Encrypted (45 page)

* * *

Lino
stood amongst the clamor of the other men loading into the van as the helicopter veered out of view. To think that one man, Francois
Loboum
, felt him above God’s will and escaped the Al
m
ighty’s wrath. Perhaps the old, fallen priest did have a guardian angel.

Much as Lucifer had his comrades
,
so must Francois.

Could Francois not see that a cleansing purge was God’s way? Seldom did the Bible talk of conferences and political pacts. No, God spoke of fire and plague. Something the Hidden Hand was adept at unleashing.

Lino
gave a deep sigh as he climbed into the all
-
too
-
modern van. He never should have allowed Deacon
Havar
to convince him to leave Francois’ extraction to others.
Lino
would have snuck in like a thief in the night, slit the old man’s throat
, and
then snuck back out again without anyone the wiser. But
Havar
wanted Francois alive.

Certainly the obese
d
eacon had justified his orders that they would compel vital information out of Francois, but
Lino
sensed it had more to do with
Havar
’s
desire to torture the old man.

Weakness of flesh. Weakness of spirit.

And to think
that
such weakness had caused the death of Brother Michael. The man had been the one who first taught
Lino
the symbols of the angels. The symbols that would rule his life. But if poor Michael had been careless enough to be killed
,
perhaps it would not be worth
Lino’s
time to mourn him.

What of the painting? They had long suspected
that
the communist Picasso wandered from the fold. But to have so brashly impregnated one of his paintings with heresy? Now
,
that too was in the hands of the unbelievers.

As the van skid
ded
out, filling the night air with the acrid smell of rubber, the driver called out to
Lino
. “Deacon
Havar
wants to know your plan from here.”

Oh, now the flabby man wished
Lino’s
counsel.

While he accepted the proffered phone,
Lino
had absolutely no ambition to impart the truth to the
d
eacon. Francois could seek
few harbors
during such a storm as this.
Lino
intended to find him…alone.

* * *

Dr. Henderson walked into the room. “Good. You are both sitting.”

More than likely because neither Amanda nor Jennifer had the energy to stand.
N
either did Dr. Henderson
, for
he leaned heavily against the doorframe.

“Dr.
MacVetti
just died.”

That didn’t make sense. They’d had two guards die, but those men had been deep into the Black Death’s grip,
with
bloody froth at their lips, struggling to breath
e
as boils broke out all over their bod
ies
.

“But
MacVetti
was barely second stage,” Amanda commented
,
refraining from checking her own lymph nodes. However
,
she glanced
at
Jennifer
,
whose already ashen lips had gone white at the news.

“He had mild heart disease, but it was enough to throw a clot to his brain. He stroked out.”

That was the problem with the plague. Sometimes it didn’t wait to kill you itself
.
I
t just added fuel to an already diseased portion of the body. No
o
ne
was
safe.

Sounds came from the hallway as Dr. Henderson frowned.

“What is it?”

Amanda’s mind went fairly wild with speculation. She had been studying the Hidden Hand so closely
that
she felt like they were right beside her at times. Were they now coming down the hallway?

Instead
,
Henderson moved out of the way for half
a
dozen scientists. Colleagues
—
most who had not exactly ever been on Team Amanda.

Each nodded as they passed by
,
and
then lined up across from her desk.

“Well?” Dr.
Conek
asked.

“Well, what?”

“We are here to do whatever you need us to do.”

“But
—
”

Dr.
Conek
slowly shook his head. “We discussed it. We aren’t going to wait
down
in the infirmary until it becomes a morgue.
MacVetti
did everything right. Took his meds, rested
,
and
now
look at him.”

The new group got into their seats as
Conek
finished. “So fill us in on your Chicken Little Project
,
and let’s get going.”

Amanda gulped back tears. Even Dr. Henderson sat down. Jennifer
,
on the other hand
,
had no problem handing out assignments. Maybe
,
just maybe
,
with ten brains working on the same project, they
w
ould find the elusive Hidden Hand.

CHAPTER 20

Undisclosed Location

11:32
p
.
m
.,
MST

Francois
sat
upon the motel’s lumpy mattress
,
allowing the woman to examine his arm. While her gaze was obsessed with the marking
s
dug deep into the flesh, Francois only had eyes for the painting that sat across from them, propped upon the faux wood table.

They had not allowed him to burn it. Not yet. On the other side of the room
,
the FBI
agent
who had saved him held a lighter and
a
hair spray can
—a
cheap and easily assembled torch. The FBI agent did not seem to trust Francois with the items. Which was probably warranted.

The desire to burn the painting and see the beauty of the angels
’
gift to man flamed inside Francois. He had come so far
,
and thought himself thwarted. That God might have seen fit to grant him another chance? This he would not waste.

“So you read these diagonally?” the woman asked.

Francois nodded. Normally
,
he would not so casually reveal such secrets
,
but the woman had the language of the angels all over her laptop screen. And not just any symbols. But those most precious to their guardians. Secret symbols. Yet there they glistened and shimmered. If the angels so blessed her, he would be of no hindrance.

“I had guessed as much. Is it read right to left
,
down the center line?”

Again
,
he nodded. This one truly must have a pure soul if the angels had given her such knowledge.

“What I don’t get is, where do I start next?” the woman said
,
indicating to the most recent symbols cut into his flesh. “Do I move the entire set down
,
or start from the top to create the new center line?”

Francois could not help but flinch as she touched an especially fresh symbol.

“Sorry,” she murmured
,
taking more care as she leaned over his arm.

“When did they begin speaking to you?” Francois asked.

The woman frowned. “Who?”

“The angels?”

The FBI agent stepped forward. “Okay. I’ve been more than patient. I have taken a lot…well
,
not exactly on faith here, but on
necessity
.”

The dutiful doubters. Those
who
balanced on the edge of a sword. Not having enough faith but neither having too much distrust. Francois knew how this man felt. Francois himself had experienced it decades ago.

Then it had been burned out of him.

Literally.

“Perhaps it is best if I show you,” Francois suggested.

* * *

Zach watched the old man’s face as Francois tenderly dragged his finger along the frame of the Picasso. Zach wasn’t exactly a modern art guy, but even he recognized the cubist painting. Francois held out his hand for the lighter and hair spray. It was pretty low tech
;
however
,
the
items
made a handy flamethrower when you were running from the law.

Usually
,
Zach thought of himself as a man of action. He liked learning stuff by doing. He’d always hated classroom
s,
with
their
chalkboards
or whi
t
eboards,
and desks. Give him a chance to field
-
strip an AK-47 any day over learning the penal code.

But here he stood, not wanting to take action. Sure, it had sounded all well and good to go ahead and burn the rest of the Picasso. Why not? It was already torched along one side. However
,
standing here in the broke
-
down motel with one weird eye staring at him, an eye that the master himself had painted made Zach a little queasy.

Again, his mother would be so proud.

Zach looked
at
the door. The pilot was still guarding it, peeking out the curtain at regular intervals to make sure
that
their location was still secure. Then, of course, Quirk was staring at the pilot
,
so they were covered there.

He glanced
at
Ronnie
,
who shrugged. “He insists
that
the symbol
s
will only be revealed if we burn the painting at a high
-
intensity temperature.”

Hence
,
the spray can and the lighter.

Ronnie took a step closer
,
covering Zach’s hand with hers.

“Quirk, what’s the update?”

Her assistant checked his smartphone. “Another hundred thousand cases reported in the last
hour
. And it’s confirmed
that
the entire staff of Plum Island is infected.”

The plague was spreading faster than any
one
had guessed
,
and
was
far more lethal than any
one
had feared. If the CIA believed that this angelic script held the key to stopping the plague
—
enough to set up and kidnap an FBI agent to coerce an outlaw hacker into helping
—
then well, there had to be something to it.

Still, what in the hell did Picasso have to do with any of this?

Zach could
,
of course
,
ask those questions
.
B
ut by the set of the old man’s jaw
,
he doubted if he would get many answers.

“
I’ll
do it.” Zach said. Francois opened his mouth to protest, but Zach rode right over him. “That’s a deal breaker.”

The old man got that look in his eye, like he had back at the field office
—
right before he tried to pull Zach through the bars. A hint of madness tinged with desperation. Zach held steady
,
though. While Francois held a lot of information, the old man also needed to learn how to bottle the crazy up.

“
Deal
.
Breaker
,” Zach emphasized.