Into the silence, the King of Plagues said, “Beautiful.”
“Beautiful,” they all agreed.
And truly, to each of them, it was.
Interlude Four
Four Months Ago
Nouveau Visage Center for Cosmetic Surgery
Beverly Hills, California
The Burned Man had a hundred names in a hundred places around the world. His own name had been left behind when he had been forced into hiding, and over the last eight weeks he’d changed names weekly, often daily, relying on identities that had been carefully put in place over fifteen years. He had millions of dollars in numbered accounts, and safe-deposit boxes in forty countries filled with cash, jewels, and bearer bonds. As long as he was never identified he could remain free and live well for the rest of his life, and he was still a relatively young man. He had been forced to leave behind a fortune worth many billions, and a name that had been on short lists for the Nobel Prize and a knighthood.
Now … ? His downfall had come through no fault of his own but through betrayal, and since then he had become infinitely careful. And infinitely bitter. When his name was mentioned these days, it was always accompanied by words like “terrorist,” “mass murderer,” and “most wanted.”
Escaping with his life had been immensely difficult, and even his injuries were mild compared to what they might have been. He knew that he should be grateful to be alive and free and rich.
He was also a very careful man. Before his accident, it would have amused him to know that the authorities were looking for him in all the wrong places. Now it was a simple fact of life, the result of the careful planning that would have to be routine forever.
He felt no guilt for what he had done. When the pain from the surgeries flared, or the memories of his flesh melting as he struggled to escape the explosion, the Burned Man vented his anger by wishing he had done more harm. When he unwrapped his bandages and stared into a mirror at the ruin of a face that had once been on the covers of over five hundred magazines worldwide, from Forbes to National Geographic, his anger became an almost physical force—a burning ball of hatred that he wished he could spit out at the world.
The pills and the booze and the plastic surgeries helped, but only in the way that morphine helps to hide the pain of a cancer but does not remove the tumor. They did not take away the deep loss and sense of betrayal that hung burning in his mind every minute of every day.
He lay on a chaise lounge by the pool in the recovery pavilion of Nouveau Visage, the most exclusive, confidential, and expensive center for cosmetic and reconstructive surgery in the United States. Even after weeks, much of his face was still wrapped in surgical dressings, as were the tips of his fingers. A tall glass of sparkling water garnished with cherries and mint leaves sat sweating on a nearby table, and movie stars in robes and bikinis lounged around him. Guests almost never spoke to one another. It was part of the mystique of “we were never here” that made the place so exclusive. Even the invoices sent by the billing department were in code so no secretary or IRS agent could sell secrets to the tabloids. The items on the Burned Man’s bills were for personal training, spiritual counseling, and financial advising. There was no trail to follow.
He sipped his drink, wincing only a little at the effort.
The Burned Man wondered if he was becoming addicted to surgery, a phenomenon he knew inspired many of his fellow inmates to return here at least twice a year without really needing to. Since he had checked in, the doctors from this facility—and specialists he’d paid exorbitant amounts to have flown in—had repaired the burns, done skin grafts, reshaped his ears, performed a complete rhinoplasty, augmented his chin, reassigned fat to give his body a new shape, and even transplanted a new eye to replace the one that had been boiled in his head during a geothermal explosion. When the bandages came off and the surgical bruises healed he would be a totally new man. A Swiss surgeon even had replotted the whorls and loops of his fingerprints using a radical new procedure that cost $1 million per finger. The downside was that it would have to be repeated every two years, but that was a small price to pay for his freedom. As long as he was careful not to leave DNA where it would come to the attention of the authorities it was likely he would never be identified and never be caught.
The tissue grafts and the new eye had been provided by his friend and former lover Hecate Jakoby, and they were a perfect match to his own. They should be—Hecate was one of the world’s leading genetic designers and she had grown them especially for him in case of just such an emergency. Hecate had done the same for the Burned Man’s companion, who sprawled on the adjoining lounger reading an L. A. Banks novel and sipping a Bloody Mary.
“May I freshen your drink, sir?” asked the pretty nurse, and when the Burned Man nodded she bent and retrieved his glass, giving him a generous and deliberate view of her cleavage. The nurses had a private bet that the Burned Man was one of the British royals and all wanted to bag a duke or a lord.
The Burned Man admired the view and gave the nurse as much of a smile as his bruises and bandages would allow. His good eye twinkled and his lips and teeth were perfect.
“Lovely girl,” said the Burned Man once she was gone.
“She’s a cow with fake tits,” murmured the other without looking up from the page.
“I’d like to shag her, not marry her—,” the Burned Man began, but a cell chirped softly on the table between the loungers. His companion picked it up, flipped it open, and said, “Hello?” with complete disinterest and maximum boredom.
“I want to play a game,” said the voice at the other end.
The companion stiffened, which the Burned Man caught. They bent their heads together to listen.
“Who is calling?” said the companion in a banal secretary’s voice that was entirely unlike his own.
“That isn’t the response we agreed upon. I’ll hang up in five seconds.”
The Burned Man and his companion shared a look that was equal parts wariness, surprise, and intrigue. There was no one else within earshot, and the noise from the artificial waterfall was an excellent sound blocker. The Burned Man nodded.
“Very well. What game would you like to play?”
“Horse racing.”
Horse racing. The Sport of Kings. Sweet Jesus.
Toys looked like he wanted to run, but the Burned Man smiled and took the phone. “Assure me that this is a secure line.”
“It’s secure, Sebastian.” The man had a lot of Boston in his vowels.
“I don’t know that name,” the Burned Man lied. “Why are you calling me?”
“First, tell me how you are. I’ve heard some alarming reports. Sebastian Gault—third most wanted man on eighteen international police lists.”
“Fourth,” Sebastian corrected.
“Third. Janos Smitrovitch had a heart attack in his hot tub last night.”
“Third then. Thanks for sharing. Now please bugger off—”
“Ah, c’mon … be civil for Christ’s sake. Can’t you squeeze out enough enthusiasm to shoot the breeze with an old friend? At least tell me how you are.”
Sebastian Gault—the Burned Man—sighed. “Oh, I’m just peachy. I feel like a new man,” he said dryly. Speaking hurt less this week than it did last and the physical therapy had gone a long way to restoring the mobility of his jaw and neck muscles, but the discomfort was always there. The doctors said that some pain might linger forever. Gault was learning the skill of eating his pain. Each bite made him more bitter and less forgiving.
“And Toys?”