The King of Plagues

Chapter Sixty-six

We wrestled and wrangled it and talked it to death, but nothing we said could change the fact that the Seven Kings had set out to murder the firstborn of the Inner Circle and they had accomplished exactly that.

They’d won. Was it a battle? Or had we just lost the war?

We were all so tired, so heartsick and angry, that we were losing perspective. And the great shadowy mass that was the Seven Kings was still moving through our lives. I looked into my own heart and wondered for the hundredth time if this was what I was and who I was: a foot soldier in a war without beginning or end.

Our meeting broke up and we shambled out. Burning with impotent anger, defeated, unable to look at one another.

Circe helped Rudy into the wheelchair and this time he didn’t complain. He looked small and used up, and as he sat there he hung his head. Pain had aged him and the loss of so many innocent lives seemed to have sapped away his life force. I walked with him and Circe out into the hall.

“I … can’t believe it,” Circe said in a voice that sounded more like that of a scared little girl than that of a doctor and an expert in global terrorism.

Rudy said nothing. He simply shook his head and refused to look up.

“This isn’t over,” I said. “We still have some puzzle pieces that don’t fit.”

She gave a single harsh laugh. “What’s the point?”

“Look, Doc, we were starting to make headway when this thing blind-sided us. Let’s all get some sleep,” I suggested. “Maybe in the morning we can make some kind of plan.”

“A plan to do what?” demanded Circe. “We’ve already lost.”

I gave her a hard look. “No, we damn well haven’t. The Kings are still out there. Just because they won tonight doesn’t mean that they’ll go away. We need to keep at this. We need to find a way to hit them back.”

She stared at me for a moment, then nodded. “If we go after them,” she said slowly, “if we can hurt them, then—”

“Maybe we can stop them from winning the next war.”

Rudy just turned his head away and said nothing. Circe sighed and pushed his wheelchair down the hall. I stood and watched them go.

“Captain?”

I turned to see Church standing a yard away. I hadn’t heard him approach.

“Tell me, Captain, do you think that this is what Toys meant when he said that we had to stop Gault?”

“No.”

“Nor do I.”

“I suppose nothing is what it seems with the Seven Kings. Get some sleep.” And as if to echo my own thoughts, he added: “The war isn’t over.”

With that he walked away.

Chapter Sixty-seven

Ghost was lying amid a heap of gnawed bones, too stuffed to wag. I stepped over him and threw myself onto my bed with every intention of sleeping until sometime in midsummer.

I didn’t get a minute of sleep. Not a second.

I lay there for hours. I could feel each minute; I could hear each dry second crack off and fall away.

As soon as I closed my eyes I could hear Toys’ voice speaking to me.

You can’t trust anyone. Or anything. Nothing is what it seems. It never is with the Kings.

When I’d asked about Santoro, Toys had said, That psycho prick will be in the thick of it. He wouldn’t miss an opportunity to see that much pain.

And then it hit me.

Nothing is what it seems. It never is with the Kings.

My eyes popped open.

“Holy shit!” I said. I think I yelled it. Ghost woke up and barked in alarm.

Two minutes later I was banging on Church’s door.

He opened the door almost at once. He did not look one bit surprised that I was there.

“I was wondering how long it would take you to figure it out,” he said.

Chapter Sixty-eight

This time the meeting was held in Church’s office. Rudy, Circe, Aunt Sallie, and me.

Church sat behind his desk in a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, his tie loosened at the throat. I think this was maybe the second time I’d ever seen him without a suit coat. It did absolutely nothing to make him look less official and imposing.

“Why are we still flogging this thing?” growled Rudy. He looked terrible. His hair was uncombed and he wore pajamas that were too big for him. Circe, in sweats, was only marginally more composed.

“It’s the coercion thing,” I said. “That’s been the problem all along. If the firstborn thing hadn’t happened, we might have gotten to it during the meeting. The clue to this thing is there.”

“I sure as hell don’t see it,” Aunt Sallie said irritably. She wore a bathrobe that had little ducks on it. I knew it was more than my life was worth to comment on it.

“Wait,” Rudy said slowly. “Maybe I do.” He rubbed his eyes and accepted a cup of coffee from Church. “There are only a few psychological subgroups that are acutely susceptible to suggestion. And an even smaller sub-subgroup who are otherwise healthy and functional. Call it one or two per fifty thousand.”

Circe was catching on fast. “No …. To do the kind of thing we’ve seen, it’s even more rare. I’d say it’s one in two or three hundred thousand.”

“Fair enough,” Rudy said. “So, measure that against the number of people in the professions that relate to these circumstances. Law enforcement, security, viral research. A few others we haven’t identified. That number becomes impossible.”

“Right,” I said. “It’s only possible if we go on the premise that this is not random chance.”

“Hold on, dammit,” growled Aunt Sallie. “Do you mean that they were deliberately sought or deliberately placed?”

“Either,” Rudy said. “Both.”

“That’s impossible,” she said. “The system is too good.”

“Yes,” Church agreed. “It is.” But from his tone it was clear that he meant that Auntie’s assessment was wrong.

She gave a stubborn shake of her head. “No one could hack all those records. Not unless they had MindReader. C’mon, Deacon; you’re not suggesting that Bug—”

“No,” I said. “Not Bug.”

Rudy and Circe exchanged a look. Rudy said, “The normal psych profiles used in this level of government work would red flag most of these people. Bug gave me the screener’s notes for Dr. Grey, Trevor Plympton, and that other guy. Scofield, the maintenance man from Fair Isle. None of the reports indicated the right kind of psychological vulnerability.”

“Then it’s bad screening,” snapped Auntie. “Who did the screening?”

“Three different companies.”

“Same screener working at different companies at different times?”

“No.”

“Do we have the psych profiles of the screeners?”

“We do,” said Mr. Church. He removed three profiles from his desk and handed them to Aunt Sallie. She opened the covers and scanned the contents. Then she did it again and her eyes were wide.

“No fucking way, Deacon.”

Church said nothing.

Aunt Sallie wheeled on me. “Listen, jackass, I don’t know what kind of stunt you’re trying to pull here, but—”

“Auntie,” said Church softly. “Please. I had this suspicion since the Starbucks incident. Very few people knew about that meeting.”

She slapped the files down on the desk. I gingerly reached past her and picked them up, opened them, saw what she had seen.

“Ouch,” I said.

“What?” asked Rudy, but I shook my head and held on to the files.

“Dr. O’Tree,” said Church, “threat assessment is your specialty. Given the facts, work out a scenario for how this is possible.”

She chewed her lip and shook her head. “I’ve been trying to do that,” she said after a thoughtful pause, “but I can’t.”

“You can’t?”

“Well … I can, but it’s impossible.” Circe looked like someone had slapped her.

“We seem to be trading in impossible,” grumbled Aunt Sallie. “Speak your mind, girl.”

But Circe shook her head and it was clear that she was in great distress. Her eyes were filling with tears; she covered her hand with her mouth. “I … can’t.”

“Then I’ll say it for you,” I said, my voice more brutal than I’d intended. “There’s ten kinds of security on places like the London and double that for Fair Isle and Area 51. Everyone gets a background check that goes all the way to their DNA. The people who do the screening are as important or perhaps more important than the people they interview for these jobs.”

“That’s my damn point,” snapped Aunt Sallie. “Every screener we use comes with ironclad bona fides. Every damn one.”

Tears rolled down Circe’s face.

“Yes,” said Mr. Church quietly. “And every damn one of them was vetted by Vox.”

Circe O’Tree burst into tears.

Chapter Sixty-nine

The American sat behind his desk and smoked a cigar. Beyond the big glass windows the city glimmered with a million jewels. Stars above and streetlights below. He loved the city. He loved its size and its arrogance, its muscle and its swagger. It was like looking in a mirror.

His phone rang. Toys.

“You somewhere safe?”

“Heading back to the castle,” said Toys.

“Okay, but keep your head down and your eyes open.”

“Why? Because of my call to Ledger?”

“Partly. But mostly ’cause I’m about to piss in the punch bowl here. It’s not going to do Sebastian or Mom any good. Not going to do the Kings any good, either. Not in the short term.”

He explained what he intended to do.

“God!” said Toys, but there was as much admiration in his voice as fear.

A light flashed on the phone unit on the American’s desk.

“Look, kiddo, I got to run. Keep that phone handy. I’ll be in touch.”

With that, the American pocketed the cell phone and heaved himself out of his chair. He lumbered over to a cabinet and removed a set of schematics. He placed them on his desk blotter, used a red pen to write a note, and then straightened. He cast a last look around the office, sighed again, and went into the bathroom, pushed back the curtain, and stepped into the shower. Then he pushed three tiles on the wall and waited as hidden hydraulics pulled the entire shower wall aside. The American stepped through, tapped another button, and let the wall close behind him. The DMS would find the elevator eventually, but by then he would be long gone.

Four minutes later Sgt. Gus Dietrich kicked open the heavy oak doors of the American’s office and surged inside with Liberty Team at his heels. The red pinpoints of their laser sights danced on the floor, the walls, and the big desk.

There was no one home.

Dietrich ordered his men to do a thorough search, and while they were at it he walked over to the big desk and looked at the schematic. And at the note the American had left.

He tapped his commlink.

“Bulldog to Deacon,” he called.

“Go for Deacon.”

“No one home. But the big guy left us something. You’ll freaking love this.”

Dietrich bent over so that his helmet cam projected a clean image of the blueprints of the USS Sea of Hope.

Written across it in red ballpoint was:

It was signed: Hugo.

Chapter Seventy

I looked out of the helicopter window at total blackness. A full day had burned away since Dietrich found Vox’s parting gift. Now I sat in a helo with Circe, Church, Dietrich, and Echo Team. Ghost lay asleep at my feet, his legs twitching as he dreamed of the hunt.

I still felt breathless from the double shock of Vox’s betrayal and the plans for the Sea of Hope. Vox was someone Church had trusted. Circe O’Tree had worked for the guy for years. Aunt Sallie regularly had Vox over for New Year’s Eve parties and the Super Bowl. Now the mask had been peeled away to reveal a villain. A monster. Possibly one of the Seven Kings, and certainly a significant member of that organization.

They are everywhere.

Vox had run Terror Town. He knew the inner workings of every counterterrorism team in the world. That knowledge would ripple through the foundations of world governments like earthquake tremors.

After shock comes planning. We had to make a radical shift in gears with no time to pause at the sheer scope of the Kings’ real plan.

“Can’t we just off-load everyone?” Dietrich had asked as soon as he returned from Vox’s office with the Sea of Hope schematics. “We got ships and subs ghosting the cruise ship. Why don’t we just frigging take it and worry about separating sheep from wolves later on?”

“Because that’s the very first thing the Kings would expect,” said Circe, “which means it’s the first thing they’ll have prepared for. I think that if we order the ship to heave to, or board by force, then some kind of fail-safe plan will be initiated. Bombs would be the easiest.”

“And,” I added, “we have to keep repeating the mantra ‘they are everywhere. ’ The Kings are going to have agents planted aboard. A firefight would work more in their favor than ours.”

“Balls,” grumped Dietrich. He loved a plain and simple frontal assault.

I nodded to Circe. “You worked security for the event, Doc. How are we going to get onto the ship?”

Circe chewed her lip. “The problem is that everyone is prescreened.”

“We have MindReader,” said Church. “Bug can infiltrate the system, plant security profiles, and exit without leaving a footprint.”

“We’re using the MI6 encryption package,” Circe countered. “Not even MindReader can intrude there. Hugo told me—”

“Hugo knew only as much about MindReader as I allowed him to know.”

“Why? Were you suspicious of him before this?”

“I’m suspicious of most people.”

I hid a smile.

“Then what’s our cover?”

Circe gave me a considering stare. “That depends on if you can speak French.”

“I speak a lot of languages.”

“With the proper accent?”

“Continental or Canadian?”

Circe smiled. “What do you think of Avril Lavigne’s music?”

“If it’ll get Echo Team onto the Sea of Hope, I’ll start a fan club.”

“She was a late addition to the lineup. She’s probably already aboard, but a lot of stars have bumped up their security teams since the London event. You can be a cultural attaché bringing additional security. It’ll actually work for us, having DeeDee, because she can be the personal guard for Avril.”

“What about the star?” I asked. “She’ll need to be briefed.”

“Not really. All of the performers have additional security beside the entourage they know. Most of the guards are hired by their record label or studio, so these will be strangers. As long as you don’t get chatty with the stars, it’ll work.”

“Not a problem,” I said. “I’m more of a classic-rock kind of guy.”

Church stood up. “Then we all have work to do. Circe, you and Auntie will coordinate with Bug to access the right security files.”

She nodded and hurried out.

“Captain Ledger,” Church said to me, “brief Echo Team and prep for the mission. I want to be wheels up in one hour.”

Now we flew through the predawn sky for a fight that had worst-case scenario written all over it.

The Sea of Hope was one of the largest cruise ships afloat. Two hundred and twenty-five thousand gross tons. One thousand, one hundred, and eighty-one feet long, with a 155-foot waterline beam and a 31-foot draft. There were sixteen passenger decks holding fifty-four hundred passengers and over twenty-one hundred crew members. Seven thousand, five hundred people in all. That was a thousand people more than live in the average American town. We had no way of knowing how many of them belonged to the Seven Kings. Of those, how many were unwilling slaves, how many were Chosen, and how many were Kingsmen? We did know, however, that scattered through the passengers, rock stars, comedians, and political figures were dozens of the children of the most powerful people on earth. A few were the children of Bonesmen, but most were not. The children of the current president. The two young princes of England. Children of not just the rich and famous but also the globally powerful. Some of these actually were children, the youngest being ten; the rest were adult sons and daughters who were using their parents’ positions to make a bid for social change, for compassion, and for basic humanity.

If we made a single misstep, we could get them all killed.

If we did nothing, that was a certainty.

At least we had plenty of backup coming. Two DMS teams in a C-17 Globemaster a few hours behind us. If a fight broke out, they’d swoop down on TradeWinds Combat Motor Kites, which look like batwing hang gliders but with motorized flaps for steering and braking. The kites can support an operator and his entire combat kit. Operators can even fire small arms while flying them.

A hundred feet below the cruise ship was the US S Jimmy Carter, one of the new Virginia Class attack subs. There were two SEAL teams aboard, plus a platoon of Marines.

“Coming up on her,” called the pilot. “Portside.”

I peered out the window and saw it. The ship looked like a floating city, and even at night it was ablaze with lights.

I looked over at Circe, who was curled asleep with her head on Dietrich’s shoulder. She looked very young. It hurt me to think that she’d be carrying the memory of betrayal and violence around with her for the rest of her life.

I reached over and tapped her arm.

“We’re here,” I said.

Interlude Forty-three

Toys sat alone in the Chamber of the Kings. Now that the second phase of the Initiative was rolling, the individual Kings and their Consciences had all left McCullough for undisclosed locations. If something went horribly wrong tonight, none of them wanted to be in any predictable spot. Considering what was happening, it was too dangerous to congregate; and trust only went so far, especially bearing in mind the lengths to which Aunt Sallie or Mr. Church would go in order to get information.

Rabbits gone to ground, Toys mused darkly, looking at all the empty thrones.

Gault and Eris were on her yacht, far out to sea. Probably shagging like rabbits, too.

Toys put his feet up on the table, crossed his ankles, and stared at the screens. The wall of screens showed ninety different news channels. The London Hospital bombing was no longer the lead story. Nor was the catastrophic drop in the stock market or even the massacre at the Starbucks in Southampton. Now it was the “Death of the Firstborn.” CNN was the first network to put the story together — fed, Toys knew, by agents of the Goddess — that the children of America’s elite families were being murdered. All of the other stations had similar titles, rife with biblical references. Most had nice graphics, and Toys wondered if each network had a graphic artist on standby or if titles of this sort were premade and ready for their inevitable use.

He sipped a martini — his third since he arrived — and watched the reporters give hysterical accounts of the mounting death toll. Every law enforcement organization in the country was “being mobilized” or was “racing against time” or “actively hunting suspects.” All bullshit. Toys sipped and scowled. No mention of the Department of Military Sciences, of course.

The martini was nearly gone before the ABC News anchor speculated on a connection between these murders and the shootings in Southampton and Jenkintown.

“Took you bloody long enough!” Toys yelled at the screen.

He sighed and set down his glass, and as he leaned forward to do so his gaze fell on the phone the American had given him. Toys’ nerves were still jangling from having called Joe Ledger. Few things had ever scared Toys as much as hearing that psychopath’s voice on the other end of the call. Toys snatched up the phone and shoved it into his pocket. With a grunt he thrust himself out of his chair and staggered over to the wall of screens, carrying the half-empty pitcher with him instead of the glass. A glass was too slow.

Toys drank from the pitcher and watched the press chow down on the firstborn story.

“First-bloody-born,” Toys said, and then laughed at the slur in his own voice. “I’ll bet you’re watching this, aren’t you, Sebastian? Does it make you feel like a god? You and that wrinkled slut. Gods? What a laugh.” He suddenly bent forward and pressed his face against the screen and yelled at the top of his voice, “This isn’t even your fucking fight!”

He beat his fist on the screen. Over and over and over again until the screen cracked and blood splashed across the hissing, distorted image. Then a fit of laughter rippled through him like an uncontrollable shiver.

He drank a huge mouthful, but the motion of leaning back to drink made him lose balance and he staggered backward five wobbly steps and then sat down hard on the floor. The American’s phone fell out of his pocket and the pitcher dropped, too, and smashed, splashing him with booze and broken glass. He stared at it for a long moment, and then burst into tears.

“Oh, bloody hell,” he said between sobs. “I’ve become a sloppy crying drunk.” Weeping turned to laughter and back to sobs.

Eventually, drunk and exhausted, his face streaked with tears, Toys climbed slowly to his feet and brushed glass gingerly from his clothes. He picked up the phone and stared at it, suddenly horrified about what he had done.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered to the empty room. “Oh, God … I’m sorry.”

“There are no gods here,” purred a voice behind him. Toys screamed and whirled. “Only a fool and a King.”

A man stood in the doorway to the Chamber of the Kings. He was tall and handsome, and he was smiling.

Sebastian Gault raised his pistol and pointed it at Toys.

Chapter Seventy-one

The chopper touched down on a helipad that extended out from the foredeck on massive hydraulics. As soon as the door was open, deck crew ran to escort us down a ramp and into a protected receiving alcove. Our gear was loaded onto railed carts that whisked them away. Then the rope was unclipped and the bird rose and headed back across the black water toward Rio, on the mainland of Brazil.

The alcove doors closed and a tall man who had a smile that could burn your retinas and a hairpiece that had no origin in nature entered and shook Circe’s hand.

“Dr. O’Tree, so wonderful to have you join us,” he said in a thick Italian accent. “I thought you had decided not to participate.”

“Miss this?” Circe said with a good affectation of genuine surprise. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world!”

His smile never wavered. He was of the kind who would roll with anything short of having Ghost hump his leg without allowing his professional demeanor to falter.

“Mr. Alesso, I’d like you to meet my aide, Mr. Kent.”

Alesso shook hands with Church, who managed a convincing smile. I wish I had a photo of it. I could win bets with it.

“It is very much my pleasure to meet you,” said Alesso. He was probably the real deal, but he sounded like a bad actor in a pizza commercial.

She turned to Gus, who was in a crisp white naval uniform. Ghost sat primly by his side, playing his role. “And this is Chief Petty Officer Wayne. The Navy thought we could use him.” She lowered her voice to a confidential tone. “His dog’s a bomb sniffer.”

“Ah!” said Alesso, arching his eyebrows as if we were all part of a wonderful bit of intrigue. “And these other gentlemen are here for Ms. Lavigne?” He pronounced it “La-vig-ne.”

Circe began to introduce me, but I alpha-maled myself into the moment.

“Je m’appelle Jean-François Fieuzal.”

Alesso blinked at me. “Perdono?”

I rattled off my full credentials in French, watching to see if he got any of it, but after a sentence or two it was clear I’d left him stranded on the beach.

“I’m sorry. I don’t speak—”

“Mr. Fieuzal is with the Canadian Cultural Liaison’s office. They arranged for the additional security.”

My apparent inability to speak English cut short any need for polite chitchat.

Alesso looked at the “security team.” They were really working it. All five of them wore identical sunglasses despite the early hour, none of them had a flicker of expression on their stone faces, and they stood as tall as possible. Even DeeDee looked ten feet tall.

“They’re in the security database,” said Circe, and handed over a thick folder. “Here are their papers.”

“Welcome aboard the Sea of Hope,” Alesso said with a bright smile. The only reaction he got was a microscopic twitch of Top’s upper lip. Alesso’s smile looked like it had become fragile, so I covertly gestured for Circe to wrap this up before the poor guy fainted.

Alesso showed us to staterooms — Echo Team’s was a suite directly across the hall from Lavigne’s. We carried our stuff inside and closed the door. Circe’s stateroom was on another deck, but as soon as she dropped her suitcases she came back. Church and Dietrich, too.

“Welcome to the Sea of Hope,” Top said, echoing Alesso. “Now what?”

Dietrich opened one of the cases and handed me a pair of glasses. “First things first.”

I put them on. The prescription was fake, and the heavy frames contained an ultrathin receiver that allowed me to get the same lens display intel feed. The lenses worked like one-way glass, so I could see the display, but no one looking at me could. Dietrich tossed me the small pocket mouse that would allow me to scroll the intel. I adjusted glasses, studied the floor plan for this part of the ship, then flicked through some other data to make sure the uplink was working fast.

The shades Echo Team wore had the same technology built in.

Circe and Church were already on their laptops. I was about to kick off a new version of the same discussion we’d been having about what the hell to do now that we were onboard when Circe said, “Oh my God!”

“Now what?” Bunny muttered, but we all gathered around her.

Circe said, “This just came in from Dr. Cmar; he’s an infectious disease doctor at Johns Hopkins.” “He sent these images. Look!”

The first image that filled one lens of the glasses showed Charles Osgood Harrington IV, the rich kid everyone called C-Four. “This was the first victim. Look at the lesions here and here.” Little dots appeared on the display and moved to indicate pustules that covered the corpse’s face. The lesions were pale, of course, without blood pressure to give them shape and color, but it was clear enough what they would have looked like when the kid was still alive.

“Attractive,” I said. “What’s it tell us?”

“The symptoms reported by the various first-responder EMTs and police were a rapid onset of pustules that covered the bodies of the victims. Remember in the news, the stories about mycotoxins from the tomb of the firstborn son of the Pharaoh? We’re seeing a kind of anaphylactic reaction, like hives. Only the whole thing is amped up. Super-hives.”

“So?”

“This isn’t nature, Joe, and it’s not pure mycotoxins. I’ll bet you this is some kind of designer pathogen. Something created to kill very quickly but not spread. Zero communicability.”

“Targeted for specific victims,” I said.

“Exactly,” said Circe. “Now, think about the Seven Kings. What is their defining characteristic?”

“Misdirection.” It had become an automatic response by now.

“Right! They want us to think that this was their endgame … but it’s not. These victims may be firstborn, but that’s not what we’re seeing. This is the Plague of Boils!”

“Okay. But we know their endgame is mass murder on the Sea of Hope. What’s your point?”

Church cut in. “We’re going under the premise that the ship is going to be destroyed by a bomb or something equally large scale. Probably during one of the key speeches. However, remember what Toys told you. Gault is running this show. Gault isn’t just a member of the Kings ….”

“He’s the King of Plagues,” I said. “Shit.”

Bunny said, “Please do not say that this is worse than we thought. Do not say that.”

Circe looked terrified. The same look was probably on my face.

“Gault is planning something even bigger than the deaths of all these celebrities,” she said softly. “He’s planning something huge.”

Church said, “Something the world will never forget.”

Interlude Forty-four

“You can’t be here!” cried Toys. “You’re—”

“Not as stupid as you seem to think.”

Gault pointed his gun at Toys’ face. “Toss that phone over here. No, put it on the floor and slide it. None of your sodding tricks.” His voice was as cold as his eyes were hot.

Toys lowered the phone, weighing his chances of throwing and hitting Sebastian without getting shot. Gault was not a great shot and Toys had a knife, clipped to the back of his belt … but at this distance Toys didn’t like his chances. He bent slowly, placed the phone on the floor, and shoved it away from him.

“Now back away. Keep your hands where I can see them.”

Toys raised his hands and straightened. He took two small backward steps. Gault advanced and crouched, holding the gun steady and looking right at Toys as he fished on the floor for the phone.

Toys whirled and dove for the nearest throne, hitting it with his outstretched palms and knocking it over. The backrest of the heavy seat chopped downward, missing Gault by inches as he spun away and snapped off two quick shots. The first missed. Both shots punched into screens on the wall, killing the FOX and MSNBC news feeds. Toys threw his weight against a second throne and it immediately canted over. Gault pivoted and fired again. The bullet punched red fire through Toys’ thigh at the same instant the canting throne of the King of Fear struck the King of Plagues on the shoulder. Both men screamed in agony. The gun went spinning across the floor as Gault collapsed under six hundred pounds of teak and ebony and carved ivory.

Toys flopped to the floor and rolled over onto his stomach as blood poured from both sides of a through-and-through wound. Secondary pain exploded within him as the jagged ends of his shattered femur ground together, pinching torn muscle. Toys screamed and screamed as he clawed his way across the floor toward the fallen pistol. A dozen feet away Sebastian bellowed in rage and pain as he struggled to fight his way out from under the massive throne. The gun was almost in reach, Toys’ scrabbling fingers clawed at the wooden grips, and then the world exploded in white-hot agony as Sebastian Gault, free and standing erect, stamped down with all his force on the gushing wound in Toys’ leg.

Chapter Seventy-two

“Something bigger than slaughtering all the people on this boat?” asked Top. “Shee-ee-it.”

Khalid raised a hand. “Permission to leave the boat.”

“These guys keep twisting it, don’t they?” asked DeeDee.

John Smith simply grunted, which constituted a long-winded speech for him.

Something occurred to me and I snapped my fingers. “I think the Kings may have thrown us another curveball and I think they did it through their own men.”

“How?” asked Church.

“It’s more of the twisted logic that they use. Sarducci, the shooter I interrogated. He made a real point of saying how much the Kings wanted me dead. And you, Circe, and Auntie.”

“So?”

“What if they didn’t? Or what if our deaths are beside the point? What if Hanler was the real target all along?”

“What’s the value of that target?” Top asked.

“Silence,” I said. “I keep coming back to the disinformation thing. It’s everything to these guys. Now factor in the fact that we now know Sebastian Gault and Hugo Vox are involved. We know that Vox used his position as a screener and all that, but he wore a lot of hats. He ran Terror Town, and he also had his think tanks. One of those think tanks was made up of—”

“Thriller authors. Like Martin Hanler,” Church finished.

“Right. Hanler told me that he talked about his Hospital bombing plot in front of a bunch of other writers. Maybe he mentioned it again — or one of them mentioned it during a brainstorming session at T-Town. I mean, think about it. A member of one of the most dangerous terrorist organizations on earth has an entire think tank of novelists cooking up elaborate plots for him. Then he brings in counterterrorism teams from all over the world to run the plots and work out all the details. Sure, they’re supposed to be coming up with protocols for stopping them, but if you flip that around, they’re also creating worst-case scenarios.”

“Like the London.”

“And probably Fair Isle and Area 51.”

“And the Sea of Hope,” Church concluded. “I think we can safely assume that Hugo did not share all of the scenarios cooked up by the think tanks.”

Church opened his cell and called Bug to order him to hack all of T-Town’s think-tank records.

Under my breath I said, “Thanks, Joe … damn fine work. Couldn’t save the world without you.”

Dietrich snorted. “Really? You joined the DMS for all the pats on the back?”

Khalid sat down on the end of the couch. “That think-tank thing is pretty scary. All of those devious brains — authors, CT experts — working hundreds of hours to create the worst possible scenarios. And we’re supposed to figure it out by the time the concert starts tonight?”

DeeDee looked at her watch. “Thirteen hours.”

“Thank you,” he said. “A countdown is very comforting.”

“Okay,” I said, cutting in, “let’s get to work.”

That fast they were all business.

One of the suitcases was filled with canvas bags filled with devices the size of shirt buttons. These are one of Hu’s very best gadgets: sensors with a microchip inside and a tiny burst transmitter. Peel off the tape on one side and you expose a chameleon chemical. Press it to a wood grain door for five seconds and turn it over and the wood grain is imitated perfectly. Peel off the tape on the other side and press it to the door, and unless you know it’s there, you won’t see it. Especially if it’s set low, below the ordinary fall of the eye. The sensors were designed specifically for bomb detection, and when they finally hit the market it will be possible to position them just about anywhere and maybe give some warning before things go boom!

We each had a dozen multipurpose processor units as well. Those were the size of a pack of Juicy Fruit and had the same chameleon coating. Affix one to a wall or stairway or anywhere in the path of human traffic or airflow and the device collects and analyzes the air for radiation, nitrites, and dense concentrations of viral material. It wasn’t as sensitive as the BAMS unit I had at Fair Isle, but it wasn’t far behind. And the devices were networked for greater effect.

There were also a bunch of Minicams, and some booster units to collect the signals from the tiny sensors and uplink them to the DMS satellite.

“You each have assigned sections of the ship,” I said. They nodded and put their glasses back on, using the pocket mouses to pull up floor plans. “We have time, so place the sensors unobtrusively, but keep your eyes open, too. Report anything that looks hinky.”

“Hooah,” they said, and left one at a time.

I took my batch and followed my map. I headed over to the central main-deck area, which was where the concert would be. It was roped off and there were scores of workers laboring under a hot morning sun. Finishing the bandstand, doing sound checks on the massive speakers, hanging bunting, setting up tapes for line control.

The best angle to see the whole area was by the team working together to inflate several thousand red and white balloons. There were six men, all of them Mexican, seated on folding stools surrounded by big tanks of helium. Huge nets had been erected to catch any stray balloons as the men filled, tied, filled, tied, over and over again. Four other men took netfuls of the balloons aft, where, according to Circe, they would be released as the Sea of Hope sailed into Rio. The balloons were all biodegradable and would eventually burst harmlessly in the stratosphere, themselves acting as a symbol of green choices for a polluted planet.

I listened to the Mexicans chatter among themselves in Spanish. Nothing more sinister than speculation on next year’s World Cup. One of them noticed me looking and met my eyes. He looked from me to the thousands of red and white balloons and back to me; then he rolled his eyes. I gave him a sympathetic smile and turned away. A few seconds later I heard one of the men speaking in a strangely squeaky voice and turned to see that he had sucked some of the helium out of a balloon and was speaking like Donald Duck. Everyone cracked up.

Then a fussy-looking white man in a cruise line blazer yelled at him and the Mexican pasted a contrite look on his face and tied off the balloon. As I passed, I made a quiet remark about the fussy man’s personal hygiene, only loud enough for the six Mexicans to hear. They all cracked up again.

I moved on.

My credentials got me into the VIP area. Behind gates and decorative shrubbery was an entirely separate set of pools and waterside bars. I slouched around trying to look like I wasn’t looking. Everywhere I looked, though, was a paparazzo’s dream. Movie stars in thongs or Speedos that left nothing to the imagination. I saw Pink, wearing a bikini that could fit comfortably into a shot glass, lounging by the pool reading a Kelly Simmons novel. Two chairs away, John Legend was playing chess with that short guy from American Idol. Legend was kicking his ass. There were rock stars and R&B stars and rappers and celebrities from the movies and TV. Some of the Generation Hope kids — daughters and sons of the global power players — were peppered among them, either gawking in starstruck awe or pretending the kind of indolence that only teenagers can pull off.

I moved among them, placing the chameleon sensors here and there, taking my time so that I didn’t attract any attention.

I didn’t see anyone looking particularly sinister. It’s not like on the old Batman TV show, where bad guys wore shirts with HENCHMAN, THUG, and EVIL ASSISTANT stenciled on the chest. Would be pretty damn useful, though.

I drifted out of the VIP area and placed the last of my sensors on the major stairways, then headed back to the suite. The others were already there. All of the sensors had been placed, but no one had seen anything.

Interlude Forty-five

“You traitorous bastard!” Gault screamed as he stamped down over and over again. “You Judas!”

Toys felt his broken thighbone shatter. The pain was so intense, so enormous, that he could no longer scream. His mouth was open, his lungs pushed air out, but the only sound he could make was a thin and nearly ultrasonic shriek that tore itself from each tortured nerve ending.

The world swam in and out of focus as clouds of black and red swirled behind his eyes.

Then abruptly the pain stopped.

The moment was suspended inside a crystal teardrop of time. Toys wondered if this was what it felt like to die. Had the jagged ends of broken bone severed an artery? Was he bleeding out and drifting into the big darkness? Or had he reached the end of pain? Was pain a finite thing, a line drawn in the mind that, once crossed, became an irrelevant concept?

He did not know and did not know how to think about it.

He lay in a cocoon of unfeeling silence for — how long? A second? Hours?

Then feeling returned to him, one unkind bit at a time.

The first thing he felt was a tear breaking from the corner of his eye and falling down toward his ear. It felt cold instead of warm.

“G-God …,” Toys whispered. A whisper was all that he was capable of.

Darkness obscured his vision and he blinked. No. Not darkness.

Sebastian Gault stood above him, impossibly tall. Pale and blue-white in the glow of the wall of screens. Not the face Toys had loved for so long. This was Gault’s new face. Blond and angular and handsome. The work of surgeons. Nothing that was part of nature. He looked like Apollo. Like the god of the sun.

“God …,” Toys whispered again. The pain was an unrelenting fire in his leg. “Please …”

Gault stood and looked down at Toys. With his head bent his eyes were in shadows. It gave his face a weird appearance, like a beautiful skull.

“We’ve had our suspicions, you know. The Goddess and me. She didn’t trust her son, and I’ve lost my trust in you.”

“ … God … please …”

Gault ran both sets of fingers through his hair. He removed a handkerchief and mopped sweat from his face. He folded the handkerchief and returned it to his pocket.

“Last week we planted bugs in Hugo’s office. We heard him make a call to someone at the DMS. I wanted to kill him right then and there. We decided that we would let Santoro do it. Goddesses always need new angels.”

“ … Sebastian, please …”

“And then we heard you in Hugo’s office. You, on the phone. Not just with the DMS … no, you had to go and call sodding Joe Ledger!”

Gault darted in and kicked Toys in the stomach like a placekicker going for a thirty-yard punt. Toys screamed and writhed. Bloody spittle flew from his mouth and patterned the tile floor.

“I won’t ask you why,” said Gault, his mild tone completely at odds with what he had just done. “I know why.”

“L-love …,” Toys croaked in a voice that was barely human.

“Yes. Love. You pathetic little faggot. Do you think I would ever lower myself to love a creature like you? All you’ve ever been to me is a convenience. Someone to get things. Someone to make sure the dry cleaning is picked up and the wet bar fully stocked.” Gault shook his head. “Love? It’s not love, Toys … it’s jealousy. You can’t stand the fact that I can love and you’re too damaged and twisted to be capable of it.”

Toys’ lips formed the word again: “Love.”

He braced his elbows and tried to heave his head and shoulders off the floor. Instantly there was a burst of unbearable agony from his shattered leg that tore a ragged scream from him. He tried to twist away from the pain, but as he did something hard dug into his opposite hip.

“Don’t dare use the word ‘love’ for what you feel,” sneered Gault. “I know love. Eris is love. I know the love of a goddess incarnate.”

Breathing through the pain took all of his strength, but Toys fought to get words past his gritted teeth. “You … don’t understand … you fucking idiot ….”

The words materialized as a snarl of unfiltered rage.

Gault smiled. “I understand everything.”

“No, Sebastian,” Toys snarled. “ … you never understood me.”

Toys dug his hand under his body, under his hip, to the hard thing that gouged into him. He wrapped his fingers around the pistol, and with a savage growl that was more animal than human he tore it out, pointed, and fired.

Chapter Seventy-three

Circe, Church, and I sat down at the stateroom’s dining table. In my absence it had been converted into a full-blown intelligence center, with multiple screens that showed images from the minicams and collected data streams from the sensors. Room service brought in heaps of food. Ghost sat with his head on my lap and I fed him bits of hamburger as we worked.

Circe also had access to the Generation Hope security network, so we prowled that as well. There was an insane amount of movement on every part of the ship. It was confusing and irritating, and probably the least useful scenario for accurate surveillance and assessment. Once, for just a second, I thought I saw Santoro … but when I played back the feed it was someone else. Damn. Wishful thinking.

Circe went over the schedule for the event and we looked for holes in it. There were plenty. We made a list of moments when an attack would get the most media punch. There were several of those as well but one that really glared.

“The event gets rolling at seven with the first round of musical guests,” said Circe. “The prince of England will take the stage at eight to make his speech. It will be simulcast all over the world. They’re estimating an audience of at least three billion. More if China relents at the last minute and allows citizens to watch. After that the ship will head into Rio for a private party with the celebrities and their families.”

“How’s security for that?” I asked.

“Huge. Over a thousand Brazilian military,” she said, “plus three SAS teams and four times as many Marines and SEALs. Heavy support from ground vehicles and helicopters. Gunboats in the water. Plus Secret Service for one-to-one security.”

“Can we identify anyone who was vetted by Vox?”

“Way ahead of you,” Church said with an approving nod. “I passed along three names to Director Linden Brierly, and he is having them quietly pulled.”

“Pulled and detained?”

“Yes. Understand something, Captain … a lot of people were vetted by Vox, including Grace Courtland.”

I nodded. “Yeah. It complicates things.”

Circe touched my arm. “You … you don’t think that Grace was—?”

“No,” I said decisively. “Absolutely not.”

Church nodded. “That only complicates things, because it may well be that most of the people Hugo passed are trustworthy.”

“Do you think the attack will be in Rio?” asked Circe.

“No,” I said, “I think it’ll be when the Prince is giving his speech. Killing the Prince and his guests is a solid punch by the Kings. After all, the speech is about disease. It calls on the new generation to unite, to become a unified family, that share money and resources, effort and cooperation, with the goal of eradicating diseases that are perpetuated by extreme poverty. Diseases that did not need to exist, because cures and treatments exist in wealthier lands. That’s all key stuff for the Kings to twist. It’ll be on every TV in the world. It’s the stuff of legends, and we know that part of what the Kings are doing is myth building.”

“Agreed,” said Church, and Circe nodded. “Let’s work out how they’ll do it.”

Together we came up with about forty really workable scenarios, but the problem was that none of them stood out more than the others.

Finally I looked at my watch. Time was running out.

Circe pounded her fist on the table. “God! I wish we could simply make an announcement, cancel everything, and let the Navy ships take everyone off.”

“We could,” said Church, “and that would force the Kings into an even more desperate act than what they are planning.”

“On the other hand,” I said, “we have an obligation to the President, the Prince of Wales, and all of the other families who stand to lose children.”

“I’m open to suggestions, Captain.”

“We could sabotage the engines. Play it like mechanical failure.”

“To what end? That would leave us floating out here with no solution.”

I did some math. “There are sixteen operators on board now. Ten from Tiger Shark and my team. I could take the President’s daughters under my direct supervision; Top could take Prince William and—”

“And initiate a firefight?”

“Okay, then we cut the number in half and save the eight targets with the highest political value.”

Church considered it.

“That might work. But we would need the other teams in the air and in the water right as that happens. That way if you get pinned down or trapped, we’d know help was on the way.”

“And what if the ship is rigged to blow up?” asked Circe.

Church said nothing. Nor did I.

Circe sighed.

“Plagues,” she said. “This has to be coming from the King of Plagues.”

Chapter Seventy-four

The concert was thirty minutes away. A big, cold hand seemed to be clamped around my heart.

“I have to go on deck,” I said. I’d already changed clothes again, as had the rest of Echo Team. Circe walked me to the cabin door.

“I don’t know whether to wish you luck,” she said, “or to hope that you find nothing at all.”

“Nothing at all would be nice.” But we both knew that was unlikely.

She nodded.

Behind us, Mr. Church was speaking into the phone. “Mr. President …”

“God,” Circe whispered, “that’s going to be a painful call.”

“From both ends of the line,” I said.

“This is insane,” she said.

“Welcome to my world.”

But she shook her head. “I was born to it.”

Before I could ask her to explain that, she turned and went into her bedroom.

I patted my pockets to make sure I had everything I needed. Yep, everything but a goddamn clue. Then I clicked my tongue for Ghost, who bounded off the couch.

We went out to fight the impossible fight.

Interlude Forty-six

Toys dragged himself across the floor and managed — with curses and tears and screams — to pull himself into one of the chairs. When he realized that it was the throne of the King of Plagues he laughed so long and so hard that his mind nearly snapped. And then he wept for so long that he thought he would never stop.

The tourniquet he’d tied around his leg was probably too tight. Maybe he’d lose the leg. Maybe he’d get blood poisoning.

Maybe he didn’t give a damn.

“Sebastian …,” he said, and the tears started again.

Eventually they stopped. Everything stops eventually.

When he could breathe again he pulled the American’s phone from his pocket. He had recovered it during the ten thousand years it took him to crawl across the floor. The casing was cracked and it was sticky with blood. His.

He shivered and he knew that shock was setting in. With all the alcohol already in his system and now the bullet wound and the shattered femur, he figured that his system did not stand a chance against shock.

Toys opened the phone and punched in Hugo Vox’s number.

“Toys!”

In his delirium Toys thought he heard the phone ringing and Vox answering at the same time. Then there was the sound of footsteps and Toys turned to see Vox lumber into the room. The big man had a big gun in his hand and he fanned the barrel around the room with a professional competence that Toys admired. Toys tried to say so, but his voice was a slur.

The American holstered the gun and knelt beside him, his face grave with concern.

“Jeez, you’re a goddamn mess. Who did this to you?”

“Sebastian.”

“Yeah,” he said. “What I figured. Shit.”

Toys touched Vox’s face with the tip of his finger. “Are you … real?”

“You better hope so, kiddo.” Vox fetched the wheeled leather chair of War’s Conscience and gingerly placed Toys’ shattered leg on it. Toys screamed.

“Sorry, kiddo.” Vox adjusted the tourniquet, which was itself a moment of exquisite agony. He got water and a cloth and mopped Toys’s face and then brought over a glass of brandy. “This will help until we can get you to a doctor.”

Toys sipped the brandy greedily. It burned through him with a calm fire, pushing back the pain, restoring a measure of control.

“Now,” said Vox, “tell me what happened?”

“Sebastian shot me. And I … I guess I shot him.”

Vox looked around. The room was empty except for them. “The fuck is he?”

“I shot him in the heart. But … I think he was wearing Kevlar. Pity.”

“Clever bastard.”

Toys coughed and winced. “Shame he got away.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it, kiddo. But … if you had the gun, how did he get away?”

“I … let him go,” said Toys. He drank half of the brandy, coughed again, and drank some more. It seemed to burn more of the pain away.

“Why? Why not put a couple of rounds through that face-lift of his?”

Toys shrugged. “Why bother?” His face was white with pain and trauma, but the brandy seemed to help him focus his thoughts.

The American sighed. “You got a good heart, kiddo. You’re lucky it’s still beating.”

“Sorry.”

“Screw it. It’s all gone to shit anyway. The DMS know who I am now, so I’m going to have to go way off the radar.”

“So where does that leave us?” asked Toys.

“In the wind.” He went and fetched the bottle of brandy and another glass. He refilled Toys’ glass and poured himself a generous shot. “Ah … maybe I’ve been playing this game too long. My blood pressure could blow bolts out of plate steel and I haven’t taken a comfortable shit in five years.”

“Well, thanks for sharing.”

“It’s all stress. I … don’t think I want to deal with it anymore.”

“So … what? You’re going to retire to Florida and raise flamingoes?”

“Oh, fuck no. I didn’t say I was tired of the Seven Kings. I like that shit. I have stuff I haven’t tried yet.”

“And your secret identity was holding you back?”

Vox chuckled. “No — or not entirely. Mom was the biggest cockblocker in the world. Now she might not be.”

“She might escape this.”

“Yeah, she might. She’s got a lot of clever up her sleeve, too. But you have to think that you’re vulnerable before you believe that you should run from danger. She thinks she really is a frigging goddess.”

“I know. I got the speech from Apollo.”

“Who? Oh … got it.”

A wave of pain hit Toys and he bared his teeth, then in a very conversational voice said, “Ow.”

Vox reached over and pushed a button on one of the computer consoles built into the big table.

“Chang and Kuo will get you to a doctor I own in Toronto. You’ll be right as rain.”

Toys looked down at the ruin of his leg. “Sebastian enjoyed it.”

“Sebastian’s a prick,” said Vox. “He may have been a great man once, but let me tell you a secret, kiddo: I think that without you he wouldn’t have amounted to shit.”

Toys said nothing.

“Which makes me wonder what you could have accomplished given the right support and freedom of action. Gault never saw you as anything but an employee.” He shook his head. “Small thinking.”

Toys studied him for a long time. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why are you helping me? What’s in it for you?”

Vox sipped his brandy. “I told you before, I haven’t been able to trust Santoro for years, and I need someone I can trust.”

“An ‘employee’?” Toys said with a wry smile.

Vox’s face was serious. “No. I can always buy more people. But you … I think you may have outgrown the point where you can be bought.”

Toys nodded and they sipped their brandy.

“I never thought I’d say this,” said Toys eventually, “but I hope Joe Ledger lives through all of this. He still has work to do.”

“For the Seven Kings,” said the American.

“For us,” said Toys.

“Sure,” said the King of Fear with a laugh. “Why not? For us.”

Interlude Forty-seven

Eris and Gault had a dozen laptops open so they could watch all of the major network feeds. They were naked, both of them covered in welts and scratches.

“This is what I’ve been working toward since I took control of the Kings from my son.”

“You do know with Hugo on the run from the DMS you’ll eventually come under scrutiny.”

“Eris will,” she said. “But that poor woman is going to die tonight.”

Gault nuzzled her neck. “So, who is it that I just shagged cross-eyed?”

“I’m not sure. We’ll have to think up a new name. Maybe Isis. Or Hera.”

“Will you shed a tear if Hugo is caught?”

Eris laughed. “Don’t be absurd.”

“Would he shed a tear if you were caught?”

“Silly questions, lovely boy. Pay attention.”

They snuggled together and watched the screen.

The show was beginning.

Chapter Seventy-five

The bandstand was a gorgeous confection of glittering lights, thousands of honey-sweet flowers, mirrored surfaces, and tall vertical posters that showed the faces of smiling children of all races. Healthy children, not the starving and wasted faces used in some charity advertisements. This event was all about rising above sickness and poverty. This was about the coordinated work of tens of thousands of people on six continents who shared a common belief that no child should suffer from a disease that existed only because that child’s family lived in abject poverty.

No one associated with the event, except the low-wage staff aboard the ship, was getting paid to be here. The performers even bought their own plane tickets. Many of the celebrities paid to bring friends and guests; others donated money to the charity, recorded songs or public-service announcements, and arranged to have portions of CD and DVD sales allotted to Generation Hope.

The goodwill mega-event was being broadcast all over the world. Thousands of concert venues and tens of thousands of movie theaters were simulcasting the concert. Phone banks in seventy countries were staffed to take what forecasters predicted would be a record number of donation calls. The President of the United States would speak from the tour’s end point, Rio de Janiero, as would Prince Charles and the heads of twenty other countries. Even China, a late holdout, had agreed to broadcast the concert, albeit with a ten-second delay to allow “bad messaging” to be censored.

Anderson Cooper probably put it best when he said, “This is what humanity does when we all realize we are one family.”

Rafael Santoro found it all … so vulgar.

He stood amid the thousands aboard the Sea of Hope, a PRESS badge hung around his neck, and watched as the emcee — the actor Hugh Laurie — walked onto the stage amid applause that shook the heavens.

Santoro stood with his hands in his pockets. His left hand caressed a small hypodermic with a plastic cap. The other stroked the beautifully curved handle of his knife.

Chapter Seventy-six

Ghost and I had to fight our way through the crowd. You’d think people would be more considerate of the blind.

I wore heavy sunglasses and Ghost wore a guide dog harness.

We were buffeted and pushed and jostled to the point where Ghost was about to blow his cover as a docile guide by biting someone’s throat out and I was almost to the point where I was going to let him.

Like my other pair of DMS specs, this pair had a display on one lens. I had it set to send random crowd images from the minicams. I was looking for someone with a trigger device or a bomb vest. Or a convenient gun butt sticking out of his pocket. Nothing.

And then that changed.

I pulled Ghost to one side and shoved my hand into my pocket to play with the camera control.

Holy shit, I thought.

I tapped my commlink. “Cowboy to team. Check the feed from camera thirty-three. Guess who came to the party?”

Chapter Seventy-seven

Rafael Santoro moved through the shadows, avoiding the party lights, trying to stay invisible. He knew that after tonight his face would have to change. More plastic surgery. Everyone aboard the ship seemed to have a digital camera or a camera option on their cell phone. And all the media. Over three hundred members of the world press were here. His face, even as a noncelebrity in the back of a crowd, would be all over cable TV and the Net. Such a pity. He’d come to like this face.

Ah well, the Goddess would buy him whatever face she wanted him to have.

On the bandstand, Taylor Swift had just finished her set and the audience was cheering and applauding as if the girl had walked on water. Santoro sniffed. He was not a fan of rock or country music, preferring operas or silence. He did, however, enjoy the enthusiasm of the crowd. They were loud and excited and thoroughly caught up in the moment. The daughters of the President were dancing right in front of the stage now as the Jonas Brothers launched into their brand of pop confection. Santoro eyed the children, fingering the handle of the knife in his pocket. Would they become angels, too?

Probably not. There would not be time for that.

Pity.

“Crab puff?” asked a waitress, a beaky-nosed blonde with ice blue eyes who held a tray of hors d’ourves. Santoro smiled at her but shook his head. Now was not the time to nibble on fried muck.

Waiters kept trying to offer him snacks and drinks, and he waved them away, first with grace and then with mounting irritation as the evening wore on. Performer after performer took the stage. Fireworks painted the sky with carnival colors, and the laughter and conversation were almost loud enough to drown out the music.

“Spinach quiche?”

Santoro waved the waiter away without even bothering to look at him. He wished he could hang a sign around his neck: leave me alone!

He looked at his watch. Nearly time.

The concert had dragged on. Beyoncé, Pink, Jennifer Hudson, Lady Gaga. None of whom Santoro even knew.

Santoro walked the decks, occasionally slipping downstairs to check on the teams of Kingsmen who were waiting for this moment. As he returned to the deck another waiter accosted him, and another. Santoro had to dig his hands into his pockets and grip his knife in order to calm himself.

Jay-Z finished his set to raucous applause. Santoro consulted his watch again as U2 took the stage. Time was moving along. Nearly eight now. Santoro saw Prince William and Prince Harry go out onstage to shake the hand of each band member. One of the Bush girls was there, too. And so many others.

It was a nice blend of victims and witnesses. Pity that so few would be elevated to angels, but it was not that kind of event.

Santoro wondered what the Seven Kings would be like after tonight. First thing tomorrow morning a team of workers would arrive at McCullough to remove all of the valuables, including the thrones, tapestries, computer systems, and contents of the wine cellars. They would also set the charges. The first subbasement was packed with enough C4 to hurl the stones of the castle for a mile in every direction. There would be nothing left but a crater, and the St. Lawrence River would fill that in within seconds.

Starting over in a new place would be a chore. The kind of fussy busywork that Santoro did not enjoy. He wanted to get out into the field. They would lose a lot of Kingsmen tonight. Many more of the Chosen. The escape craft Santoro held in readiness was designed for one. The rest would die along with the naïve fools who were running this event.

After tonight, after waiting some months for the immediate outcry to die down, Santoro would begin scouting for new recruits, both Chosen and Kingsmen. The thought of that pleased him.

He drifted to the farthest corner of the deck, where it was a little quieter and where he could see everything as the drama unfolded. His active role was done. All he had to do now was enjoy the performance that had taken so many months and so much effort and money to craft. And, of course, to make sure that nothing went wrong. No interference of any kind would be allowed to spoil the Goddess’s triumph.

Ahh … it would be so delicious. He put his hands in his pockets and caressed the handle of the knife.

Then someone bumped into him and Santoro turned with a snarl, but that changed immediately to an apology.

“I beg your pardon,” he said.

The blind man looked in the wrong direction, apparently confused by all the noise. The dog, a gorgeous white shepherd, looked straight at Santoro.

“Ah, jeez, mister,” said the blind man. “Did I bump into you?”

“It is of no matter. My own clumsiness. Here, let me guide you to the rail. It’s less crowded there.”

“Wow, thanks … that’s very kind.”

Santoro took the blind man’s arm and steered him through the crowd. The guide dog snarled.

“Quiet,” snapped the blind man.

“Your dog is probably unnerved by all the noise.”

“Nah,” said the blind man. “He just doesn’t like scum-sucking assholes.”

Santoro blinked. “Sorry?”

The blind man turned and tugged down his glasses and gave Santoro a comical wink.

Santoro sighed. “Hello, Mr. Ledger. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”

Chapter Seventy-eight

“Hello, asshole,” I said.

“Are you always this crude? It’s unbecoming for a person of rank.”

“Actually,” I said, “I’d really enjoy showing you how crude I can be.”

“Do you expect to do something right here and now? With all of these important people around?”

“Only if I have to.”

“I could kill you where you stand,” murmured Santoro, smiling faintly. His hands were in his pockets; the handle of the knife was hard against his right palm.

“Really? Would be fun to test that theory.”

“Are you always this foolish?”

“Do you always wear a dancing red light on your tie?”

Santoro looked down and saw the pinpoint of a laser sight hovering over his heart. He looked up to find the shooter but could not see him.

“Don’t bother looking,” I said. “He’ll find you if you twitch the wrong way. Now — let’s go.”

Santoro spread his hands. He looked amused. “Very well.”

Over the PA system the emcee announced Prince William. The applause was absolutely thunderous. It was probably going to be a great speech; it would probably make me want to grab for my checkbook. But I had other things I wanted to hear more.

A waitress stepped up beside Santoro. Beaky nose, blue eyes, short-barreled Ruger held under her tray. “Sure you don’t want a crab puff?”

Santoro smiled with genuine appreciation.

I let Santoro lead the way belowdecks. We passed another waiter and at least fifty passengers hurrying up to hear the Prince. Santoro did not try to escape, didn’t grab anyone to use as a hostage, not even when he saw that the laser sight was gone. That worried me a little, because it showed a level of confidence consistent with a belief that he was going to slip this punch.

At the bottom of the stairs I told Santoro to turn right. He did and we entered another corridor, and this one was also packed with people.

I tapped my earbud. “Find me a clear route.”

All I got was a crackle of white noise.

“Cowboy to command.”

“It won’t work,” said Santoro calmly.

DeeDee stepped up and put the barrel of her pistol against Santoro’s spine and we steered him into an alcove. She patted him down. Not a thorough job with everyone watching, but she found his pistol and took it, and took the knife from his pocket. She also removed a small syringe and handed it to me, then shifted the pistol from his back to his temple.

“You have one second to tell us how you’re jamming this before I blow your shit up right here right now.”

“No need for threats,” the Spaniard said. “All communications are being jammed by a system even I cannot disable.”

“What’s the syringe for?”

“It’s epinephrine. I have allergies.”

“Right,” I said, pocketing the syringe.

Above deck I heard the reverb of the Prince’s speech.

“Sound’s back on, Boss,” said DeeDee.

“No. The public-address systems are fine,” said Santoro. “We want that noise. But nothing that is happening here is getting out.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” I growled. “I thought this whole thing was to broadcast the Kings’ big bonanza event.”

He smiled like a crocodile. “What makes you think this is the event?”

“C’mon, Boss,” growled DeeDee. “Let’s drag this shitbag back to the suite. I guarantee you I’ll find—”

And Santoro moved. I don’t think I have ever seen anyone move that fast. He pivoted and struck DeeDee in the throat with his left hand and then flicked his right so that a sliver of bright metal dropped into his palm. His hand was a blur and then DeeDee was falling against me, blood exploding from her face, a scream tearing itself from her throat.

Ghost and I lunged for Santoro at the same time, no more than a half second after his cut, but his hand was already moving. I felt heat in my chest and then I was falling. I landed hard on Ghost’s back and heard him yelp in pain as we both crashed down together.

I heard people in the hallway scream — first in shock and then in pain as Santoro leaped into the crowd, cutting left and right, and then burst through on the other side, running at full speed down the hall.

Chapter Seventy-nine

The video feeds went dead all at once.

“What the hell?” Circe yelled.

Church was right there. “What is it?”

“We lost video and audio—”

Outside the cabin they heard shouts. And then gunfire.

Chapter Eighty

I had two choices: see to DeeDee or chase Santoro. I cut a quick look down and saw that she was still alive. Her face was a bloody ruin and she had one hand clamped over her left eye. Blood welled from between her fingers.

“Go! Go!” she screamed.

I hauled myself to my feet. Ghost squirmed out from under, whining and trembling. I couldn’t check him out, either.

I ran.

“Clear the way!” I bellowed, and pulled my gun. People slammed themselves against the walls. Some fools turned and ran away from me, obscuring my view of Santoro. I pelted down the hallway. I collided with people. I punched one poor bastard just to get him out of my way. Santoro vanished around the far turn and I ran harder. Behind me I could hear Ghost barking, but the sound was fading. He wasn’t following me. How badly was he hurt?

No time to worry about that, either.

I skidded around the corner, going wide in case Santoro was lying in wait. He wasn’t, but there was a cabin steward on his knees with his hands clutching a throat that sprayed blood. I had a glimpse of a single wild despairing eye as I ran past.

I had to take two short side corridors. One was empty, and in the other a woman huddled on the ground, hands over her head. I saw no blood as I ran past.

There was a scream ahead. I put on another burst of speed, but as I neared the corner a teenage girl came flying around the bend, propelled by a savage kick from Santoro. I slammed into the girl; her forehead hit me on the mouth, bursting my lips against my teeth.

I twisted as I rolled, pushing the girl away from me, but Santoro darted in and kicked my gun out of my hand, then pivoted and dove for it. He came out of his roll with the gun in his hand just as I hopped to a crouch. I had no choice, so I grabbed the teenager by the collar and the belt and flung her at Santoro’s legs. It was a wicked and vile thing for me to do, but the alternative would have been much worse, even for the girl.

Santoro went flying forward and the gun passed me and bounced down a set of stairs. The girl curled into a fetal ball of pain and screamed.

I lunged for Santoro, but he rolled onto his back and kicked up with both feet. Suddenly I was flying backward into the wall. My head struck hard enough to shake loose the moorings of reality, and my sight flickered on and off. Last thing I saw was Santoro coming at me with the short knife in his hand.

Chapter Eighty-one

On the stage a pair of burly SAS men tackled the Prince just as heavy-caliber bullets ripped through the flowers. But the shots were aimed low and they missed the trio as the agents dragged the Prince to safety.

One of the burly bodyguards saw a shooter taking aim at Jay-Z and launched his 340 pounds from the edge of the stage in a diving tackle that crushed the shooter and snapped his spine. The Chosen next to him put his barrel against the bodyguard’s head but he never made the shot. A big red hole appeared in the center of his chest and his body was flung backward against the rail. Two other Chosen turned to see where the shot had come from. The sounds of the gunshots that killed them were lost beneath the din.

High above the melee, John Smith worked the bolt and fired. Again and again. Each shot hit the target. Problem was that he didn’t have nearly enough bullets.

“Shit,” he murmured to himself.

He worked the bolt and fired, worked the bolt and fired.

Then he jerked his head up as a fresh wave of gunfire erupted from above him. He rolled over and looked into the sky. John Smith smiled.

The sky was filled with TradeWinds Motor Kites. He did a quick count. Forty. No … fifty of them. From each harness a DMS agent hung suspended, one hand on the controls, the other clutching a handgun. They rained fire down on the Chosen.

“’Bout time,” said John Smith. He rolled back onto his stomach, worked the bolt, and fired.

Chapter Eighty-two

Santoro came at me with a flurry of vicious cuts, and I backpedaled as fast as I could. Even so, I could feel the tip of that little knife ripping away my shirt. Hot lines of agony crisscrossed my chest as he lunged deeper.

He was so goddamn fast.

My back hit the wall at the turning and Santoro smiled and threw himself at me, but his own expression of triumph gave it away. I hit and dropped into a crouch and punched him in the thigh. I wanted to hit him in the nuts, but he brought his leg up. Even so, the blow knocked him back and I dove low and long and caught him around the knees and bore him down. His back hit hard and flat and it drove a whuuuh! out of him.

I curled my knees under me to propel my body forward for a downward body slam. I wanted to knock the rest of the air out of him, make him choke, and slowly beat the shit out of him.

But as I lunged, he slammed his elbow down on the crown of my head, then slammed his fist between my shoulder blades. It was the fist that held the knife, and the blade tore through my vest and skin and muscle like a dagger of pure fire.

I screamed.

Santoro released the knife and punched me across the face, once, twice, three times, and then pivoted to kick my deadweight off his legs.

I flopped over. Lines of fire radiated out from the puncture. I knew the blade was short, but it was jammed in next to my spine. My whole body twitched.

Then Santoro was on his knees, his fingers tearing at my pockets.

“Where is it?” he snarled, first in English and then, as he became more desperate, growling it in Spanish. In my daze I couldn’t quite understand what he was doing. He had me; I was completely vulnerable. All he had to do was pull out the knife and cut my throat.

Then he dug his scrabbling fingers into my left front pant pocket and I knew what he was after. The syringe.

He closed his hands around it.

And then Ghost hit him like a white thunderbolt.

Chapter Eighty-three

Top Sims came out of the companionway with his pistol in a two-handed grip. There were scores of men in black masks. The deck was littered with the dead, but there were over a thousand civilians. Top opened fire at every balaclava he saw, going for body shots. Head shots were too risky with so many civilians. The ceramic frag bullets lived up to their reputation. The first one struck a Chosen in the back and the man seemed to explode. It was disgusting, but damn if Top didn’t like the effect, because the man next to him stopped to gape at the sudden horror. Top took him in the chest.

Then a shadow passed him and Khalid was there, firing and firing.

“Heads below!” came a yell, followed by, “Broadway! Broadway!” and “Liberty! Liberty!” as DMS agents dropped from their kites into the thick of the fight.

“Welcome to hell!” yelled Top.

The Chosen faltered for a moment. This was not part of the plan Santoro had described. Ship’s security, some Secret Service, and a scattering of Special Forces from both sides of the Atlantic. Not this. Not men appearing out of the sky, flying on batwings.

One of the Chosen opened up with an M4, cutting three of the agents virtually in half. Then he staggered as a slender steel rod punched through his breastbone and stood out from between his shoulders. He took one staggering turning step and saw more men swarming over the rail. Men who dripped with seawater and who held weapons that looked like clip-fed crossbows.

“Goddess!” the man said, and then vomited blood as he pitched forward.

Two decks down, the second wave of the Goddess’s troops erupted from their cabins. These were the Kingsmen. These were the elite of the armies of the Seven Kings. They swarmed into the halls, splitting to head right and left, running with weapons at port arms. Every one of them had been in combat before. All of them were stone killers, and this was the event they had dreamed of.

They pounded up the stairs toward the main deck, ready to join the fight, knowing that they could sweep away any resistance.

Chapter Eighty-four

Ghost and Santoro tumbled backward in a tangle of snarls and shouts and grunts. I struggled to raise my head, fighting to regain control over my arms and legs.

Santoro howled in pain as Ghost slashed him with his teeth; then he punched Ghost hard in the ribs and even from fifteen feet away I could hear bones break. A terrible sharp yelp broke from the dog’s throat.

But even that didn’t stop him. Ghost bit and tore at Santoro, ripping his left arm, drawing long lines of red down his leg.

I reached over my shoulder and grabbed the knife. It was really a small thing. Not much bigger than a nail file and probably twice as thick. I knew all the rules about not pulling a knife out of a wound. It can make the bleeding worse; it can do more damage.

Fuck it. The thing was pressing on something that was killing my legs.

I tightened my fingers around the handle and pulled. My scream was just as loud as Ghost’s as Santoro kicked him in his broken ribs.

Ghost staggered sideways. Blood soaked the fur of his side and there was blood on his muzzle. I prayed it wasn’t his. He snarled bravely at Santoro and then flopped down.

Santoro stood hunched over, his chest heaving, sweat and blood running down his face. He stared at me as I struggled to my feet, and spit on the floor between us.

“You will drown in a river of blood,” he said, his voice still filled with menace and power.

And then I knew.

He knew that I knew.

I looked at the syringe, which lay on the floor by the wall. His eyes followed mine; then he looked at me and smiled.

“Yes,” he said, confirming my worst fears. “And there is nothing you can do to stop it.”

We both dove for the syringe at the same time.

Chapter Eighty-five

The Kingsmen fought their way up onto the deck, killing everything in their way, even some of the Chosen. They also wore balaclavas, but theirs were white and had a small golden circle on the forehead. The symbol of the Goddess.

Bunny stood with his back to the wall beside the hatchway where he had ducked out of the firefight to reload. He was on his last magazine and would have to scavenge an M4 from one of the Chosen. Suddenly gunfire tore through the hatchway, killing one DMS agent and the two civilians he was trying to protect. A swarm of men erupted from the stairway, firing wildly. They flooded past him, and he was nearly invisible to them, partially blocked by the heavy storm hatch.

Bunny swung his gun around and emptied his magazine into the whole line of them. The dying tripped over the dead, clogging the hatch. They had no angle for return fire. The slide locked back on his pistol and Bunny dropped it without a thought and snatched up an M4. He leaned around the hatch and shoved his arm in, firing as he did so. Holding the weapon one-handed while firing required immense strength. Bunny emptied the whole magazine.

He was grinning.

“Little help!” he yelled as he fished for a fresh magazine. A SEAL ran over to him, assessed the problem, and plucked a fragmentation grenade from his belt.

“Fire in the hole!”

He threw it into the hatch.

The Kingsmen had nowhere to run.

Those who survived the blast were dazed and deafened and bleeding, and they could do nothing when Bunny and the SEAL stood shoulder to shoulder and fired down into the tangled mass of the Goddess’s elite.

Chapter Eighty-six

Santoro’s hands reached for the syringe. I reached for Santoro. He grabbed the instrument and I closed one hand around his wrist and knotted the other in his hair. The pain in my back was a howling thing, but I took everything it had to give me and bellowed like a fiend as I slammed Santoro face forward onto the deck. His nose exploded. I slammed him again and again.

He stopped trying for the syringe and rolled sideways. I held on with all my strength and tore away a handful of hair and a patch of bloody scalp. Santoro screamed. He lay on his side and tried to kick me, but I blocked the kicks with my bent knees.

I threw the hank of bloody hair in his face and followed it with a punch that shattered bone.

Santoro reeled back, bleeding and dazed, his eyes rolling up in his head. Something abruptly shifted in his eyes and his hands came up defensively to protect his face. I thought it was a ploy … but when he spoke the change was there in his voice.

“No!” he shreiked, the single word drenched with terror. “Please!”

No.

God Almighty.

This monster … this thing dared to beg for mercy.

The very concept of it made me insane with fury. I rolled to my knees and hammered punches down on him. He screamed and screamed, flailing in panic now. Somewhere in his dark mind he had crossed the threshold of combat and entered the territory of defeat. For most people — for warriors — there is a lot of no-man’s-land between those two poles. For most people there is a gradual slide from courage to cowardice.

But not for Santoro.

Something in him snapped and that fast he lost the belief that he could win this fight. Maybe it was the fact that he knew he could not get that syringe, that even if he could somehow escape the moment then he was still as doomed as the rest of us.

Maybe that was it.

I don’t know, and at that moment I didn’t care. I didn’t even see him as I pounded on him. I saw the faces of Zoë and Laura Plympton. Of Charles Grey. Of Mikey, bleeding out on a cold laboratory floor, murdered by his father because the alternative was the possibility that this man, this fucking creature, would find him. And make him into an angel.

My fists were a blur. My arms were red to the elbows. I could taste Santoro’s blood in my mouth as it flew with each impact.

He kept screaming those two words.

“No.”

“Please!”

How many times had he heard them? From his angels. From the people like Plympton and Grey and Amber Taylor, who had been forced by Santoro to look at the photographs and then compare them with the pictures of their own loved ones.

How many times had he heard those two words and gotten an erotic thrill from them?

God.

This man had tortured good people, he had turned innocent people, into weapons of mass destruction. The London Hospital. Area 51. Fair Isle.

This man had ordered the hits on Amber Taylor’s family. And on Starbucks.

I battered his face into red impossibility and then worked on his body. My hands were lumps of pain at the ends of my arms, but I didn’t care. I staggered to my feet and kicked him, breaking whatever I could break.

“Stop!”

The voice hit me harder than I was hitting Santoro. I wheeled around and saw two figures through a red haze.

Circe.

Mr. Church.

And then I staggered backward, my balance failing, my legs buckling. I fell against the wall and slid down. A few feet away Santoro whimpered like a piglet and tried to crawl away, his hand still reaching for the syringe. Far above us the sounds of gunfire seemed to be thinning, becoming more sporadic.

Mr. Church stepped over my outstretched legs and picked up the syringe. He examined it, frowned, and handed it to Circe.

I flapped a hand toward Santoro. “He … he had it. They … the Kings …”

Circe knelt in front of me, her fingers probing my wounds, her face cut with lines of concern. “Joe … oh my God!”

Church looked down at Santoro, who had begun to weep.

Church stepped over and dropped to one knee beside Ghost. His big hands explored the bloodstained fur with a gentleness that surprised me.

“He’s alive,” he said.

Church turned toward me.

“The syringe. He said it was epinephrine,” I mumbled.

“No, it’s not,” said Circe.

I leaned away from her and spit blood to clear my mouth. “The King of Plagues,” I said. “Santoro said we’d all drown in a river of blood. He knows the plan.”

Circe gasped and Church’s face darkened. He rose and walked toward Santoro, who tried to crawl away. Church walked past him and then wheeled and with a savage kick tore a stateroom door off its hinges.

“Circe,” he said, “Captain Ledger needs medical attention. I think the fighting is about over. Stay out of sight until we know who won.”

“What are you going to do?”

Church looked down at Santoro and then slowly removed his tinted glasses and tucked them into his jacket pocket. He squatted and grabbed Santoro by the shoulders and with a grunt of effort hauled him to his feet, spun him around, and thrust him into the room.

“Don’t …,” she begged.

Church ignored her.

“Dad!”

Church lingered for a moment in the doorway and looked back at her. “Do as I say,” he said. Then he walked into the room.

I stared at Circe.

Dad?

From inside the room the screams began. I staggered to my feet and leaned on Circe as we fled.

Chapter Eighty-seven

We didn’t go to Circe’s cabin. I staggered along with Circe to find DeeDee. She was still in the alcove, sitting in a pool of her own blood. Alive but unconscious and in very bad shape.

“How is she?” I asked. Circe knelt to examine her.

“She might lose her eye. She needs to be in surgery as soon as possible.”

“God.” I looked back the way we had come and wished ten times as much pain for Santoro.

Footsteps pounded down the stairs and I snatched up DeeDee’s gun and spun around.

“Echo! Echo!” yelled a familiar voice.

“Come ahead!”

Khalid Shaheed came down at a rush, followed by Glory Price of Tiger Shark Team. Both of them were cut and bloody.

“Sit rep,” I said, sagging back.

“The good guys won,” said Glory. She appraised me. “You look like shit, Joe.”

“Thanks,” but I nodded toward Circe. Khalid cursed and pushed Circe out of the way. Circe may have had her M.D., but Khalid was a battlefield trauma specialist.

Others came down. Top and Bunny. They helped carry DeeDee to the sick bay. Cruise ships of this kind have a first-class medical suite, and Rio was close.

My legs buckled and I started to fall.

I’m not sure who caught me, but blackness welcomed me.

Chapter Eighty-eight

It was the goddamn balloons. The syringe had been the clue.

Every single one of them was filled with Ebola. The Mexican worker who had inhaled some helium as a prank was found dead in his shower. He’d gone off shift sick and died alone.

The plan had been for the ship to limp into Rio following the tragic events of the mass slaughter. Once in port, the balloons would be released. They would rise into the sky, drift away on the variable winds, and eventually burst. South America would become a graveyard. The presidents of Mexico and the United States would be forced to cut a safety line across Panama. They would have to burn a no-man’s-land with fuel air bombs, napalm, and anything else that would burn.

The stock market would be unstable for years. The Kings would profit.

A workable treatment had been in development for years. Dr. Snow at Fair Isle — who had been an agent of the Kings rather than a victim — had given samples of the vaccine to Santoro, and he to Gault. All of the Kings and their Consciences had been inoculated. Just in case the firebombing didn’t work.

How did we find all this out?

Santoro.

He told Church everything. Names. Dates. Places. The identities of the Seven Kings. He told him about 9/11 and dozens of other attacks. He could not tell Church fast enough. He begged to tell him more.

Church listened.

I never learned what happened to Santoro. I doubt he is with the angels.

The Navy pulled the nets of balloons out into the deep blue and hit them with flamethrowers. We all hoped that would do the trick.

It was close to dawn the following day before I got a brief chance to speak with Church. We were alone in Circe’s suite. I’d just come from the shipboard vet’s office. Ghost was in surgery and I was told to stop bothering the doctors.

I found Church making coffee in the small kitchenette. His clothes were bloodstained and I knew that he had worked alongside the rest of the DMS agents, tending to the wounded. Khalid said that Church seemed to know as much about emergency medicine as any doctor he’d met. I was beyond being surprised.

I limped into the kitchen and fished a bottle of water out of the fridge. Church gave me a quick appraising look, nodded.

“‘Dad’?” I said.

“Don’t start,” he said quietly.

“No … no way am I letting that one go. ‘Dad’? Circe’s your daughter?”

“And if she is?”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

He poured himself a cup of coffee. “Circe is a formidable person who is making a name for herself. It was her wish that she do so without my help or influence.”

“Bullshit.”

He almost smiled. “No, it’s true. Mostly true.” He gave me a considering stare for a moment. “I don’t discuss my personal life with anyone. But …” He brushed some soot from his chin. “After all this, you get to ask that one question and get a straight answer. Circe’s mother and I divorced many years ago. She thought I was another kind of person, and when she found out that I was who I was she wanted out. I agreed.” He paused. “We had two daughters.”

The word “had” was big and ugly and it hung in the air between us.

“Ten months ago my wife was killed in a traffic incident. Circe believes it was an accident. I know that it was not. I have many enemies and they sometimes choose dishonorable and reprehensible ways to come at me. The previous summer my younger daughter, Emmy, was killed in combat in Afghanistan. Roadside bomb.”

“Jesus Christ, man, I—”

He shook his head. “Circe is my only living relative. My father, my brothers and sisters … everyone else has died in the service of this country, in one way or another. Only ten people know who Circe is. Hugo Vox is one of them, by the way. Now there are eleven. Don’t worry about whether you can keep the secret from Dr. Sanchez. He’s known for some time now.”

I started to say something, but he shook his head and turned back to making coffee. And just like that he was back to being Mr. Church. It told me something about him, maybe a lot, but it also threw a thousand new questions into the air. Most of them, I knew, would never be answered.

Chapter Eighty-nine

Gault held Eris while she wept.

It had been a long night. The news reports began late in the evening, and by midnight it was all over. The grand centerpiece of the Ten Plagues Initiative had failed. Not one of the celebrities had died. Not one of the children of the rich and powerful had been killed. And there was no report about balloons or Ebola.

No word from Santoro, either, and that was the most disturbing. Santoro had always had an escape plan. Usually two or three of them in reserve.

Nothing.

“We’ll start again,” Gault soothed. “The Kings are still free. We still have our resources. The Goddess has so many victories to her name.”

Eris sniffed and shook her head. She didn’t care about the Hospital or the twenty-one dead children of the Inner Circle. She had wanted this.

Eris’s cell rang and she straightened. “That’s Santoro!” she cried, reaching for the phone. She opened it without even reading the screen display. “Rafael, what happened to—”

“Hi, Mom,” said the King of Fear.

“Hugo?”

“Yeah … saw the news. Thought I’d give you a call.”

“It failed!” she yelled.

“Yeah, ain’t that a kick in the nuts? All that planning. All those years of scheming, all the work. Hell, Mom, you spent the best years of your life on that thing.”

She hissed at him.

“Look,” Vox said. “I’m dropping off the radar for a while. Just wanted to let you know that I drained your accounts. Gault’s, too. Nice chunk of change.”

“What? You miserable bastard!”

“Hey, call a spade a spade. Born out of wedlock and all that, what do you expect?” He chuckled. “But listen … I’m not going to cut you off entirely. I left you a nest egg. Whenever you guys reach a safe port, call me on the other cell. My new number’s plugged in.”

“What other cell?” she demanded.

“I left it in the drawer under the TV. Whenever you want to start over again, use that and give me a call. I’m dumping this phone.”

“Wait!”

“Bye-bye, Mom. Hope you two crazy kids can make it work.”

“Hugo!”

The line was dead.

Eris threw the phone across the room, where it struck the wall and shattered. “Damn that ungrateful little prick!”

“What the hell was that about?” asked Gault.

She rattled off a quick recap; then she got angrily to her feet and stalked across the room, tore open the drawer, and snatched up the cell Hugo had left for her.

“What are you doing?”

“He took our money! Our money.” Her voice was a harpy’s screech.

“I’m going to goddamn well tell him to give it back.”

She flipped open the phone and scrolled through the stored numbers until she located one labeled: ME.

“He was always an ugly child,” sneered Eris as she pressed the call button.

The forty pounds of C4 packed tightly into the hold vaporized the Delta of Venus. The blast could be heard for thirty miles in every direction, but they were so far out to sea, no one heard a thing.