The King of Plagues

Her smile abruptly dropped about twenty degrees. “Are you going to tell me that I look too young to be so smart?”

“Uh … no. My comment was meant to convey appreciation of your accomplishments, not to condescend.”

Circe said nothing. Insecure and a bit touchy. File that away, too.

“Church said you were in London for the Sea of Hope thing. I just got the skinny on that yesterday.”

“And—?”

“And what?”

“Most of you people seem to think that it’s an extraordinary waste of security resources and probably an overall waste of time.”

“‘You people’? What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“Military types. Covert-ops types.”

“Ah. You mean male types. Sorry, Doc, but I wasn’t going in that direction. If you want to hear what I actually think, try asking it without the challenge.”

She sat back and appraised me for a moment, but it was hard to tell what conclusions she was drawing. She said, “Okay, so what do you think of Generation Hope?”

“No bullshit?”

“No bullshit.”

“I think it’s long past due, and I’m encouraged to know that the project was conceived by the next generation. The current generation in power—on both sides of the aisle—spend too much time with their heads up their asses playing partisan politics and not enough time planning for the future. I don’t like the grasshopper viewpoint when it comes to issues that affect the whole world. That said, I think the Sea of Hope is about the best target I could think of for a terrorist attack, so providing top-of-the-line security for it makes a lot of sense.”

Another long moment while she fixed those dark, calculating eyes on me.

“Okay,” she said. “Points for that.”

“Gosh, thanks.”

Circe gave me a charming smile. “We’re not going to get along well, are we?”

I laughed. “Actually, I kind of hope we are. I’ll behave if you will.”

She shrugged. “It’s worth a try.”

That bought us a few seconds of awkward silence. I waited for her to fill it. She didn’t, so I caved and asked, “You’ve worked with Church before?”

Something flickered in and out of her eyes and she brushed a nonexistent piece of debris from the leather cover of her briefcase. “Once or twice.”

“He speaks highly of you,” I said.

“Does he?” she said distractedly. Her eyes drifted down to her hands for a moment, and I couldn’t tell if she was being evasive because her history with Church was awkward or because she was intimidated by the thought of him. She wouldn’t be the first person in a power position who got moody and introspective when Church’s name was mentioned. There was something about Church that made you assess everything from how clean your fingernails were to how many sins were left unconfessed on your soul. After a few seconds she raised her eyes and looked at me.

“It might be useful if you brought me up to speed on what you’ve learned,” she said. “Mr. Church said that you’re already forming some useful theories … ?”

“Don’t yet know how useful they are,” I said, “but here goes.”

I told her everything that had happened since Church called me yesterday. The jet was far out over the Atlantic by the time I finished. While I spoke she took a lot of notes on her laptop.

The story hit her pretty hard and her eyes were wet. “Fair Isle. That encounter with the little boy—”

“Mikey,” I said.

“Mikey. That must have been very difficult.”

“Harder for him than me.”

“No,” she said, “I don’t think so. He’s past it now; he’s out of it. You have to carry it around with you.”

“It’s part of the job, Doc.”

She shifted to study me, eyes narrowing again. “Why are you doing that?”

“Doing what?”

“Blowing it off as if it’s nothing? You watched a little boy die a horrible death today. You had to use him in order to do your job. Are you going to sit there and tell me that it’s just another day at work? What, you did that and now you can clock out and watch the in-flight movie?”

I sighed. “What should I do? Break down and cry?”

“It would be a little more human.”

“Sure … and I’ll probably get around to that. I’m not that kind of macho. But at the same time, how would it get me through the rest of today? People I know have died today. I killed two people yesterday and someone else today. I want to hunt down the people responsible for what’s going on and kill them. Would disintegrating into tears get me through any of that?”

“You live a difficult life, Captain.”

“So does a nurse in a charity ward. It’s all relative, and the name is ‘Joe.’”

“And the loss of your men?” she said. “You must be devastated.”

“Sure. Granted, I’ve been away and didn’t really know them, but they wore the uniform, so anyone in the field is going to feel the loss.”

She nodded. “Funny, most professional soldiers who said something like that would come off sounding like a bad actor in a cheap action film. You don’t.”

“Thanks. I think.”

“It’s more typical of the kind of person Mr. Church tends to hire for his teams. He needs tough men and women, and granted there will always be a bit of the tough-guy catchphrases being tossed around, but most of the people I’ve met have a deeper level.” She cut me a sideways look. “And no, Captain Ledger, that is not in any way a flirtatious remark.”

“I never for a minute thought—”

“Yes, you did,” she said, but she said it pleasantly. Or so I thought. “Of course you did.”

“No, really, I—”

She held up a hand. “Okay, let’s throw some cards on the table so we can move forward without stepping on eggshells. Fair enough?”

“Yes?” I said dubiously.

“I work at T-Town, which is about ninety-nine percent men, and all of them either are alpha personalities or think they are. That said, what we have here is the standard dynamic for sexual tension. I’m moderately good- looking, I have big boobs, and I get hit on by everyone from the pastor of my church to baristas at Starbucks, and by every single guy at T-Town except for my boss and the range master. I don’t blame them and I don’t judge them. It’s part of the procreative drive hardwired into us, and we haven’t evolved as a species far enough to exert any genuine control over the biological imperative. You, on the other hand, are a very good-looking man of prime breeding age. Old enough to have interesting lines and scars—and stories to go with them—and young enough to be a catch. You probably get laid as often as you want to, and you can probably count on the fingers of one hand the number of times women have said no to you. Maybe—and please correct me if I’ve strayed too far into speculation—being an agent of a secret government organization has led you to buy into the superspy sex stud propaganda perpetuated by James Bond films.”

“My name is Powers,” I said. “Austin Powers.”

She ignored me and plowed ahead. “We’re in the middle of a crisis. We may have to work closely together for several days, or even several weeks. Close-quarters travel, emotions running high, all that. If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not spend the next few days living inside a trite office romance cliche. That includes everything from mild flirtation to sexual innuendo and double entendre and the whole ball of wax.”

She sipped her Coke. The ball landed in my court with a thump.