He leaned a hip against the curved row of computers that surrounded Circe and watched her work. She logged on to the server and went through several levels of security in order to log into the MindReader network.
“I’m in,” she announced and then patted the chair next to hers. “Have a seat. This might take some time… but don’t touch anything.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” said Rudy with a smile as he slid into the companion chair. He cupped his hands around his mug-which had the olive-drab Echo Team logo on it-and watched as Circe filled the screens with lists of data.
“What is all that?” asked Rudy.
“The materials from Joe’s flash drive.” She peered at it for a while, frowning and occasionally shaking her head. “Lot of junk here.”
“Joe said that the agent swallowed it. Stomach acids and all that…”
But Circe said nothing. She chewed her lower lip as her eyes flicked over the information, and all the time her fingers were busy on the keys.
Weapons of mass destruction and the people who chose to use them were the core of her field of study, and that field had roots buried in history, religion, folklore, literature, psychology, and other fields. It was her particular genius that she could see connections between those disparate disciplines and then collate them into a cohesive profile. She worked in silence with an expression of ferocious interest on her lovely face.
Rudy studied it too, though much of the information was highly technical data on nuclear devices. Aside from that, he was not a field agent and despite the months he’d been with the DMS, he had yet to become inured to such words as “nukes” being thrown around as if they were a normal part of everyday life. It hurt him that this was a part of his life, and more so that it was part of the lives of the people he cared about.
Then suddenly everything seemed to jolt to a stop. While Circe was opening a file filled with random surveillance photos, one image hit them both like punches to the heart.
A big man, dressed in expensive clothes, stood with his head bowed in conversation with a smaller and much younger man. The image was labeled “Hugo Vox and unknown companion.”
Vox.
“God,” murmured Circe in a small, hurt voice.
Rudy reached out to take Circe’s hand.
“No,” she said. “I’m okay.”
It was a lie, though, and they both knew it. Rudy knew it better than anyone. Whenever Vox’s name came up, Circe’s lovely face took on a haggard look, like a prisoner who had been too long away from sunlight and clean air. Aside from the damage Vox and the Seven Kings had done to the world, and the betrayal of Church, he had also been like an uncle to Circe. She had worked for him at his counterterrorism training facility, Terror Town, for years. It was Vox, rather than her own estranged father, to whom Circe went with personal and career problems. Rudy knew that the hurt and betrayal she felt would take years to heal, if it ever did.
Circe pounded the arms of her chair. “Goddamn it, Rudy! It’s not fair.”
“I know, querida. We all feel betrayed.” He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “You most of all.”
“Me and Dad.” She said this very quietly so that no one else in the TOC could hear. Even so, it made Rudy feel odd.
Dad.
Even now, after months of being a part of Circe’s life, Rudy still had a hard time connecting the austere and mysterious Mr. Church with anyone’s father. Let alone a “Dad.” Joe privately referred to Church as Daddy Darth, a phrase that would assuredly not play well with the man himself.
Circe sniffed and wiped a tear from the corner of one eye. Rudy picked up her hand and kissed it.
“I hate like all fuck to intrude on this chick-flick moment.”
They looked up to see a woman’s face smiling sourly at them from one of the holographic screens. Middle-aged, black, wearing chunky designer jewelry and a Caribbean-print dashiki. Her dreadlocks were threaded with gray, and she wore granny glasses perched on her blunt nose. When she spoke, however, her accent was pure Brooklyn. Aunt Sallie, Mr. Church’s second in command.
“Don’t fret, Tia,” soothed Rudy, “you know my heart belongs only to you.”
“Nice try,” said Aunt Sallie, “but flattery won’t get you a threesome.”
“A- hem, ” growled Circe softly.
Laughing, Aunt Sallie said, “Okay, kids, let’s have first impressions. Did you find anything?”
“This information is recovered from a damaged flash drive, right?” asked Circe. “This is everything?”
“Yes,” agreed Aunt Sallie.
“Do we have the actual drive in hand?”
“Ledger’s sending it.”
“And we’re absolutely sure this flash drive is genuine?”
“We’re not sure of anything.” Aunt Sallie’s eyes narrowed. “What are you thinking, girl?”
“I hesitate to use the word ‘bullshit,’ but-”
“But it fits?” finished Auntie.
Circe’s eyes were hard. “Yes.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Homa Hotel
51 Khodami Street, Vanak Square
Tehran, Iran
June 15, 9:14 a.m.
Violin nibbled a callus on her thumb while she waited for her mother to call. Oracle had forwarded her urgent request, but Lilith was always handling urgent requests. Especially now that the Red Order was so aggressively active here in Tehran. The mosque bombing, the assassinations… so many things impacted Arklight.
When her phone rang Violin jumped and dropped her cell but she darted out a hand and caught it before it struck the floor. Bad nerves, good reflexes, she thought as she punched the button. Story of my life.
“Hello, Mother.”
“I was in an important meeting, girl,” growled Lilith. “There had better be a good reason.”
No hello, no inquiry about her safety. Another part of the story of her life.
“I know you probably haven’t had time to read my field report,” began Violin, “but the mission was scrubbed.”
“By you?”
“By the client.” Violin waited for a reply, got none, so she took a breath and plunged in. “You were correct, Mother, Rasouli was looking to hire an independent hitter, but we were wrong about the target. Rasouli wasn’t gunning for Charles LaRoque.”
“Who was the target?”
“President Ahmadinejad.”
“ What? ”
“It wasn’t a kill. He wanted a near miss. Something to scare him and shake things up.”
Iran was involved in a very discreet internal war between Ahmadinejad and Rasouli. In public they were friends, happy and smiling for the press, always shaking hands, clearly men with a shared agenda. In truth Ahmadinejad was losing favor and losing ground and was trying to repair his position by removing key political opponents. A near assassination might wipe the smug smile off of Ahmadinejad’s face, and do so publicly. If the president showed fear-and there would be hundreds of press cameras to record every expression that crossed his face-the perceived weakness would greatly strengthen Rasouli’s position.
Lilith grunted. “What do you infer from that?”
Her mother was not asking for advice or an opinion; this was a test. It was always like that with her.
“There are two clear possibilities,” said Violin, who had been preparing her answer since Rasouli contacted her. “Both possibilities are tied to Rasouli’s political aspirations and to the offer made to him by LaRoque.”
“Tell me.”
“The first is that Rasouli is going to accept the position of Murshid and sign the Holy Agreement with LaRoque and the Red Order. Ordering a hit on Ahmadinejad would be a demonstration of his commitment. Also, he’s been very vocal in denouncing the mosque bombing and the spate of assassinations. By now he must know that the Red Order is behind all of that, and yet he hasn’t said anything. That in itself could be a message to LaRoque and the Order that he can keep their secrets.”
“And the other possibility?”
“If Rasouli is not going to sign the Agreement, then it’s likely he was going to use the bungled assassination attempt to begin the process of exposing the Red Order to the world. He would need to do this in a big way-so big, in fact, that LaRoque would not dare to have him killed. Exposing the Order could be orchestrated into a rallying cry to unite all of Islam against the West. Pretty easily, too. It would emasculate European power in the Middle East, and by association irreparably damage the United States. And it would give religion itself a shot in the arm if Rasouli exposed who and moreover what the Red Knights are. The Catholic Church, the Upierczi, the Inquisition… that could spark a true jihad that would put Catholicism and probably all Christians in the crosshairs. Islam has never been truly unified against the west, but this could do just that.”