There was a second plate covering the electronic trigger device. This was the brains of the machine, a computer that operated the neutron trigger and would fire it as soon as the activation code told it to. In devices like this, the code could be radioed in or hand-entered. I glanced up at the rocky walls. No, maybe the device on the oil platform in Louisiana could be activated via radio, but no radio signals at all were getting in here. They must have come and hand-entered it. As soon as I removed the plate I should be able to determine how much time was left before detonation. With any luck it would not already be ticking. Ideally, a two-hundred-year countdown would be nice.
I gingerly removed the screws and lifted off the plate.
And stared at the digital screen display.
“What the fuck?”
The bomb was not ticking away its last few seconds.
All of the little lights were dark. The timer wires were not even attached.
I stood up and backed away from the device.
The bomb wasn’t live. Not yet.
I wanted to fall down. Swooning like a Victorian maiden seemed like a proper response.
The universe so rarely cuts me a break that I usually don’t recognize them, or believe in them, when they show up.
Nevertheless here it was.
“Ghost old buddy,” I said. “I think we finally got lucky.”
There was a sound behind me. A soft scuff.
I spun around. I knew what I would see standing in the dark behind me.
A Red Knight.
But I was wrong.
There were two of them.
So much for luck.
Chapter One Hundred Eleven
Arklight Camp
June 16, 6:06 a.m.
Church swiveled in his chair, looking from one screen to another. On each of them the teams were in motion, but on the Aghajari screen the little glowing dot that indicated Joe Ledger had winked out.
There were two possible explanations. Either he was deep underground, or his transponder was damaged. Neither optioned seemed to be a happy one.
Church touched the communications button. “Talk to me, Auntie.”
“The ball’s in play. Riptide Team reports zero resistance, no apparent hostiles. They’ve taken the rig and are searching for the device. SEAL Team Six is in the water checking the underside and the drill head. Landshark Team is inside the Beiji refinery but no joy so far. Same for the Abqaiq in Saudi Arabia. Only resistance is at the Pakistani site. We have satellite and predator surveillance, but, as yet, bubkes. Local military were on-site for an inspection and they encountered Zulu Team. At present no shots fired.”
“Keep me posted.”
He turned to the screen on which the remaining identification codes were posted. V/I, M/S, and J/I. Circe’s face looked at him from an adjoining screen.
Lilith had been staring at these for minutes now.
“This doesn’t make senses,” she said. “In the previous codes, the I in A/I had been Iran. But J doesn’t fit with Iran’s other refineries, nor does V. And there is no M refinery in Saudi Arabia. Why change the code in the middle of a single list?”
“It’s not LaRoque’s handwriting,” said Circe. “Bug checked it against samples he found in the computer records at the foundation for which LaRoque sits on the board. He has a clunky style in print and a scrawling cursive. This is elegant. Toomey in handwriting says that the style and grace is indicative of a highly trained person, probably with Catholic school education. Someone who has spent much of his life writing in cursive. LaRoque’s young enough to have grown up with computers and e-mail.”
“LaRoque’s father is out,” said Lilith. “He would have been alive when the Order first tried to buy the nukes, but he’s long dead now.”
“It’s not Hugo’s,” Circe said. “Grigor?”
“No. I’ve seen his handwriting. It’s as terse and brutal as he is.”
Church said, “Nicodemus.”
Lilith and Circe stared at him. And nodded.
“Knowing that doesn’t help us understand the code.” He paused and grunted. “On the other hand, we might be overthinking this again.”
“What do you mean?” asked Circe.
“What if the list is not a code but a simple uncomplicated shorthand?” He tapped a key on his console and Bug’s face appeared on one of the screens. “Bug, initiate a search. Listen first. If the first letter in each pair is the name of the target- A for Aghajari and so on-and the second letter is the first of the location, I for Iran, we missed a clue right there. I was used to indicate both Iran and Iraq. The answer is right there and we looked through it.”
“But there’s no J or V refinery in Iraq, either,” insisted Circe.
“Stop thinking about specifics and go general. The additional targets may not be refineries. They could be anything. And remember, these were written by two different people. The code, and even the order of the letters might not match. Allow for flexible thinking.”
“If they aren’t matches, how will we ever find them?” asked Rudy.
“The second letter. Bug, let’s start there. Make a list of all oil producing countries beginning with the letters I and S. No, give me J as well, in case the order is skewed. Then get me a general alphabetized list of all countries. Run both through MindReader’s counterterrorism assessment package and cross-reference with significant potential targets beginning with V, J, and M. Do it now.”
Circe and Bug’s screens went dark. Lilith put her hands on Church’s shoulders and gave them a single squeeze, then she went out to deal with her teams.
Church sat back and waited, his face showing none of the tension that burned through him. His cell buzzed and he picked it up, looked at the screen display, and frowned. It read ID NOT AVAILABLE.
There were only two systems that could block MindReader’s phone trace technology: the one he had provided to Lilith years ago and which he could break if he chose to, and the one that had been used as a weapon against him by the Seven Kings.
He answered the call. “Hello, Hugo.”
“Sorry, Mr. Church” said an unfamiliar voice, “wrong monster.”
Church straightened. “Who is this?”
“Nobody.”
The accent was London, South End. That, plus the access to this kind of phone, told him a lot.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Chismer?”
“That person doesn’t exist anymore.”
“Should I call you Toys?”
“Toys is dead. He’s burning in hell where he belongs.” There was a sound. A soft sob. Then, “Can we do this without names? It won’t take long. I know you can’t trace the call.”
“What’s on your mind?”
“Hugo told me that you are a religious man. Was he telling the truth about that, too? Please tell me the truth.”
“Yes.”
“Hugo thinks that you used to be a priest. Was he right?”
“No.”
“I need to make a confession,” said Toys. “Will you listen?”
Church said, “Yes.”
Chapter One Hundred Twelve
Aghajari Oil Refinery
Iran
June 16, 6:10 a.m.
They stood between me and the tunnel that led back into the refinery. One was dressed in the orange coveralls of the refinery’s general maintenance staff; the other was the major. I’d walked on the false teeth he’d dropped, and he smiled to show me his real teeth. His fangs.
And I realized that he must have been wearing contact lenses earlier and had discarded them as well. Both Upierczi glared at me with hellish red eyes.
I had a flashlight in one hand and a plastic screwdriver in the other. My pistol was in its holster. So were theirs, but that wasn’t as comforting as it should have been.
Usually in situations like this Ghost would move to one side and slightly forward, preparing to defend the pack leader and launch the first wave of attacks. He didn’t. Instead, shivering and whimpering, he peed all over the floor. The Upierczi may be scared of white dogs, but my super-highly trained, ultrafierce attack hellhound was a whole lot more scared of them.