Climb up on the roof! Look!”
oooo“What?” said Quinn as he scrambled to the top of the mini van.
oooo“The black guy’s climbing the Christmas tree – and he’s got the Panaflex case!”
ooooQuinn had focused his camera on Calvin and was following him to the top of the tree. “Got him!”
oooo“What’s the President doing?”
oooo“Crap!” said Quinn, scanning the distant colonnades quickly. “I’ve lost him!”
ooooA yellow van squealed to a halt in front of Merchison, and Galietta and the crew began to get out. “Get out of the way!” Merchison bellowed. “Move that thing!”
oooo“What’s going on?” said Galietta, halfway out the driver’s side door. “You want us here or not?”
oooo“I want you to get out of my way! Park over there and set up fast. No tripod. I want you to get into the crowd over there.”
oooo>”What’s happening?” said Galietta, searching the crowd.
oooo“Move!”

ooooSomeone had pulled Thompson to the ground and knocked the wind out of her. It must have been Fuller, he was draped over her now. “What happened?” she whispered as he got to his knees.
oooo“I’m not sure. Somebody stole the case!”
ooooThompson caught sight of Calvin, who had just reached the top of the tree and was removing the rope from the Panaflex case. “There!” she cried, pointing. “What is he doing!?”
 “Lord Dumas, I believe,” said Connor coldly.
ooooDumas looked up into the muzzle of a gun.
oooo“Unfinished business, your Lordship. You’ve given me a hell of a time.”
ooooThe Panaflex case came crashing to the ground fifteen feet away, diverting Connor’s attention. “Oh, no you don’t,” said Connor, putting his hand on Dumas’ shoulder as the latter started to move. “You twitch, my friend, and it’ll be your last.” He looked back at Calvin.
oooo“If he opens that vial, we’re all dead,” said Dumas, his voice constricted by Connor’s grip. “It’s a virus.”
oooo“Virus. What the hell do I care if he’s got a virus.”
oooo“It’s the Black Plague,” said Dumas, trying to reduce what could be a protracted dialogue to terms he felt Connor would comprehend.
ooooEven to Connor’s addled brain, it made a kind of sense. It explained why everyone was here, now, and the rush to get their hands on that case. He was not altruistic. Every man, woman, and child in Italy could die a slow, painful death and he wouldn’t bat an eye or shed a tear. But he’d seen pictures of the Black Death; etchings of the carts loaded with bodies as the disease ate its way through Europe; all the way to Ireland, consuming borders, boundaries, and every other distinction along the way: ignoring the differences that set one tribe apart from another. Neither would it discriminate in Ireland. Catholic. Protestant. They were all the same to that blind, hungry beast.
ooooDumas sensed Connor’s hesitation. “I think he intends to release it.”
oooo“Shut up!” said Connor, shaking him.
oooo“Then I’ll finally be dead, and it won’t have cost you a bullet. Of course, you’ll be dead, too.”
oooo>”Shut up – let me think!”
ooooGive him something to think about, thought Dumas. “That one man will kill us all.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine: To each his grave

oooo“I’m Calvin!” Calvin screamed. The tree was swinging wildly under the influence of his weight and the wind. Snow pelted his face, stinging his ears and his eyes. “I have AIDS!” He held the vial of golden serum aloft, where it glimmered in spotlight illuminating the crystal star of Bethlehem. “But it’s not going to eat me alive. I choose where do die – and it’s here. I choose when – and it’s now. And I choose how.” He shook the vial. “And I’ve decided to take you all with me! All of you! Everybody! No one will be left to pollute the earth!” He was pleased with his little speech. He reminded himself of Martin Luther King, but the wind tore his words to shreds. He yelled louder. “You’re polluters and parasites! All of you! Especially you, big, important Senator Wingfield!” He wrapped his legs around the ladder and began to wrestle with the white plastic cap.
oooo“He’s going to dump the stuff!” Quinn yelled.
oooo“Am I hearing things? Did he say something about Senator Wingfield?”
oooo“Who cares?” said Quinn. “I’m outta here!”
oooo“Stay!” Merchison commanded, but Quinn was already in the van. “You’ve been dodging bullets all your life.”
oooo“You don’t take bullets home to the wife and kids,” Quinn objected.
oooo“What is it? What’s he talking about?” said Galietta. “What are you talking about, Quinn?”
oooo“Nothing!” Merchison shouted. “Let him go. Just get in there and shoot.”
oooo“It’s a virus!” said Quinn through the driver’s window. “Are you coming, Merch?”
ooooMerchison responded with a scalding glance.
oooo“What kind of virus?” Galietta asked. He’d seen Quinn dodge those bullets in Kuwait, Beirut, Sarajevo, Baghdad, and Kabul, oblivious to fear. His evident horror in the present situation, was alarming.
oooo“Trust me,” said Quinn, “not one you want to be around. This is it, Merchison. Anyone who’s still here when he gets that top off – with the wind blowing like nature’s atomizer…”
oooo“That’s all I need to hear,” said Galietta. “We’re gone.” He ushered his crew back into the van.
oooo“Screw you both!” yelled Merchison, unable to keep from screaming. “Just leave me the camera.”
ooooGalietta tossed her the GopPro and slammed the door. The little van narrowly missed sideswiping the coffee-vendor’s wagon as it sped out of the ellipse.
oooo“Your last chance, Merch,” said Quinn, revving the engine.
oooo“Are you still here?” said Merchison. She flipped open the monitor screen and waded into the crowd.

ooooIndecision had forced beads of sweat to Connor’s forehead. His fist nervously gripped and re-gripped Dumas’s shoulder. At last, he transferred his grip on Dumas to the collar and dragged him clear of a group of bemused spectators. He aimed the pistol at Calvin and squeezed the trigger just as the cap came undone. The bullet pierced Calvin’s thigh and nearly knocked him out of the tree, but he regained his balance and stared in horrible fascination from the bloody tear in his pants to the golden fluid as it dripped from the vial onto the wind. “No!!!” Connor bellowed. He loosed his grip on Dumas, who fell heavily to the ground, and walked toward the Christmas tree like an automaton.
oooo“Dr. Thompson?” A man, covered with snow, the lower half of his face concealed by a scarf, had rushed out of the crowd and was pulling her to her feet. “Where is the serum?” The man tugged the scarf below his chin. She reeled as she drew the President’s face into focus, another impossible waxwork etched upon the ambient madness. She mumbled something at him.
oooo“Where is it?” he demanded, shaking her by the shoulder.
ooooIn a haze of delirium Thompson’s finger traced an arc toward the tree at the center of the eerie tableaux that bounced and swayed in a frenzy as if trying to rid itself of Calvin.
ooooCalvin, whose leg had slipped through the uppermost rungs of the ladder, had fallen backwards and was swinging upside down, laughing hysterically, licking the empty vial with a tongue festered with the white nodules that signaled his disease.
oooo“That’s it?”
ooooThompson nodded. “But – “
oooo“Who is he?” he interrupted.
oooo“I don’t know,” Thompson replied in a dull monotone. “It doesn’t matter, now.”
ooooConnor stopped at the base of the tree. Slowly and deliberately he raised his gun, following Calvin’s head as it swung back and forth like a pendulum.
oooo“See you all in hell!” Calvin laughed as the bullet pierced his throat.
ooooShots came from two other directions simultaneously and Connor, transfixed for a moment by their opposing force, stared bewilderedly at Dumas who, recognizing that Thompson was in more capable hands, had taken a few steps preparatory to finding Janine.
oooo“Not enough bullets,” Connor wheezed through the blood that oozed from his mouth. He sank to the ground.
oooo“Too late,” said the President, removing a small black device from his pocket.
oooo“No! Wait!” said Kiley, grabbing his arm.
ooooHe simply looked at her and shook his head slightly.
oooo“You’ve done it?”
oooo“I thought you’d gone.”
oooo“I couldn’t,” said Kiley. “I’ve been following you.”
oooo“The plane?”
ooooShe shrugged. “Gone, I guess.”
oooo“You let it go without you?”
oooo“I couldn’t let you out of my sight, could I? Besides – what’s one more life?”
oooo“One less saved,” the President said under his breath. He put an arm around Thompson, who was about to collapse with fatigue. “Are you all right, Dr. Thompson?” he said gently. Not that it mattered.

oooo“Mr. Fuller?” said a stranger, intercepting Dumas and pulling him into the shadow of the oblisque. “I believe you’re wanting this.”
ooooOnce Dumas had steadied himself he recognized the man as middle eastern – with an English accent. Abu Musab Al-Surii! He was proffering a silver Panaflex camera case. “For all our sakes, I hope you know what to do with it.”
ooooDumas looked from Al-Surii to Calvin. “But – “
ooooAl-Surii smiled. “Apple juice,” he said. “The case Dr. Thompson carried was a decoy – except when she brought it into Italy. As a World Health Organization physician, medicines in her possession would be immune from search. That was the idea, at any rate. In the end – because of the number of immigrants, amateurs were pressed into service as customs officials – nevertheless – she got in into the country – and we switched it back. She’ll want to know.”
oooo“Apple juice?” Dumas echoed dumbly, staring at Calvin’s lifeless body hanging from the ladder, swaying in the wind. When he turned back Al-Surii was gone.

ooooThe piazza was suddenly alive with people who, recovering from the immediate aftershock, had scrambled to their feet and were running, panicked, in all directions.
ooooJanine, who had been bouncing up and down to see over people’s heads and keep Mohammed and the men who had taken him in sight, observed them entering the colonnade. But she didn’t have to scream. When the attention of Mohammed’s captors was momentarily diverted by the gunshots, he jerked free and ran like a banshee, his garments billowing in his draft. His former captors ran after him. Ten seconds later, Janine was threading her way through the departing multitude when they reemerged, weapons raised, running toward the center of the piazza. Seconds later they opened fire, and bodies started falling. Whether they’d been hit, or not, Janine couldn’t tell from this distance. No doubt the majority had flung themselves down in self defense.
ooooAt once the small knot of Vatican guards that had gathered around Calvin and Connor, dropped to their knees and returned fire. The terrorists hit the ground and rolled for cover behind some of the round-topped stones that form a wide circle around the oblisque.

ooooKiley stood in shock when gunfire erupted around her. The President, who had hit the ground reflexively, was yelling at her – but she was frozen to the core. Nothing would move. Her brain was barking orders, but her body wasn’t listening. The President got to his feet and, bending as low as possible, ran at her with his arms outstretched. Then the bullet struck.
ooooThe whole process seemed to happen in slow motion. She was even aware that one of the bullets, entering the President’s back, had blown a button off his overcoat as it exited his chest. His legs buckled like a marionette whose strings had been severed, and his arms flew akimbo, sending the remote control flying in a shallow arc. It stuttered to the pavement fifteen or twenty feet away as the leader of the free world sank in a heap to the ground within reach of Thompson and Dumas who were lying face down on the paving stones with their arms around their heads.
ooooStupefied at the vague realization that the President had given his life to save hers, Kiley stumbled toward him, into the hail of bullets, and threw herself over his body.
ooooA moment later the shooting stopped, superseded by a tense silence that absorbed the multi-lingual moans and wails of the fallen as what remained of the tiny cadré of plain-clothed Vatican Guards – positioned on one knee, heaving clouds of steam into the troubled night – aimed their automatic weapons at the darkness, waiting.
ooooWraiths of smoke from the preceding fusillade leapt upon the wind and spun like dervishes as it tore them asunder and flung them at the shadows.
ooooKiley’s attention was naturally drawn to a woman speaking English nearby.
oooo“It doesn’t matter now,” Thompson repeated over and over again. She was still lying on the ground, and didn’t bother moving.
ooooDumas rose to his knees beside her, revealing the metal case he had been guarding with his life. “It’s all right,” he said, caressing her forehead and bending close to her ear to make himself heard. “It’s all right. The serum is here – ” he tapped the Panaflex case. “Yours was a decoy.”
ooooShe stopped moaning and stared at him witlessly. “Decoy?”
oooo“There were two cases – yours and this one. They just gave it to me. The other one,” he turned and looked at Calvin’s lifeless body swinging from the ladder, “had apple juice in it.”
oooo“Apple juice,” Thompson repeated.
oooo“Apple juice!” said Kiley. “Did you say apple juice!”
ooooDumas raised bewildered eyes.
oooo“Look!” said Kiley, taking the dead President’s face in her hand and turning it toward them.
ooooDumas was thunderstruck. “That’s…!”
oooo“Dead?” said Thompson, turning to see. “He’s dead?”
oooo“He was after the serum.” Kiley nodded toward Dumas’ case. “That’s it? The real stuff?”
oooo“I don’t . . . I . . .” She looked at Dumas, who patted the Panaflex case and nodded.
ooooKiley scanned the area frantically. “Then it’s not too late.” The remote control had landed about twenty feet away, halfway across the no-man’s land between them and the standing stones. She flung herself, half running, half-crawling, toward the device and was just reaching for it when the sole remaining gunman jumped out from behind the standing stone and began spraying bullets wildly over his shoulder as he fled.
ooooHe was brought down almost instantly by the Vatican guards, but not before two of the bullets found home, one in Kiley’s shoulder, the other in the base of her neck. Fireworks at once went off in her brain, and aimless signals of alarm scorched her nerves like electric lava.
oooo“Good God!” Thompson cried, watching as Kiley crumpled to the ground and began clawing toward the remote unit. “What is she doing?” She tried to stand, but Dumas pulled her back down.
oooo“No! There may be others out there. Stay where you are. We’ve got to get this thing safely out of here.” He thumped the case.
ooooThey could do nothing but watch helplessly as the young woman dragged herself, wheezing, across the pavement her muscles convulsing spastically.
oooo“Her nervous system’s been affected.”
oooo“Death throes?”
oooo“I don’t think so. She’s looking for something. Reaching for it. Can you see what it is?”
ooooDumas, squinting through the snow that assaulted his eyes, saw nothing. “No. I don’t see anything.”

ooooKiley couldn’t see. All her systems were rapidly closing down. She couldn’t feel her legs anymore. It seemed like her body from the spine down had turned to stone as the living part of her tried to pull the dead part another inch across the pavement. That’s all – just another inch.
ooooHer head began to nod involuntarily. It was now or never. She lunged out with her hand – and it landed on the device. Blindly, rallying the last remaining shred of cognizance, she tried to visualize the unit, which button was red and which green? Did she have the unit upright, or upside down?
oooo“Jesus, take my hand.” She attempted to press the button under her index finger and realized, with horror, the digit had ceased to respond.
ooooShe pressed the button under her thumb, and died.

oooo“Look this way, please,” commanded a voice. Someone was hovering over them with a television camera. “You’re Doctor Thompson?”
ooooDumas realized the danger at once. “Go away!” he said sharply. “Get that thing out of here!” He staggered to his feet. “You don’t know what you’re doing!”
oooo“The virus – was that it?” Merchison jerked a thumb toward Calvin.
oooo“No,” said Dumas. “It was a decoy.”
oooo“Then this is the real stuff,” she said, running her free hand over the Panaflex case. “It’s cold as ice!”
oooo“Leave that alone!” Thompson screeched, clutching the case with both hands and holding it to her like a newborn. It had been an instinctive action. It wasn’t necessary any more.
ooooMerchison, kept a wary eye on the shadows at the edge of the piazza; there could still be terrorists waiting in the wings. “Tell us about the virus, Dr. Thompson. Is it ebola? How does it kill?”
oooo“Not any more,” said Thompson to herself.
oooo“I beg your pardon?” Merchison snapped. “What’s the kill rate for a virus like that, Doctor? Say, out of a million?”
ooooDumas tried to pull her away, but it was like trying to dislodge a pit bull from the jugular. Merchison shoved him aside. “Doctor?” she said, turning the camera back on Thompson, who still lay, dazed, on the ground. “Were you kidnapped?”
ooooShe was too stunned to reply.
oooo“Dr. Thompson,” Merchison insisted. “Were you kidnapped? Who did it? Where are they?”
oooo“Can’t you see she’s in no condition to speak!” said Dumas. He tried to grab the camera from Merchison’s grasp, but Merchison was too fast.
oooo“Leave that alone!”
oooo“There’s your story,” said Dumas angrily. He seized Merchison by the shoulder, spun her around and pointed at two of the dead nearby.
oooo“Who is it?”
oooo“Go see for yourself,” said Dumas.
ooooThe addendum was wasted on Merchison who rushed to the President’s body, turned it over. “Oh, my god!” She aimed the camera at the corpse and gorged it on the grisly scene.

ooooDumas helped Thompson to her feet and, holding her arm around him with one hand, and securing the Panaflex case in the other, hobbled off toward Janine who was running in their direction.
oooo“I screamed!” she called. “But nothing happened!”
oooo“I’m not surprised – the place was bedlam.”
oooo“Do you think he got away?”
oooo“I pray so.”
ooooJanine stationed herself under Thompson’s other arm. They surveyed the Piazza, now vacant except for the Vatican guards who had begun their inventory of the dead.
oooo“All for nothing,” said Thompson.
oooo“What do you mean?”
oooo“Customs x-rayed the case when I entered the country. That killed the virus. It never occurred to me.”

oooo“Who was it?” The vice-president’s husband had been trying to explain to their three year-old son why size ‘D’ batteries wouldn’t work in place of ‘C’s, in the new toy he’d just unwrapped when the vice-president returned from answering the door. “You were gone forever – ” When she didn’t respond, he looked up.
oooo“Em?” She was leaning against the doorjamb, all the color drained from her face. He stood up and went to her.
oooo“Daddy?”
oooo“Just a second, Tommy. What is it, Emmy? Who was at the door.”
ooooHer eyes were glazed as she looked at him. “Billy?”
oooo“I’m here, hon. What is it?”
oooo“It was Tap Marley and Director Freeman.”
oooo“On Christmas morning? What did they want?”
oooo“The President is dead.”
oooo“Daddy! Maybe these will work if you don’t use so many!” Tommy theorized.
ooooThe vice-president sank to the floor as if she’d been sandbagged. Her husband went to his knees beside her. “Dead? How? Assassination?”
ooooThe vice-president shook her head.
oooo“Daddy!”
oooo“Not now, Tommy!” Billy yelled. Tommy began to cry.
oooo“Oh, no,” said the Vice President. “Go get him. Tommy, come here, sweetheart.”
ooooThe child stumbled toward them burying his knuckles in his teary eyes, and fell into her arms. “You be still for just a minute, while Daddy and I talk, okay? Then we’ll go get you the right batteries.” She looked at her husband over Tommy’s head. “The Seven-11′s open, isn’t it? They have batteries.”
oooo“Emily! What happened?”
ooooShe stroked the child’s head as he sniffed back tears and told him everything Freeman had said.

ooooHarrison knocked on Scott’s door, but didn’t wait for an invitation to come in.
oooo“Harrison?” said Scott, looking up from his paperwork. “I didn’t – ” Immediately he saw they weren’t alone, but that Harrison had brought with him a contingent of uniformed security men. “You can’t come barging in here!”
oooo“I’ve come to retrieve something I left here the other day,” said Harrison. He went directly to the straight-backed wooden chair against the wall and removed a bug from the back of one of the uprights.
ooooScott flushed. “What is that?”
oooo“A listening device.”
oooo“You bugged my office!”
oooo“I did.”
ooooScott’s innate arrogance was about to explode in wrath, when he realized the hopelessness of his situation. “So that’s why you sat there the other day.”
oooo“One of the reasons,” said Harrison. “You’ll be happy to know Lord Dumas is alive and well, and we have spoken to Walter Lithgoue about the attempt on his lordship’s life.
oooo“Lithgoue?” Scott mouthed dumbly.
oooo“Apparently he was supposed to kill Dumas at the train station in Rome, but arrived hours early. So, he took the bullet train back to Genoa – where he boarded his Lordship’s train as a conductor.
oooo“We’ve got the whole thing on tape. I’ll be happy to play it for you.”
oooo“I wish to speak with my solicitor,” said Scott.

ooooPutting down the rebellion within his own borders had cost the Syrian president everything. Even his closest allies – Iran and Russia – had abandoned him, though they were still covertly supplying him with arms and a small but lethal army of mercenaries. He was standing – looking out the window at the plumes of smoke rising from the suburbs, that seemed to have become a permanent fixture of Damascus in the last year – when his uncle, commander of his personal guard, entered the room. “You have come directly from your apartments, Rifaat?”
oooo“Yes.”
oooo“And you spoke to no one?”
oooo“Who could I speak to?” said the General, swallowing the knot that had fixed itself in his throat. “You gave orders, did you not, for no one to talk to me?”
ooooThe President turned. “I have found out who kidnapped the American scientist – and why.”
ooooRiffat swallowed again. “I shall be glad of any theories – “
oooo“No theories,” said the President, staring unblinkingly at his uncle. “You know Sir Richard Scott?”
oooo“Of course.”
oooo“He is behind it.”
oooo“Is he?”
oooo“He and another.”
ooooRifaat sat down. “You have this on reliably authority?”
oooo“It would seem he was suspected of – impropriety – by one of his subordinates – a man named Harrison, who took the liberty of placing a listening device – “
oooo“A bug?”
oooo“As you say. When Scott was confronted with the evidence of his own lips – “
oooo“He confessed to kidnapping the woman?”
oooo“How did you know it was a woman who was kidnapped, Rifaat?”
oooo“I read it.”
oooo“Odd, I didn’t hear that it was a woman myself, until a few minutes ago.” He paused. “You remember Rashid Al-Sa’di?”
oooo“Of course – with Hamas. He was arrested by the British.”
oooo“Yes. For running drugs, according to Scott.”
oooo“Impossible!” Rifaat protested, rising from his seat.
oooo“Sit, Rifaat.”
ooooThe General’s medals rattled as he resumed his seat.
oooo“When Iraq’s support dried up after Sadaam’s last war, and the money we gave him wasn’t enough to support the organization to Rashid’s satisfaction, he formed a syndicate with a drug cartel in Afghanistan, funneling cocaine and heroin into eastern Europe.
oooo“For this he formed a partnership with someone who had diplomatic immunity – two people, in fact. Scott was one.”
oooo“And?” said Rifaat, who had begun to breath with difficulty. The tight collar of his uniform seemed to choke him every time he swallowed.
ooooThe President didn’t answer the question immediately. “Rashid’s share of the profits maintained his position within Hamas – can you imagine what such zealots would have done if they had known where the money came from? That is why the media wasn’t notified about the kidnapping of this scientist. The revolutionaries involved couldn’t risk the discovery of that fact.”
oooo“Who were they?” Rifaat asked bravely.
oooo“Oh, those who did the actual dirty work were just functionaries – fanatics. Fools. It’s not them I am talking about. It is the one who directed them, from a safe distance.”
ooooRifaat said nothing.
oooo“Scott and his partner found out that their portion of the proceeds had been secreted in private accounts in Switzerland and the Cayman Islands, and were just about to seize Al-Sa’di when someone beat them to it – a British agent named Avery Fuller.”
oooo“I don’t know this name,” said Rifaat blankly.
oooo“Don’t you? Someone in your position surely should. At any rate, Scott and – his partner – had a parting of the ways, each believing the other had joined forces with Al-Sa’di and betrayed him. At least that’s what Scott feels.
oooo“Careful to protect his position, he interrogated Al-Sa’di in prison within an inch of his life, I gather, and got nothing. The partner, on the other hand, decided to get Al-Sa’di out of prison – under Scott’s nose. But how? What threat would guarantee compliance by the British government?”
ooooThe President folded his hands behind his back and hung his head. “The release of a deadly, unknown virus on a large center of population.
oooo“The partner had learned of Dr. Thompson from some of his associates in the medical establishment, the rest wrote itself, did it not?”
oooo“You’re asking me?” said Rifaat. “How should I know. It’s your fairy tale!”
ooooThe President smiled forlornly. “Then it is one written by a perverse Jinni, is it not? Al-Sa’di died in prison two days before Avery Fuller received the demand for his release in return for the serum.”
oooo“Impossible!”
oooo“If so, then what is this: Avery Fuller himself is murdered the following day by Irish revolutionaries.”
Rifaat’s brow twitched as his eyes blindly roamed their sockets. “That can’t be!”
oooo“A Lord Anthony Dumas then enters the picture in a capacity I have yet to comprehend, other than it was he who delivered a false Al-Sa’di in return for the serum which he promptly returned to Dr. Thompson.”
oooo“Then, the danger is passed.” said Rifaat, rising. “I thank you for taking the time to inform me.” He saluted and turned to leave.
oooo“There were two vials,” said the President coolly. “One is missing.”
oooo“One must pray it is in possession of sensible people.”
ooooIn his long tenure as chief of security, Rifaat had made many powerful friends, and was careful to see they all owed him favors. The President sidestepped a direct accusation and instead lifted a newspaper from his desk and handed it to him. “It’s all here – you will find it enthralling reading.”
ooooRifaat took the paper, glanced at the headlines, folded it under his arm and went to the door.
oooo“Rifaat?” said the President as the general opened the door. Rifaat didn’t turn.
oooo“Yes?”
oooo“Your pistol – is loaded?”
oooo“It is.”
oooo“Good,” said the President. “You’ll only need one bullet.”
ooooRifaat still didn’t turn. “I’ve done everything for you. The blood of the rebels – and of hundreds of innocent people – our countrymen – is on my hands. All for you.”
ooooThe President resumed his seat behind his desk and picked up a pen, as if to write. “I will allow my mother to believe you died honorably. Good-bye, uncle.”