The King of Plagues

“That’s almost funny.”

“Almost,” Rudy agreed sourly. He absently wondered what Mr. Church would look like laughing. Rudy had never seen the man do anything more than smile, and even then the emotion looked unwelcome and unwanted on his features. “Someone at the prison must be feeding him information, and I doubt they’re doing it just so he can stick pins in the prison therapist.”

“While you’re there, don’t assume trust in anyone, and that includes the prison doctor and the warden.”

Rudy sighed. “It’s sad that paranoia has become an indispensable quality of good job performance here in the DMS. I’m finding it very hard to trust anyone.”

“It’s not paranoia if they really are out to get you,” said Church.

Rudy thought, Why is it you only have a sense of humor when things are really bad? But he didn’t say it.

“I’d like your full read on Nicodemus,” said Church, “as well as any observations you care to share about the staff.”

“What do you want me to look for?”

“I’ll leave you to determine that, Doctor. I don’t want to pollute your perceptions by sharing my speculations. We can compare notes later.”

“Okay.”

“One more thing, Doctor. I’m bringing in a consultant. Dr. Circe O’Tree. Are you familiar with her?”

“Not personally, but I know her work. I’ve seen her on TV, read her books. The new one, The Terrorist Sophist, should be required reading by everyone in the DMS. She makes some very important points on how terrorists rationalize what they do. She’s rather brilliant.”

“Yes. She’s also being largely wasted working as Hugo Vox’s assistant. I think she has more potential than Hugo gives her credit for. Do you have a problem with her consulting on this?”

“God, no. In fact, I welcome her insight.”

“Good. She’s already agreed and it’s our good fortune that she is currently in London working on another matter.”

He disconnected.

Rudy made the turn from I-95 to 476 West. He turned on the news and listened to the latest rehash of the London disaster. Nothing new, so he dialed through Sirius until he found a Mexican ska band, cranked the sound way up, and put the pedal down. As a driver, Rudy was usually careful to the point where Joe called him Tia when he was behind the wheel. He wasn’t feeling like an old aunt right now. As Joe was so fond of saying, the clock was ticking.

Chapter Twenty-five

Whitechapel

London, England

December 18, 11:21 A.M. GMT

When Ghost and I came out of the apartment complex the street was crowded with police vehicles, ambulances, and a variety of nondescript government cars that were probably licensed to the various counterterrorism teams I’d met yesterday. Lots of stone-faced guys with wires behind their ears were watching up and down the street while local cops struggled to keep the crowd well back. Everyone looked scraped raw by the unrelenting winds.

I saw a limo idling down the street, well out of the press and angled for a quick departure. The driver gave the headlights a quick flash, so I headed that way, at times having to be ungentle with the rubberneckers who thronged the bystreet. By the time I reached it the driver—in the form of the squat and muscular Sgt. Gus Dietrich —had gotten out and stood by the rear passenger door. Not sure what Dietrich’s job description was with the DMS. He was gruff, tough, honest, and as dependable as the bulldog that he closely resembled.

“Good to see you, Captain.” He offered me a rock-hard hand.

“Skip the ‘Captain’ crap, Gus. Good to see you, too. Wish it was under better circumstances.”

“Ha! Let me know when those ‘better circumstances’ roll around, Joe. I’ll take the day off and go get a massage. In the meantime … good luck with this one. It’s going to be a real nut buster.”

He opened the door and we climbed inside, happy to be out of the vicious cold. I slid onto the bench seat and Dietrich closed the door and ran around to climb behind the wheel. There were two men on the opposite seat. One big, one small, neither smiling fuzzy-bunny warmth at me.

Guy on the left was Mr. Church. He was north of sixty, but he made it look like a fit forty. Blocky, hard, with big hands and a face you wouldn’t want to see across a poker table from you. Tinted sunglasses even in the backseat of the limo. He gave me a fraction of a nod and there was no expression at all on his face.

The other guy was a gangly, gawky collection of awkward limbs and comprehensive disapproval. Dr. William Hu, chief of scientific research for the DMS. He had a Mongol face, an Einstein brain, the pop-culture sensibilities of Joss Whedon, but the compassion of a ghoul. When I’d first joined the Department of Military Sciences I tried real hard to like him, but that got to be an expensive hobby. He didn’t burn up any calories trying to warm up to me, either.

“Captain Ledger,” Hu said in exactly the same way you might say “painful rectal itch.”

“Dr. Hu,” I said, meeting him on the same ground.

We didn’t shake hands.

Ghost sniffed the hand Church extended, gave the fingertips a tiny lick, and then sat back. Then Ghost turned and eyed Hu like he was a steak dinner. Hu never attempted to touch Ghost. Hu was an asshole, but he wasn’t stupid.

Gus Dietrich put it in gear and the limo pulled away from the curb like we were fleeing the scene of a crime. I grabbed an armrest to keep from falling out of my seat. “Where are we going?”

“Scotland,” said Church. “Specifically Fair Isle. Shetland Islands, in the North Sea, very remote, ultrahigh security. A chopper’s waiting.”

“Why? Has there been another attack?”

“More complicated than that. Short answer is that there is a situation at a viral research station there. A staff member is holding the rest of the employees hostage.”

“Why?”

“Unknown.”

“He connected to the Kings?”

“To be determined.”

“Working alone?”

“Possibly. It’s the impression he’s conveyed so far. Uses ‘I’ and ‘me’ rather than ‘we.’”

“Demands?”

“Aside from the usual precautionary requirements—keep our distance, don’t try anything, et cetera—he’s asked to speak to a representative of Homeland Security.”

“Homeland? Does this guy know he’s in Scotland?”

“He’s American,” said Hu. “Baker and Schloss lease half of the island from the Brits.”

“Baker and Schloss? The male enhancement company?”

Hu grinned. “Yeah, the pecker pill people. They’re a medium-sized pharmaceutical company with a board made up of American, British, German, and French members. Majority stockholders are the Baker family of Martha’s Vineyard. Old money. The male enhancement drug put them on the public radar, but they make their real money from government contracts.”