anything like MindReader, so I can’t grok how they did this. Whoever he is, this guy’s a freaking ghost.”
Rudy disconnected and then called Mr. Church.
“Problem?” asked Church.
Rudy explained about the records. “Is it possible Bug missed something?”
“Bug doesn’t make those kinds of mistakes.”
“Then, that begs the uncomfortable question as to the possibility of a more sophisticated computer system than MindReader.”
“Unlikely. It would have to have been designed and built entirely without a connection to the Internet or we’d have gotten a whiff of it. Or built with an operating system so different as to be unrecognizable as a computer to all other computers. It’s doubtful something that exotic would be able to interface with the existing systems and networks.”
“Deep Throat has a phone system that we can’t understand or crack.”
Church didn’t comment.
“Coming at a time like this,” said Rudy, “with terrorist activity ongoing, a mystery of this kind is more than a bit unsettling.”
“Yes,” Church agreed. From his tone of voice he might have been agreeing to a comment on the weather, but Rudy knew him as well as anyone at the Warehouse. There was an edge of strain in Church’s calm voice.
Church disconnected and Rudy tapped keys to bring up the booking photos of Nicodemus. From the side he was unremarkable. Thin, slightly stooped, with a receding chin and thinning hair. An ordinary man. From the front, however, he was something … else. His eyes were a little too far apart, and the left was set higher and at a slight angle. His nose was thin and his mouth was a wet smile. Rudy enlarged the photo and stared into the man’s eyes. They were cold and bottomless. Those eyes, and that smiling mouth, suggested a warped sensuality that Rudy found immensely distasteful, and a deep understanding of things that had no natural place in the human mind.
“Dios mio,” Rudy murmured.
Interlude Eight
T-Town, Mount Baker, Washington State
Four Months Before the London Event
Circe O’Tree chewed on a plastic pen cap as she scrolled through the recent postings on Twitter. When she refreshed the page she had been watching, a new tweet popped up.
She chewed her lip.
It was posted by one of the new accounts Circe was following.
Circe frowned at the screen for a few seconds and then reached for the phone. Hugo Vox answered after four rings.
“Jesus Christ, woman, don’t you
Circe glanced at the clock and realized with a start that it was four twenty in the morning.
“I’m sorry, Hugo … . I completely lost track of the time.”
“The White House had better be in flames,” he said.
“I’m sorry,” she said again, flustered and suddenly embarrassed by her impetuousness. “It can wait.”
“No,” he grumbled, “I’m awake now. What is it?”
She told him.
“Ah … Christ. Okay, I’ll be right down.”
While she waited, Circe toggled back to Twitter and refreshed the page. The comment had been retweeted 41 times. When she refreshed again a minute later there were 153. An enormous amount of posts, even for a social network as active as Twitter. Most of the posts were negative, decrying the comment and disputing the existence of the so-called Learned Elders of Zion. But more than a hundred posts offered support of the comment. Of those, only a third were goddess names. Circe did track-backs on many of them. Half were known agitators among the violent fringe of the conspiracy community. Some were frequent posters of anti-Islamic comments. The rest appeared to be ordinary people.
There were so many things about this that bothered her. First, the choice of a name that was clearly tied to violence and destruction. Over the last few weeks the Goddess had made a clear shift toward militancy, though choosing the name Enyo suggested a much more aggressive leap. The other troubling point was the Elders of Zion reference. Circe was sure she had something on that.
Ten minutes later Hugo Vox came into her office wearing gray T-Town sweats that were water stained. His hair had only been finger combed. He looked at her and then more pointedly at what she was wearing. The same blue skirt and blouse from yesterday.
“You didn’t leave here all night, did you?”
“I got caught up—”
“Look, kiddo, while I admire the dedication you have for your job, you’re young and pretty and smart and you should be out on dates on Friday nights … not locked up here with a computer and the kind of junk food
She made a face.
He sighed. “I know, I know … you don’t like dating guys in the service. How come, though? They’re all good guys. Top of the line.”
“And vetted by Vox,” she said with a grin.
“Well … not vetted for dating you, but I could look into that.”
“Thanks, Hugo, but I don’t need a matchmaker. Besides, the guys here at T-Town pretty much ooze testosterone. They spend all day long shooting things and beating each other up. What would we talk about over dinner? Muzzle velocity and choke holds?”
“What about some of those bookworms you meet at signings? That literary agent of yours has a case of the hornies for you.”
“Oh, please. He’s a wiener.”
Hugo grinned. “So … soldiers are too manly and the artsy crowd is too effete. Let me know when you find someone in the middle. I’m serious. You ever get off your ass and go out to have a real night off, I’ll pay for dinner for both of you.”
She mumbled something awkward and waved him to a chair. He was chuckling as he settled his bulk into it.
“Okay,” he said, “you obviously found something. Thrill me.”
She launched in, but before she was finished he held up a hand. “‘Elders of Zion’? What the hell’s that?”
“The full name is
