The King of Plagues

stepping out into a hallway that had been carved from raw bedrock. There was a set of large and ornately carved teak doors to their right, and as they stepped forward the doors opened toward them without a sound.

They entered a massive chamber. One wall of the chamber was covered floor to ceiling with flat-screen TV monitors; the other walls were hung with tapestries as ancient and elegant as the apocalypse drapery upstairs. The center of the room was dominated by a massive oak table around which there were seven great thronelike chairs and seven expensive leather chairs of the kind Toys had once bought for Gault’s private office. On the far side of the table a chair that had a higher back than all the others sat on a dais. It stood empty.

The lights were low except for green-globed lamps positioned for each of the chairs. All but one of the lamps had been angled to spill light toward the center of the table, leaving the person in each chair cast in shadows.

Six of the great chairs were occupied, but the one closest to where Gault and Toys stood was empty. Likewise, six of the leather chairs were occupied. Every face was in shadow, but Toys knew that those faces were turned toward Gault.

“Yes,” he heard Gault murmur.

“What?” Toys asked under his breath.

Gault looked at Toys for a long moment, his eyes glassy and distant.

“Sebastian—?” Toys prompted.

Gault did not answer. Instead he took a step deeper into the room.

“Welcome,” said a familiar voice, and they turned as a man in one of the thrones leaned into the spill of light. “Sebastian, Toys … it’s so good to see you both,” said the American in his booming bull voice. It was difficult for Toys to reconcile the gruffness of this man with the elegant majesty of his mother. They were not only unalike as people, but to Toys it seemed as if they had to be from different species also.

“Welcome!” said the others seated at the table.

Gault nodded silently and, Toys thought, with genuine reverence.

Because of all the grandeur of the room, the moody lighting, the thrones, and the setting, Toys wouldn’t have been surprised if the men at the table had been wearing hoods or masks, or at the very least black tie. But the American wore an ordinary three-button Polo shirt and had a pair of sunglasses tucked into the vee. He looked ready for a quick nine of golf rather than a clandestine meeting in an underground chamber beneath a castle.

Gault gestured vaguely to the room. “What is all this?”

The American laughed. “It’s pretty much exactly what it looks like, boys. We’re a secret society.”

“A ‘secret society’?” Toys laughed. “Are you taking the mickey?”

“No, I’m serious as a heart attack.”

Gault folded his arms and cocked a disbelieving head to one side. “Ri-i-ight. An actual secret society. Like, what? Like the Cabal?”

“They’ve been smashed flat by the DMS.”

“The Trilateral Commission?”

“More effective.”

“The Illuminati?”

“Right ballpark.”

Toys muttered, “Somewhere Dan Brown just had an erection.”

Everyone at the table laughed.

“Seriously … who are you and what is all this?” demanded Toys.

The American smiled and shrugged. It was a very Gallic shrug even though he was pure New England.

“How would you like me to answer that?”

“I presume ‘straightforward’ is a nonstarter?”

Another chuckle rippled through the seated figures.

“If we ever decide on a membership pamphlet, it will go something like this,” said a man on the right side of the room, and then he spoke in a formal and ominous voice. “We have many names. History knows us as the Sargonai, the heirs and kinsmen of Sargon of Mesopotamia, first emperor in the history of mankind.”

The man who spoke wore the robes of a Saudi. Moreover, Toys knew him. It was impossible that he was here. In America, in New York of all places, where even the mind-numbed street people would attack him without hesitation.

“‘Sargonai’?” Gault echoed with a smile.

Another leaned forward, a fat man with Slavic features. “It’s just a cover name, one of many we’ve used, but we don’t call ourselves that. Not anymore.”

“Why not?” drawled Toys. “It’s catchy. It would look great on souvenir coffee mugs.”

“Hush,” barked Gault.

“No,” said the Saudi, “let him have his voice. If you are welcome here, then so is your Conscience. As you see, we each have one.”

Around the room the people seated in the leather chairs leaned into the light. Four men, two women. Most of them nodded, one waved, and the one seated next to the American saluted with a steaming cup of coffee.

“‘Conscience’?” Gault asked.

The Slav answered that. “It is the policy of the Trust that each of us has a Conscience who is free to speak his or her mind. They may offer advice, provide intelligence, and participate in all of our discussions. All great kings have had such as they, and they’ve worn a thousand disguises—chamberlain and general, jester and body servant, spouse and lover. Trust is the determining factor; mutual interest and a shared vision are the chemicals that combine to cement their relationship together.”

Gault took a step forward and Toys noticed how his friend’s eyes had flared with interest at the word “kings.” For years Gault had written that word in doodles or used variations on it for passwords. Gault had never explained why.

“You speak of advisors to kings,” Gault said. “Is that what you are? Kings?”

“Yes,” said the American. “We are the Seven Kings of the New World Trust. Sons of Sargon through a thousand generations of men, the fruit of the Tree of Empire. Foretold in the Book of Revelation.”

Gault shared a look with Toys.

“‘Seven’ Kings?” Gault tilted his chin toward the empty throne.

“Seven we have been; seven we will be again,” said another voice. A man at the far side of the table leaned forward. Toys recognized him as an Israeli politician. “Seven is the sacred number of the Goddess.”

“Though, admittedly,” the American said, “we are one member short at the moment.”

“Kings of what?” asked Toys.

The Israeli and the American smiled as if they were waiting for that question.

“We are not kings of countries,” said the Israeli. “Each of us embraces a specific path, a specific view, and we claim kingship over everything that falls within the scope of this view.” He stood up and in a bold voice declared, “I am the King of War. No gun is fired, no border crossed, no weapons bought or sold but that I am involved. War and the threat of war cultivate commerce and cause innovation to advance by leaps and bounds. War evolves our society and defines our species.”

It sounded crazy, the words childishly grandiose, and yet the way in which it was said made the smile die on Toys’ mouth. He looked at this man and in a flash of insight believed him. Toys knew that, all phrasing aside, what this man said was the truth.

The Saudi stood. “I am the King of Lies. Truth is the clay in my hands, and information is the most potent force on earth. Nations rise and fall on what is said and what is believed. A whisper in the ear, a story leaked to the press, a piece of information seeded to an intelligence analyst can change the course of world events.”

Toys heard Gault catch his breath.

The Russian stood. “I am the King of Famine. The need for food is a universal constant, and no one takes a bite or lets water pass their lips unless I allow it. Fortunes are made from plenty as they are from want. I am both plenty and want.”

Another man stood and spoke in a cultured Italian accent: “I am the King of Gold. Money is the blood of this world. The lack of it destroys people and tears kings from thrones; the excess of it corrupts saints. World economies are mine to bend and twist and crush.”

A Frenchman stood. “I am the King of Thieves. My weapons are stocks and banks and loans and the flow of debt between peoples and corporations and governments.”