Rafael Santoro found it all … so vulgar.
He stood amid the thousands aboard the Sea of Hope, a PRESS badge hung around his neck, and watched as the emcee—the actor Hugh Laurie—walked onto the stage amid applause that shook the heavens.
Santoro stood with his hands in his pockets. His left hand caressed a small hypodermic with a plastic cap. The other stroked the beautifully curved handle of his knife.
Chapter Seventy-six
The Sea of Hope
December 21, 7:55 P.M. EST
Ghost and I had to fight our way through the crowd. You’d think people would be more considerate of the blind.
I wore heavy sunglasses and Ghost wore a guide dog harness.
We were buffeted and pushed and jostled to the point where Ghost was about to blow his cover as a docile guide by biting someone’s throat out and I was almost to the point where I was going to let him.
Like my other pair of DMS specs, this pair had a display on one lens. I had it set to send random crowd images from the minicams. I was looking for someone with a trigger device or a bomb vest. Or a convenient gun butt sticking out of his pocket. Nothing.
And then that changed.
I pulled Ghost to one side and shoved my hand into my pocket to play with the camera control.
Holy shit, I thought.
I tapped my commlink. “Cowboy to team. Check the feed from camera thirty-three. Guess who came to the party?”
Chapter Seventy-seven
The Sea of Hope
December 21, 7:39 P.M. EST
Rafael Santoro moved through the shadows, avoiding the party lights, trying to stay invisible. He knew that after tonight his face would have to change. More plastic surgery. Everyone aboard the ship seemed to have a digital camera or a camera option on their cell phone. And all the media. Over three hundred members of the world press were here. His face, even as a noncelebrity in the back of a crowd, would be all over cable TV and the Net. Such a pity. He’d come to like this face.
Ah well, the Goddess would buy him whatever face she wanted him to have.
On the bandstand, Taylor Swift had just finished her set and the audience was cheering and applauding as if the girl had walked on water. Santoro sniffed. He was not a fan of rock or country music, preferring operas or silence. He did, however, enjoy the enthusiasm of the crowd. They were loud and excited and thoroughly caught up in the moment. The daughters of the President were dancing right in front of the stage now as the Jonas Brothers launched into their brand of pop confection. Santoro eyed the children, fingering the handle of the knife in his pocket. Would they become angels, too?
Probably not. There would not be time for that.
Pity.
“Crab puff?” asked a waitress, a beaky-nosed blonde with ice blue eyes who held a tray of hors d’ourves. Santoro smiled at her but shook his head. Now was not the time to nibble on fried muck.
Waiters kept trying to offer him snacks and drinks, and he waved them away, first with grace and then with mounting irritation as the evening wore on. Performer after performer took the stage. Fireworks painted the sky with carnival colors, and the laughter and conversation were almost loud enough to drown out the music.
“Spinach quiche?”
Santoro waved the waiter away without even bothering to look at him. He wished he could hang a sign around his neck: leave me alone!
He looked at his watch. Nearly time.
The concert had dragged on. Beyoncé, Pink, Jennifer Hudson, Lady Gaga. None of whom Santoro even knew.
Santoro walked the decks, occasionally slipping downstairs to check on the teams of Kingsmen who were waiting for this moment. As he returned to the deck another waiter accosted him, and another. Santoro had to dig his hands into his pockets and grip his knife in order to calm himself.
Jay-Z finished his set to raucous applause. Santoro consulted his watch again as U2 took the stage. Time was moving along. Nearly eight now. Santoro saw Prince William and Prince Harry go out onstage to shake the hand of each band member. One of the Bush girls was there, too. And so many others.
It was a nice blend of victims and witnesses. Pity that so few would be elevated to angels, but it was not that kind of event.
Santoro wondered what the Seven Kings would be like after tonight. First thing tomorrow morning a team of workers would arrive at McCullough to remove all of the valuables, including the thrones, tapestries, computer systems, and contents of the wine cellars. They would also set the charges. The first subbasement was packed with enough C4 to hurl the stones of the castle for a mile in every direction. There would be nothing left but a crater, and the St. Lawrence River would fill that in within seconds.
Starting over in a new place would be a chore. The kind of fussy busywork that Santoro did not enjoy. He wanted to get out into the field. They would lose a lot of Kingsmen tonight. Many more of the Chosen. The escape craft Santoro held in readiness was designed for one. The rest would die along with the naïve fools who were running this event.
After tonight, after waiting some months for the immediate outcry to die down, Santoro would begin scouting for new recruits, both Chosen and Kingsmen. The thought of that pleased him.
He drifted to the farthest corner of the deck, where it was a little quieter and where he could see everything as the drama unfolded. His active role was done. All he had to do now was enjoy the performance that had taken so many months and so much effort and money to craft. And, of course, to make sure that nothing went wrong. No interference of any kind would be allowed to spoil the Goddess’s triumph.
Ahh … it would be so delicious. He put his hands in his pockets and caressed the handle of the knife.
Then someone bumped into him and Santoro turned with a snarl, but that changed immediately to an apology.
“I beg your pardon,” he said.
The blind man looked in the wrong direction, apparently confused by all the noise. The dog, a gorgeous white shepherd, looked straight at Santoro.
“Ah, jeez, mister,” said the blind man. “Did I bump into you?”
“It is of no matter. My own clumsiness. Here, let me guide you to the rail. It’s less crowded there.”
“Wow, thanks … that’s very kind.”
Santoro took the blind man’s arm and steered him through the crowd. The guide dog snarled.
“Quiet,” snapped the blind man.
“Your dog is probably unnerved by all the noise.”
“Nah,” said the blind man. “He just doesn’t like scum-sucking assholes.”
Santoro blinked. “Sorry?”
The blind man turned and tugged down his glasses and gave Santoro a comical wink.
Santoro sighed. “Hello, Mr. Ledger. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”
Chapter Seventy-eight
The Sea of Hope
December 21, 8:01 P.M. EST
“Hello, asshole,” I said.
“Are you always this crude? It’s unbecoming for a person of rank.”
“Actually,” I said, “I’d really enjoy showing you how crude I can be.”
“Do you expect to do something right here and now? With all of these important people around?”
“Only if I have to.”
“I could kill you where you stand,” murmured Santoro, smiling faintly. His hands were in his pockets; the handle of the knife was hard against his right palm.