“Where’s Gog and Magog? Shouldn’t they be on this?”
These were the two DMS teams permanently stationed in Great Britain. Gog was based at the Regent’s Park Barracks on Albany Street in London; Magog was hosted by the forty-eighth Fighter Wing at the Lakenheath RAF base in Suffolk. I worked with both of them on my second mission after signing on. We tracked a network of Iranian terrorists who were selling yellowcake by the hundredweight to terrorist groups. That’s not something you serve at birthday parties. It’s a uranium derivative used in the preparation of fuel for nuclear reactors. Look it up in Terrorism for Dummies and you’ll see that there are all sorts of things you can do with it.
“Gog is dealing with a critical matter in Prague. Magog is in Afghanistan dismantling a Taliban bioweapons team. At the moment you’re the only senior DMS agent in the U.K.”
“Swell.”
“The London counterterrorist offices have both accepted my offer of your services.”
“Why would they want my help?”
“Because I briefed them on the Seif Al Din, Mirador, and Jakoby cases. I’ll send them a report on the Seven Kings, and will send all recent data on them to your BlackBerry.”
“Good. You know,” I said, “of the big-event terrorist attacks we’ve seen—the Alfred P. Murrah Building, both World Trade Center attacks, the London subway bombings—they were all one and done, followed by a lot of gloating via the Internet. Don’t get me wrong, I’ll throw myself into this with a will, but unless this is one of our playmates, then I’m just another pair of boots on the ground.”
“I’m no more psychic than you are,” said Church, “but I believe that there is a clock ticking somewhere. Maybe the Kings, maybe Al-Qaeda. Besides, terrorism notwithstanding, this is a crime and you’re a cop. Work the crime. Somebody has to have survived. Somebody has to know something.”
“Any chance you can send Echo Team over here?”
“They are out at Area 51 and—”
“Wait—what? There’s an actual Area 51? That’s so cool.”
Church sighed. “At times you’re as bad as Bug and Dr. Hu. Yes, Captain, we have an Area 51 and no, Captain, there are no UFOs there. Nor are any alien autopsies being performed there.”
“Damn.”
“It is, however, a classified area, and Echo Team is providing backup for Lucky Team out of Vegas and the intelligence investigators from Nellis. Possible security breach, but so far no fireworks.”
“Crap. Can you send them my way when they’re finished kicking E.T.’s ass?”
He grunted. “Why? They’re not investigators.”
“They can handle door knocks and Q and A.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” He paused. “Bottom line, this needs to be handled with precision. We dropped the ball on 9/11. We reacted too slowly and often the wrong way. We have to do better this time.”
“‘We’? This isn’t the U.S.A.,” I reminded him.
“How does that matter? This is an attack on humanity. There are sixty million people in Britain.”
Wow, I really was off my game if I walked into that.
“What if Al-Qaeda or one of the other usual suspects steps forward to claim responsibility for this?”
“Best-case scenario, we establish some fresh leads that will maybe result in a useful joint Barrier-DMS action.”
“Worst case?”
“We lose the thread of this and have to wait for something else to happen.”
I looked across the road to where one of the brand-new towers was crumbling, the charred bones of the building collapsing under its own deadweight. More of the black smoke billowed up and turned a horrible morning into the very dead of night.
“Damn … ,” I breathed.
Church must have been watching the same thing on the news. I heard him sigh.
“Welcome back to the war, Captain.”
Chapter Seven
CNBC: Breaking News Report
December 17, 10:55 A.M. EST
TRANSCRIPT OF THE FINANCIAL NEWS REPORT
In the wake of the devastation in London, the Dow Jones Industrial took a drastic 7.19% dip and there are Wall Street rumors that the White House may suspend trading and close the New York Stock Exchange until the initial panic has subsided. This echoes the events of 9/11 which saw the NYSE closed for several days following a period of losses in the stock market. Airlines and tourism industries are also expected to be affected due to fears of another attack.
In a preliminary statement issued a few minutes ago, SEC chief Mark David Epstein cautioned investors not to engage in a “flight to safety,” reminding everyone that panic produces a decline in financial markets but that the markets typically recover. “While there is certainly reason to be concerned over the events in England and around the world,” he said, “the best course of action in financial terms is inaction.”
Epstein is expected to make a more detailed statement tonight following the President’s address to the nation.
Interlude One
Fair Isle, Scotland
The Shetland Isles
December 17, 6:31 A.M. GMT
Rafael Santoro moved silently through the shadows of the garage. He came up behind Dr. Charles Grey and touched the blade of a knife against the man’s cheek.
“No sound,” murmured Santoro.
The scientist stiffened. Not so much from shock or surprise, but like a man who is suddenly aware that a long-dreaded but inevitable horror has finally come.
Santoro bent close to whisper in the scientist’s ear, “It’s time.”
Grey began to tremble. “Please … God! No … .”
“Yes,” said Santoro. “You know what you have to do. You promised that you would do it.”
Grey started to turn, but Santoro pressed the knife into his flesh. Santoro did not break the skin, but he made sure that Grey could feel the edge, could feel the quiet appetite of the steel. Santoro was an artist of supreme delicacy with a blade. With fast or slow cuts he was able to sculpt a victim into a masterpiece of crimson art. It was one of the many talents that made him so valuable to the Seven Kings, and to his patron, the King of Fear. Fear and the blade were both aspects of Santoro’s personal religion.
“I can’t,” whimpered Grey. “Don’t you understand that? What you ask is impossible.”
“Nothing is impossible if the Goddess wills it to be. That is the nature of faith, yes?”
“‘G-Goddess’ … ?” Grey stammered. “I don’t understand … .”
Santoro leaned forward, rising onto his toes so that his lips were an inch from the back of Grey’s neck. “You told me that you were a man of faith, Dr. Grey. Do you remember? That first day when fortune brought me to you? When I showed you the pictures of those angels.”
“Angels … ?” The pictures that this man had shown him were not of angels, but he understood what Santoro meant. Grey gagged at the thought of such horrors being described as angelic. They were images out of hell itself.
The blade was an icy promise on his flesh. “Are you saying now that you were lying to me? Lying about faith?”
“No! No,” pleaded Grey. “That’s not what I meant … .”
“Then tell me what you meant, Dr. Grey. Tell me that you believe the All is capable of everything. Everything.”
“Y-yes … .”
“Say it,” Santoro growled. He raised the knife from Grey’s cheek until the beveled edge filled his vision.