“Please,” he said soothingly, “this device is not on U.S. soil.”
“Then why the hell are you showing me this?”
“Because I need you to know that this is something larger than the political struggles between our countries.”
“Your country has been trying to build this for years, asshole-” I began, but he cut me off, and again had to wave back his guard.
“You don’t understand,” said Rasouli in an urgent whisper, “this is not ours.”
I stared at him. “Then whose is it?”
“I… do not know,” he said. “That is one of the reasons I wanted your help. It’s likely the device is one of many that have gone ‘missing’ since the end of the Cold War and the collapse of the Russian economy.”
“Just so we’re clear,” I said, “you-Iran-you’re afraid of terrorists with a bomb?”
“Yes.” His mouth was a tight line, “and I’ll thank you not to smirk. This is a very real threat that could cause untold damage.”
“You have any suspects?”
Rasouli shrugged. “We are not a popular country, Captain Ledger. It is the price of being powerful, as you Americans well know,”
“Yeah. Seems like every five minutes there’s a fundamentalist nut job coming at us with a vest of C-4 and the name of God on his lips. Ain’t that a bitch?”
All that earned me was a contemptuous sneer. “This is hardly on the level of car bombings, Captain. Whoever is behind this is organized, extraordinarily well-financed, and subtle. I have reliable sources within Hezbollah, al Qaeda, and the Taliban and I am convinced they are not involved.”
“They aren’t the only players.”
“No, but they are the ones most likely to consider such a radical plan; and the smaller cells and splinter groups could never make one of these.”
“They could buy one,” I said.
“Of course, but it would be very expensive. Prohibitively so. Most organizations do not have that much money.”
“Hugo Vox could buy one of those with his beer money.”
“Why would he? His day is over.”
“Why? Because the Seven Kings are off the board?”
“No,” said Rasouli. “My sources tell me that Vox is ill.”
“What do you mean?”
Rasouli’s green eyes glittered. “He has cancer, didn’t you know?”
“Shit.”
It was good and bad news at the same time. Good news because it was nice to think about Vox rotting away. Bad because that was a much easier exit strategy than he deserved.
“Could be his last blast,” I said, meaning it the way it sounded.
I thought about what I said but then dismissed it. Vox is many things, but he has never struck me as vindictive. Murderous, to be sure, and merciless, but not petty. To detonate a bomb in frustration for dying of cancer…? No, that would be cheap, no matter what the death toll.
I tried to build a case for it in my mind, but gave it up. It didn’t fit Vox’s pattern at all. For him, killing was only ever a pathway to profit. Even so, I’d want to run this past Mr. Church, Rudy Sanchez, and Circe O’Tree. They built the profile on him that was being used by every law enforcement agency in the world.
“If it’s not Vox,” I said, “then we’re looking at someone who has as big a bank account.”
“Would you like me to recite a list of nations who would love to see Iran reduced to scorched earth?”
“Not really, because you’d start your list with the U.S., Israel, and Great Britain, and they don’t need to buy black-market bombs.”
He shrugged. “That is not entirely true. A case can be made for why such countries would want to have bombs that could in no way be traced back to them. Bombs from former Soviet countries, perhaps.”
“Fair enough. But is that your pitch? Are you saying that it’s America or one of its allies?”
“No,” he said tiredly. “If I thought that, then this discussion would be held in the world press, backed by all of the considerable outrage which it is possible for our propaganda department to muster. The Ayatollahs would probably enjoy that.”
“Bottom line,” I said, “can you tell me where this thing can be found?”
“Much worse,” he said. “I know where four of these things can be found.”
The whole world froze around me.
“Jesus Christ,” I said.
“Worse still,” Rasouli said in a voice that sucked the last shreds of peace from the morning, “there are at least three more that we have not been able to locate. And one of the others might even be on U.S. soil.”
Chapter Nine
The Kingdom of Shadows
One Year Ago
He was the King of Thorns.
The King of Blood and Shadows.
He lived in a world of darkness, and that darkness was so beautiful. So subtle. It hid so many things from those who lacked the power to see. It was his mother, his ally, his weapon. It was the ocean in which he swam, the sky through which he flew, the dream in which he walked.
Darkness did not blind him. Even down here in the endless shadows. Buried beneath a billion tons of rock and sand.
Darkness held no surprises for him; he knew its secrets. They had been handed down to him, generation upon generation, and he had shared those secrets with the other pale bodies that moved and writhed and burrowed beneath the earth.
A single candle burned, its flame hidden behind a pillar of rock so that only the faintest of yellow light painted the edges of walls and glimmered on the golden thread of ancient tapestries. A single candle was all the light he needed. More than he needed.
He rose from a bed of fur and silk and broken bones. Ribs cracked beneath his feet. Cobwebs licked at his face as he moved from chamber to chamber. Water dripped in the distance, and the sound of wretched weeping echoed to him from down one of the many corridors his people had carved from the living rock. He paused to listen to the sobs. A female voice, of course. A babble of nonsense words and bits of prayers which combined to make sense only to the mad. There was so much pain there, so much hurt and loss.
It made him smile. It made his loins throb with a deep and ancient ache.
He closed his eyes and leaned against the closest wall. The limestone was cool and damp as he pressed his cheek against it, savoring the rough texture. A tongue tip the color of a worm wriggled out from between his teeth and curled along the thin contours of his lips.
It was as if he could taste the pain, and he craved it, wanting more of it, wanting the freshest and choicest bits.
He was there for a long time, lost in memory and expectation.
“Grigor,” murmured a voice, and with regret he opened his eyes and pushed himself away from the wall. He turned to see Thaddeus, his eighth son, standing a few yards away. The boy had made no sound at all. Excellent. He was learning, he would be ready soon.
“What is it?” asked Grigor.
“ He is here.”
Grigor smiled again. “Good.”
And it was good. In the distance the weeping continued unabated, and that was good too. Soon, Grigor knew, there would be more weeping. So much more.
