The Genesis Plague

26

Randall Stokes stared at the computer screen wondering when Frank Roselli’s elusive e-mail would make an appearance in his inbox.

‘If you have something to say, Frank, let’s get on with it,’ he said to no one.

This morning’s clean-up had Stokes’s lower left eyelid twitching and his neck muscles quaking in spasm — his body’s most recurrent stress valves. Even the skin on his hands was breaking out in an itchy rash. No doubt that was due to the message that had turned up in his inbox: Crawford’s blunt update concerning the botched kill order on the Boston mark. Normally, this wouldn’t overly concern Stokes. Except this time the mysterious white knight who’d thwarted the assassin had been overheard asking the mark probing questions about Iraq. That the guy had a gun and managed to escape with the mark posed some serious questions concerning his motive and his employer.

Three kill confirmations had already arrived: an archaeologist in Geneva, a biocontainment engineer in Munich, a micro-biologist in Moscow. No complications or interference. No interloper. Therefore, the archaeologist was an isolated problem that, in all probability, linked directly to the ID card the deep-cover unit found near the cave. That would soon be remedied too. But for now, Stokes mothballed his concerns.

Turning his attention back to the business at hand, Stokes brought up a new window and entered three pass keys in the software’s prompt boxes. A chequerboard of live video feeds came on line, each shot glowing in eerie green monochrome. In all, sixteen closed-circuit cameras equipped with audio and infrared transmitted interior shots of the labyrinth via an encrypted digital signal bouncing through military satellites.

Fourteen cameras showed no movement — only still shots of winding passageways walled by jagged rock glowing in emerald night vision. The scene on the cameras numbered ‘01-E’ and ‘11-G’, however, were far from static.

Stokes double-clicked the grid box for ‘11-G’ and the video window enlarged on the screen. The live shot showed the five heavily armed Arabs funnelling single file through the tunnel, moving deeper into the mountain, still frantically searching for an alternative exit.

No such luck.

No one knew better than Stokes that the cave had only one accessible opening. Precisely the reason the ancient Mesopotamians and Stokes himself had chosen the site. After all, the lair’s primary purpose was to contain evil, both then and now.

‘Sorry, boys. One way in, one way out.’

The lead man had enabled the flashlight tool on his cell phone — the device’s only useful feature so deep beneath the earth — and was holding it out to illuminate the ominous path that lay ahead. The fellow looked extremely distressed, and rightfully so, thought Stokes. What could possibly be going through his mind right now? Could he know that he was a caged animal being led to the slaughter?

Stokes grinned widely. ‘Hello, gentlemen. Welcome to Armageddon. So glad you could make it. Those weapons aren’t going to help you now. Nothing can help you now.’ He put both elbows on the desk and cradled his chin on folded hands, beaming.

When the tall man in the middle came close to the camera, Stokes paused the feed and minutely studied the infamous, iconic face. How Crawford could plant reason for doubt was impressive. Fahim Al-Zahrani. The odds were incredible, on the outer fringe of impossible. Yet the picture didn’t lie. The Lord had brought the Dark Prince into the lion’s den for ultimate judgement. How poetic, thought Stokes.

Stokes estimated that it wouldn’t be long until they reached the main chamber.

He switched the camera back to the entry tunnel. Though it was nearly eleven a.m. in Las Vegas, nightfall had already descended over Iraq’s northern mountains. It wasn’t sunlight that now filled the passage — it was floodlights. And at the opening, he could just make out two marine snipers lying prostrate on the incline. Crawford had indicated that a SUG-V would soon be sent into the tunnels.

Then just outside the window, Stokes heard a pecking sound. He turned to see a white dove perched outside his window. An untrained observer would easily consider this a miracle since doves weren’t native to the Mojave Desert. However, it wasn’t uncommon for local hotels to release flights of doves during wedding ceremonies. But surely this lone messenger had been sent for Stokes.

He has given me a sign that the time has come. ‘Thank you, Lord. I am your servant. I am your avenger.’ With renewed vigour, he turned back to the computer and input the encryption keys that brought up the Remote Systems Interface. Using this simple command module, Stokes could manage virtually the critical systems installed in the cave’s deepest, most protected chamber. He stared at the main panel where seven indicator icons blinked ‘SEALED’. He moved the mouse pointer over the first icon and let his index finger hover over the mouse button.

‘Is it time, Lord? Give me a sign.’

The sign he received was not what he expected: a new message alert chimed over the computer speakers. His heartbeat quickened.

Stokes immediately switched program windows to check his email inbox. An absurd thought came to him: might God be so bold as to communicate through e-mail?

But the message was not from Heaven. It was from Iraq. Crawford’s simple message read: ‘NEED MORE TIME.’

Disappointed, Stokes clamped his jaw tight.

When he turned to the window, the dove was no longer there. The rash on his hands suddenly flared and he scratched at it incessantly with a letter opener, with little relief. Then he dipped into his pocket for his pillbox.