The King of Plagues

materials in under the radar of day-today operations.”

“Or on the radar.”

“Why?”

Rudy thought about it. “I’ve worked in enough hospitals to know that when new resources are brought in they’re often distributed to appropriate departments but not immediately assigned to individual staff. There’s always a paperwork lag. It wouldn’t be unusual at all for new cabinets to be brought in and put in corners or disused offices or closets until they were assigned to the staff. And … another snag could be that they were brought in, but the keys hadn’t yet arrived or someone had accidentally sent the wrong keys. That’s a typical hospital snafu. At Mount Sinai we once had six brand-new cardiac crash carts sent, but the manufacturer had forgotten to ship the wheels. They sat in closets for almost two weeks before they were assigned to floors.”

I drank my coffee and thought about that. Ghost made a noise very much like a person clearing his throat for attention, and I tossed him a sausage. He snatched it out of the air with the precision of a dolphin taking a leaping mackerel.

“That’s good, Rude,” I said. “Now, who would know the physical layout? Who would have access to the blueprints? Those bombs were placed at exactly the right structural points.”

“Again, that’s going to be a long list, Cowboy. Hospital plans are public record, and something as high profile as the London renovation would have drawn a lot of attention. There would be dozens of copies of the main layout available to civil engineers, the fire department, civil defense, and anyone in hospital management. If and when we get a list of suspects, you should look for someone with some kind of background in engineering.”

“And someone with some military or demolition experience, too. That might be our hook,” I said. “I think I’ll have my friends here take a closer look at the building maintenance staff.”

We swapped a few other ideas but got no other brainstorms.

“Go back to sleep, Rude. Maybe you’ll wake up and find that this was all a dream.”

He sighed. “That would be nice. And maybe Santa Claus will put Shakira under my Christmas tree. That’s just about as likely.”

He hung up and I set my plate down and let Ghost go to town on my unfinished sausage and toast. I was finishing my last cup of coffee when my phone rang.

“Do you have anything new?” asked Church.

I told him about my conversation with Rudy.

“That’s useful. I’ll discuss this with Benson Childe and we’ll put some additional assets on those aspects of the background checks. What are you doing right now?”

“I was about to head back and put in a few more hours with the door-to-door.”

“I may have to take you away from that later this morning.”

“What’s up?”

“Details are still sketchy, but this may be more of a DMS matter than police work.”

“C’mon … what could be more important than what just happened?”

He said, “Something that hasn’t yet happened?”

“Look,” I said, “I’d like to stick with this thing if I can. Try not to need me on whatever else you have cooking.”

“I’ll use you as the situation demands,” Church said coldly. “Keep your phone on.” He disconnected.

I sat in the dark little booth for a couple of minutes, feeling the aches in bone and tendon and soul. I didn’t want to be pulled off this part of the investigation. It kept me grounded on the level of real people rather than on the surreal level of Kings and governments. That was important because since Grace’s death my connection to basic humanity had been questionable at best.

After she died I came here to Europe for the sole purpose of killing someone. My only companion was a dog. The guy I was chasing was one of the world’s most dangerous assassins. I should have called for backup and didn’t. I slaughtered the son of a bitch and it felt good. That’s probably not a good thing from any psychological perspective. I was still dealing with grief and recovering from injuries received in the same battle that had killed Grace. I should have gone back to the States and spent time with my dad, my brother, and his family. In therapy with Rudy. Instead I got into fights, went scuba diving and skiing, spent hundreds of hours rigorously training Ghost, and even threw myself out of a couple of airplanes. That was my game plan for “relaxing and recharging.”

So, I’m kind of a whack-job. That’s not a news flash to anyone.

My disconnect didn’t start with Grace, though. I went through some trauma as a teenager that fractured my psyche. At the best of times I have several people living inside my skull. There’s the Modern Man, that part of me who clings to idealism, hoards his dwindling supply of optimism, and is frequently shocked at the dreadful things people are willing to do to one another. Over the last year, that part of me has begun to crumble. The other two aspects—the Cop and the Warrior—are teetering on a precarious balance. The Cop is probably the closest thing to a primary identity that I have. He’s the well-balanced, astute, and emotionally controlled member of my inner committee. He’s the part I trust the most, and it’s his face that I show to the world. Most of the time. Sometimes —more and more often lately—the world has seen the face of my other self. The Warrior. Remember that TV show Dexter? He would have called it his “dark passenger.” When I imagine what that part of me looks like, he’s crouched down in the weeds with green and black greasepaint camouflage on his face, a red dew-rag tied around his head, and eyes that are both fierce and dead. He waits there, always ready, never sleeping, perpetually eager to take it to the bad guys in ugly and brutally efficient ways.

I closed my eyes and looked inside for some light, but there was nothing but shadows and dust.

So I threw some money on the table, absently tapped my left side to reassure myself that the Beretta was snugged in place, clicked my tongue for Ghost, and went back out to the war.

Chapter Nineteen

Area 51

Eighty-three Miles North-Northwest of Las Vegas

December 18, 4:31 P.M. EST

First Sgt. Bradley F. Sims—Top to everyone who knew him, and second in command of Joe Ledger’s Echo Team—stood by the Humvee and squinted at the open hangar door. The sharp, evil-looking snout of an experimental fighter-bomber leered at him from the shadows, its black skin absorbing the stray rays of sunlight without reflection. Four other DMS agents clustered around the vehicle, each of them in unremarkable DCUs, the desert combat uniforms unmarked by unit patches or insignia. Their agency logo—a black biohazard symbol with “DMS” above and “Department of Military Sciences” below, was only used inside the Warehouse and other field offices. They currently carried ID from Homeland and the FBI, and Top had an extra set that identified him as a special agent of the NSA. All legal but not in any way accurate.

“Getting hot out here, Top,” said the big man to his right. Staff Sgt. Harvey “Bunny” Rabbit was six-seven, and most of it looked to be packed onto his arms and chest. Even with the three hundred pounds of muscle, he had long, rangy limbs and the quick, agile balance of a volleyball player, a game he’d played to Pan Am Games level, missing the Olympics only because of the Gulf War.

“It’s a fucking desert, Farmboy,” said Top. “Tends to be hot.”

Bunny took a pair of Oakley sunglasses from his pocket and put them on. He was blond and pale, a Scots- Irish mix with a few Polish genes somewhere in his family tree. Top was a black man from Georgia. Bunny was the second youngest man on Echo Team, though he was third in command after Top. At forty-two, Top was the oldest by ten years. The others—the thin, dark, and professorial ex-SEAL Khalid Shaheed, eagle-eyed and beak-nosed former MP DeeDee Whitman, and the laconic SWAT sniper John Smith—were all in their late twenties or early thirties.