The King of Plagues jl-3 Read online

  I leaped the small wrought-iron fence and pelted in his direction as embers fell like meteorites all around me. I whipped off my anorak and slapped it down over him, swatting out the fire. The smoke was thick and oily and filled with dust despite the rain. I yanked my sweater up over my nose and mouth, grabbed the fallen fireman under the armpits, hauled him to his feet, and then staggered out of the smoke with him. A second firefighter saw us and ran to help.

  “He’s alive,” I said as I lowered the first fireman to the ground.

  I backed off as a team of paramedics appeared out of the crowd. The second firefighter followed me.

  “Is that everyone?” he yelled.

  “I don’t know!” I bellowed, and turned to head back into the smoke, but he caught my arm.

  “Don’t do it, mate. The rest of the wall’s about to come down. Nothing you can do.” He pulled me backward and I stumbled along with him.

  He was right. There was a low rumbling sound and more of the wall fell, chasing the onlookers even farther back. The firefighter—a young man with a cockney voice and a Jamaican face—shook his head. “Whole bleeding thing’s going to go. Can’t believe I’m watching the London die.”

  The London.

  A familiar nickname for the hospital. Not the Royal London, not the Hospital. The London, as if that name, that place, stood for the old City itself.

  We stood there, watching helplessly as the oldest hospital in England died. There was nothing anyone could do. After I’d gotten Church’s call and turned on the TV, I’d rushed out immediately, caught the first cab, and screamed at the man to get over to Whitechapel. The traffic was so thick that I had run the last six blocks. The press was already calling it a terrorist bombing. If that was true, then it was the worst in British history.

  The firefighter shook his head. “Look at it. Survived the Blitz, survived everything, and now this. Poof. Gone.” He looked at me, his eyes glazed with the enormity of it. “They put a billion pounds into expanding it. Over twelve hundred beds since the renovation, and with this round of flu you know they’d all be filled. More than two thousand staff on-shift. Doctors, nurses, orderlies … I know a lot of them … .”

  “What happened?” I asked sharply, hoping to snap him back to the moment.

  He wiped soot from his face. “Dunno for sure. They’re saying it was bombs.”

  “‘Bombs’? More than one?”

  “That’s the report we got. Five or six explosions. Big ones, and almost at once. Then the whole place was fully involved. That last blast was probably the heating oil in the subbasement. But those others …”

  “What’s with the black smoke?”

  He shook his head. “Mystery to me, mate. Smells like a rubber fire, don’t it? The fire investigators are going to have to sort that out, because that’s definitely oil smoke. Makes no sense.”

  “How many people got out?” I demanded, looking around for someone who had been in there, someone I could ask questions of. If this was a terrorist attack, someone had to have seen something, and the sooner we could get a jump on it the better.

  “Out?” The young firefighter’s bleak eyes shifted away to the fire, and then down. “No one got out that I heard of. Place went up too fast.” He spit saliva that was clouded with black grit onto the debris-littered pavement. “At least it was quick.”

  I hoped he was right about the last part … but he didn’t sound all that convincing.

  A line of police officers worked their way between the apparatuses, pushing spectators back across the street. The rain slackened to a drizzle and news crews crept from their vans to do stand-ups. I recognized the young woman nearest to me. Kimiko Kajikawa, from the BBC. I’d seen her read the news every night at six. This was the first time I’d ever seen her without her legendary unflappable cool. She looked like she’d been crying, and I imagine that it was the numbers that were hitting her. If the firefighter was right and the bombs had caught everyone unawares, then we could be looking at something like thirty-two hundred dead in a single moment. Maybe more. Nearly as many as had died in the fall of the Towers. If all those beds were full, then it could be even worse.

  I felt tears burning in the corners of my own eyes.

  All those lives. All those people.

  And all of those families. How many of them were watching Kajikawa right now? Jesus Christ.

  Since signing on with the Department of Military Sciences I’ve seen far more than my fair share of death, but nothing on this scale. And even though the flames and smoke hid all of the bodies, I could feel the death. It was like a huge dark hand had reached inside me and was squeezing my heart. I turned to the people around me and saw expressions on their faces ranging from confusion, to disbelief, to shocked awareness. Each was processing the enormity of this at the speed their mind would allow. I could almost see how this was gouging wounds into the collective psyche of everyone here, and anyone who was watching a news feed. Each of them—each of us—would be marked by this forever. The moment had that kind of grotesque grandeur.

  I edged closer to hear Kajikawa.

  “ … we’ll be following this story as it unfolds,” she said. Her voice was steady, but the hand holding the mike trembled. “So far no one has stepped forward to take responsibility for the bombing at this landmark teaching hospital. Established in 1740, the facility provides district general hospital services for the City and Tower Hamlets and is also the base for the HEMS helicopter ambulance service. Hospital authorities say that nearly all of the twelve hundred beds were occupied as of yesterday.”

  There was a commotion to my right and I turned to see a tall, harried-looking man in a black uniform fighting his way through a sea of TV and news service microphones.

  “Fire Commissioner Allen Dexter is on the scene,” said Kajikawa as she hustled over to join the throng around the man.

  “Commissioner Dexter,” shouted a Reuters reporter, “do we know how many casualties yet?”

  Dexter’s lip curled in irritation at the typical callousness of the question. It was clear from the different shapes his mouth took before he answered that the words he said were not the first ones on his tongue: “Not at this time.”

  “Can you speculate for us?” the reporter persisted.

  The commissioner slowly faced the hospital, which was an inferno from foundation to rooftops. When he turned back, his pale eyes were bleak. “We have not yet identified anyone who was in the building at the time of the blasts and who since escaped.”

  The reporters were too jaded to be stunned by this. They screamed questions at him, but Dexter turned away as a wave of police officers surged forward and cut him out of the pack.

  “There you have it,” Kajikawa said, turning back to face the camera. “This is quickly becoming the worst hospital disaster in British history. And if this is a terrorist attack, then it could well be the worst ever.” She said it with what almost sounded like pride. Somewhere between her earlier tears and now she’d made a huge internal shift from “human being” to “reporter.” Maybe the cameraman had said something to her, or maybe she did a mental review of reporters whose careers had been made by great human suffering. Like Dan Rather and Walter Cronkite breaking the story of JFK’s assassination, Wolf Blitzer with the first Gulf War in Kuwait, and Anderson Cooper during Hurricane Katrina. Or maybe being in the thick of the throng of reporters reminded her of the most sacred rule of journalism: “If it bleeds, it leads.”

  I thought it was vulgar.

  Kajikawa was still working it. “We do not yet have word about how many of the hospital’s eight thousand staff members were on duty today, but as the building continues to burn out of control, hopes for a happy outcome are likewise going up in smoke.”

  Jesus.

  Chapter Three

  The Royal London Hospital

  Whitechapel, London

  December 17, 10:46 A.M. GMT

  I found a relatively quiet spot in a vee formed by two fire trucks parked at right
angles and called Church. I told him what it was like at the scene, and remarked on the dense oil smoke that was turning the entire sky black.

  “Odd,” he said. “Perhaps it is intended as a symbolic touch. A statement.”

  “On what? The Mideast oil wars?”

  “Let’s add that to our list of questions.”

  “What do we know about this attack?” I asked.

  “Too little. Benson Childe, my opposite number in Barrier, called to ask if we’d heard anything from our networks. We haven’t. Nothing credible, anyway. Half a dozen fringe groups have issued statements claiming responsibility, but they are the ones who do that for everything. I’ve had our people trolling through FBI, CIA, and Senate subcommittee records, reports to the President, speculation from our own analysts. So far we have a lot of enemies and there is no shortage of threats against us and our allies, but nothing that specifically targets this location or date. No one has identified a specific political or religious motivation for this, so the Brits are holding off on calling this a terrorist attack.”

  “From where I’m standing it doesn’t look like anything else. I worked a lot of fires when I was a cop, Boss, and this isn’t bad wiring or someone smoking in bed. There’s going to be more collateral damage than we had at Ground Zero. Maybe a higher body count, God help us.”

  “Yes. Which means that the whole world is going to be looking at this, and that’s why the Brits are taking their time in putting a label on it. They don’t want to kick off a rash of hate crimes. For the moment the verbiage is ‘national tragedy.’”

  “Anything from Al-Qaeda?”

  “Not so far, but expect something. If this isn’t their play, then they’ll reach out to praise whoever did it.”

  “What about our other sparring partners? The Cabal? The Kings?”

  “There’s not enough of the Cabal left to orchestrate this. As for the Seven Kings … that may be more likely.”

  “Why? What’s been happening while I’ve been off the radar?”

  “There have been some clashes. Our informant is still feeding us useful intel. We’ve had several dustups with the Chosen.”

  “Sorry I missed the party,” I lied. In truth, I wasn’t looking to jump back into any firefights with the Kings’ field troops.

  We had learned about the Seven Kings a few weeks after my first mission with the Department of Military Sciences. Mr. Church had received an anonymous phone call from a source even MindReader was unable to trace. The call had come in on Church’s private line, a number known only to key people: the President of the United States, a few people in government, the heads of the top counterterrorist organizations belonging to our allies, and the team leaders of the DMS. Either one of them was the mysterious caller or the caller had managed to learn that private number or the caller had the technology to hack into Church’s coded phone. None of those options was particularly comforting.

  He was able to record the call, however, and played it back for us … .

  Chapter Four

  Telephone Call

  June 23, 8:17 A.M. EST

  “I want to speak to Colonel Eldritch.”

  Eldritch was one of a dozen different names for the man I knew as Church. None of them were his real name as far as I knew.

  “Who is this?” Church asked.

  “A friend.” The caller spoke through a voice-distortion system that made it impossible to tell if it was a man or a woman.

  “Your ID is blocked. My friends don’t need to hide their identities.”

  “Then consider me a new friend.”

  “What is the basis for our new friendship?”

  “A shared interest in the security of our nation.”

  “Will you tell me your name?”

  “My name is of no importance. What is important is who I represent.”

  “Who is that?”

  “A group of loyal Americans whose actions are always in the best interest of America.”

  The caller had not said in the best interests of the American people.

  “What do you want?”

  “There is a new and grave threat to this country.”

  “What is the nature of this threat?”

  “It is a group called the Seven Kings of the New World Trust.”

  “Who are they?” asked Church. “And what is their agenda?”

  “Chaos,” said the caller.

  “What kind of chaos?”

  “Total. Global. Apocalyptic.”

  “Excuse me,” said Church, “but this is bordering on being a crank call. If you are a loyal American as you claim, and if there is a threat about which you have knowledge, then please give me the facts in plain and simple terms.”

  There was a sound that might have been a short laugh. “For reasons that I do not care to explain, I cannot give you too much information on the Seven Kings. Perhaps I will be able to share some information from time to time.”

  “Will you give me something now?”

  “Yes. Something that will save American lives.” The caller gave Church the location of a Hamas cell operating in Washington, D.C., that was being funded by the Seven Kings. “This group plans to strike tomorrow during the afternoon rush hour. Many people will die, including key members of Congress. You can stop this.”

  “That’s it?” Church demanded. “You speak of a group dedicated to global chaos and the downfall of our country and all you give me is a single terrorist cell? How do I know I can trust you?”

  “You’ll find the cell.”

  And then the caller disconnected.

  Chapter Five

  After-Action Report

  Washington, D.C.

  June 23, 1:44 P.M. EST

  We followed up with recon and verified the cell’s existence. Fourteen hostiles and enough weapons and explosives to start a war. Or tear the capital apart.

  I led the hit.

  D.C. had been in the crosshairs since long before 9/11, so there are fifty kinds of counterterrorism protocols built into the infrastructure and dozens of agencies are tasked with gathering intel. It’s all supposed to be shared. Politicians aren’t supposed to lie, either.

  Our people used MindReader to hack everyone else’s database and dump everything into one massive pattern-recognition search. By collating information from a dozen different agencies we learned that much more was known about this matter than any one group believed and the reason everyone who needed to know didn’t know was because red tape and departmental pissing contests reduce the flow of interagency intel to a dribble. Guys with prostates the size of soccer balls can piss a heavier stream.

  It fell to the Department of Military Sciences to put the pieces together and put boots on the ground. Thanks to MindReader.

  When Mr. Church formed the DMS he built it around a computer system that was several generations ahead of anything else known to exist. MindReader was designed to look for trends and the software was very carefully crafted to take into account some factors that might otherwise be missed, and although computers can’t generalize or make intuitive leaps, this one came pretty damn close. Its other unique feature was that it could intrude into virtually any other computer system without tripping alarms. When MindReader backed out, it rewrote the target computer’s software so that there was no record that it had ever been hacked. It was a highly dangerous system, and Church guarded it like a dragon.

  So less than five hours after the mysterious call—from someone whom everybody except Church was already calling Deep Throat—disconnected we had snipers on rooftops, choppers in the air, a satellite retasked to do thermal scans, and Echo Team ready to kick in the doors.

  The cell was located in a small frame house on Ninth Street in the Penn Quarter section of D.C. Lots of foot traffic, lots of tourists. We parked the van around back and halfway up the block. We were not wearing our usual combat rig—unmarked black BDUs, helmets, and ballistic shields. Too many civilians and no way to know who was a spotter for the bad guys.r />
  I wore a Hawaiian shirt over jeans. We all wore vests, though, but these were the latest generation of spider silk bulletproof vests with carbon nanotubes filled with nanoparticles that become rigid enough to protect the wearer as soon as a kinetic energy threshold was surpassed. Stuff that’s not on the open market yet, but Church has a friend in the industry and he always buys us the best toys.

  I strolled down the street with Khalid Shaheed, one of my newest shooters. Khalid looks like a schoolteacher and came to the DMS by way of Delta Force. A good guy to have at your back.

  We pretended to argue about whether Brooks Robinson should be considered the greatest Orioles player of all time rather than Cal Ripken. I used a prearranged cue word to escalate the argument into a shouting match just as we passed the front of the target house. Shouts escalated into shoves and soon the front door opened and a man wearing a blue sports coat stepped out onto the porch.

  “Hey!” he yelled. “Stop that … . Get out of here!”

  He had a Palestinian accent, and Khalid turned to him and in brusque Palestinian Arabic told him to mind his own business. Actually, Khalid told him to have anal sex with a three-legged dog. Nice. The man began screaming at Khalid and soon they were nose to nose. The door was still open and I could see other faces appear at the windows and in the doorway.