Protocol 7 (12 page)

Simon shrugged. It was an obvious question. He told Jonathan about the conversation he’d had with his old friend, and how disappointing it had been.

“You might want to try again,” Jonathan suggested. “Who knows, he might have changed his mind.”

Simon thought about it for a moment and then agreed. “No harm in trying,” he said. He picked up the secure phone that Andrew had given him and dialed Max’s number from memory.

Much to his surprise, he heard a pre-recorded voicemail message meant especially for him, rather than Max himself, live and in person. It was his friend’s voice—that much was clear—but the words made no sense at all.

“Hey buddy,” Max’s voice told him. “I know that you’re thinking about that vacation you were talking about, but I talked to the other guys and none of them can make it. I’ll catch up with you later. Give Jake my love.” The disconnection was a loud pop in his ear.

Simon stared at Jonathan with frank and obvious confusion. “What the hell is wrong with that guy?” he said. “What vacation? Besides, Max never mentions Jake in his phone calls. And he would never say ‘give my love to Jake,’ even if that’s what he wanted to say.” Something was very wrong here. He just had no idea what it was.

“Never mind,” Jonathan said. “We’ll just have to do this without him.”

They sat in the car for almost three hours, talking through the plan. The eastern sky was turning chalky with dawn when Jonathan finally started the nearly silent engine and drove Simon back to his flat.

Neither of them knew that the clock was already ticking, and that everything was about to change.

The air traffic controller assigned to the night shift at one of Malta’s more modest airfields didn’t really know what to make of it. He rarely had more than a flight or two a day; sometimes days would go by when no planes of any size arrived at all. But today—in the last nine hours—he had barely had time to sit down.

The last arrival had been a small private jet. It had given him call signs, but he knew they were counterfeit; they were unlike any he’d ever encountered before. He watched with his binoculars as a single, stunningly beautiful passenger with jet black hair and striking blue eyes exited the aircraft and left the tarmac in a black limousine that had already been waiting. The one lone crewmember that had stayed behind didn’t even bother to visit the tower or file a flight plan for departure.

The controller didn’t like it—not one bit. But nobody asked him to. One thing he knew for sure: no one wanted to answer any questions, so he wasn’t about to ask any.

* * *

The woman who had arrived on that private jet knew exactly where she was going. She had instructions, and she would follow them exactly, as always.

She was driven to a small village not far from the airstrip, but 1,800 miles from London, where her flight had begun. The limo dropped her in a deserted square near the center of town shortly before dawn, next to an ancient sewer cap that, she knew, plunged hundreds of feet to an underground passage—one that had been created literally thousands of years ago.

A stranger was waiting for her. He gestured to her. She nodded to her silent driver as the stranger took her bag and escorted her to the side of the square, to a narrow, dusty alley choked with deep blue shadows. The wind tugged at the woman’s long, dark hair. It was warm enough, even as the sun was rising, but she felt a chill pass through her nonetheless.

There was a set of steps halfway down the alley that led to a narrow doorway. The stranger dropped her bag in front of the door and hesitated, reluctant to move any closer to the entrance. Never mind, she thought. She didn’t need the help. She picked up the bag and opened the door herself. It was unlocked.

There was a winding set of stairs that took her deep underground—three flights below street level. At the bottom she was greeted by a young girl, no more than ten years old, who led her wordlessly to a small room even deeper underground.

The little girl helped her undress and handed her a satin robe, unadorned but smooth and warm to the touch. Then she led her to the baths for her ceremonial cleansing.

The woman already knew what would happen next. She was prepared. After she had been bathed and warmed, fragrant oils were applied to her entire body; the young girl brought in a tray of clean muslin bandages, thick rolls about two inches wide. The woman sat up straight, still relaxed, and tipped back her head to make it easier to complete the next step.

The wrapping began with her eyes. Of course, she was not to see the entrance to the ancient Place of Silence. Then her entire body was wrapped—face and neck, torso and thighs, arms and legs to wrist and ankle, gently and firmly and with the utmost care and respect. Only her fingers and toes remained exposed.

When it was done, the woman could see nothing but a gray haze of fabric, hear nothing but the muted roar of blood pounding in her ears. A sequence of hands touched her on her shoulders and wrists. She was guided to a location she could not guess—a different place, following a different route than she had been led the last time, or the time before.

She was used to the process. She had grown accustomed to it over the years.

There were many corridors and many doors; she was sure of that much. Sometimes the air was warm; sometimes there were sudden, chilling blasts that came across her bandaged face that made her shiver. There were many different hands guiding her—some as small as the little girl’s, others larger and with sharp nails, and still others thick and rough without intending to be, all guiding her from passage to passage.

It would not be long now, she knew.

She began to hear the echo of the chanting, even through the fabric that covered her ears. It grew louder as she moved down one last, straight corridor.

The hands disappeared the instant she passed into the ceremonial hall. She was alone now, blind and half-deaf. Now she could rely only on her memory and training: thirteen steps forward, turn to the right, two steps forward and one to the side. And on. And on. She had been taught this sequence long ago. She did not falter; she never had.

The humming vibrations of the chants grew louder as she moved through the sequence. The air felt colder than ever, but familiar, almost welcome. She could feel the chilled puddles of water under her feet. She was closer to the sacred space now. Much closer, once again in a room with others—others with whom she had communicated for years but never seen.

There was no society on Earth as obscure, as secretive, or as ancient as this. The ancient rite she was practicing at this moment had been practiced in just such a way, in just such a place, for millennia—for as long as there have been humans to perform it. They were here for a reason. They persisted to protect one of the most powerful secrets of all time, a secret passed down from generation to generation by a carefully chosen few.

She was privileged—blessed—to be the bearer of that secret.

She completed the sequence of steps, confident in her movement. She sank to her knees, still blinded, and put out her hands, fingers outstretched, palms down. She could feel intense cold radiating just below them.

The block of ice, she told herself. As always. In place.

She lowered her hands slowly and carefully and touched the frigid surface of the block. Unsurprised, fully prepared, she moved her hands down the block—top to bottom, left to right. There were forms carved in the ice in a language lost for millennia: her instructions, her new assignment. She would have time to read it only once before the block melted away, leaving nothing but cold water in its place.

For one instant, she felt a wild, nearly uncontrollable impulse to snatch the blindfold from her eyes, to look into the room, into the faces of her masters for the first time.

But that was not an option. It never was. She was the society’s instrument, its tool, and she would now be its weapon. And weapons did not make their own choices. They simply did what they were designed to do.

As she absorbed the instructions, as the ice melted beneath her trembling fingers, she knew how difficult this would be. It was, almost certainly, the last assignment she would be given. When the ritual was performed in this place again, as it certainly would be, there would be a new woman, a new acolyte, in her place.

She did not object. She did not speak.

There was an obscure marking on the back of her neck—the same one that all the members had—an ancient symbol tattooed on her when she was a young child. The geometric shape meant “the unspoken word” in a language that was nearly forgotten, and it was an indelible reminder of the First Rule: Never Speak of This.

She never did.

The last indentations in the ice melted away. The message had been delivered. She had read and understood. She was shivering slightly, from cold and revelation, as she stood, turned, and performed the memorized steps exactly in reverse, still sightless. Soon she found herself standing at the door, where a new set of hands touched her, drew her forward, and led her away from the Place of Silence.

Two hours later she boarded the same jet that brought her to Malta and returned to London. There were three men on the aircraft with her this time, but they did not speak to her. They didn’t even look directly at her as she entered the cabin. They were stern and fierce looking, as if they were her bodyguards. All were of ethnic decent, Mediterranean, with strong, dark features. The plane had not been in flight for more than thirty minutes before one of the three men held his hand over his ear, listening to the incoming message.

Two minutes later he spoke to the woman. “Seems our source has located the team. We’re not sure what’s been leaked, but I’m on top of it.”

“Careful,” the woman said, “We don’t want to blow the plan. I need to rendezvous inconspicuously. Need to know exactly where to meet.”

“We’re on it,” the man said. He spoke into the collar of his black suit as the other two watched, stoic like statues but dangerous looking. “Extract info—that is all,” he said. “No one remembers, and no one gets hurt.” He disconnected by tapping his collar.

The woman spent the trip staring out the window as Western Europe passed silently beneath her.

This, she knew, would be no ordinary mission.

The stranger entered Samantha’s building using a simple lock pick, a close variation on a design that had been used by burglars for centuries. He did it absolutely silently, without so much as the skirl of metal on metal. A separate device in his pocket, no larger than a golf ball, automatically countered the security systems that should have alerted her of an intruder. No lights flashed; no alarms sounded.

He slipped up to the third floor like a shadow.

Samantha had been exhausted by everything that had happened the day before. First the phone calls from her friends, then that incredible conversation at the Stanton, and finally the dinner at Ryan’s. It had drained her completely. She had actually dozed off still fully clothed, toothbrush in hand.

She didn’t even flinch as the stranger opened the door to her flat and slipped inside, closing it silently and securely behind him.

He moved swiftly and with deadly purpose. Within seconds, he was standing over her bed, where she lay in a deep sleep. He smiled with utter confidence as his gloved hand reached into the pocket of his jacket and withdrew a square white cloth folded double. It was already soaked with a foul-smelling liquid.

The stranger snapped it over her mouth so swiftly, so securely, she scarcely had time to react. Her first panic-stricken intake of breath pulled the foul smell into her lungs. It was already too late.

Samantha tried to resist, but the strength of his hand was simply too much. In the space of five heartbeats she fell back onto the bedcovers, unconscious. A moment later the stranger pulled a circular bit of plastic from his pocket—a medication induction patch, standard issue in every hospital across Europe—and slapped it onto the side of her neck.

Samantha would be ready to answer any question he asked within five minutes.

He would be gone in ten.

Simon was so exhausted he almost fell asleep in Jonathan’s car on the way back to his flat, and he had to rouse himself as Jonathan pulled into his driveway and let him out.

“Tomorrow,” he said, and Jonathan agreed, clearly as beat as Simon himself. His old friend had backed the car down the driveway and off into the night before Simon had made it to the entrance.

He took a moment to breathe in the clean, cool pre-dawn air. The rain had passed, at least for the moment, and though he was weary beyond belief, he felt strangely calm.

It had been a good meeting. Now he had a plan, crazy as it was. And a team of people he could trust. And…

And there was something wrong here.

The first hint came as he entered the lobby of his apartment. The regular greeting at the door was silent, which was highly unusual. The attendant was not there. He looked around as he started to walk upstairs, but nothing else seemed out of the ordinary until he reached his own front door.

There was light shining around its edges—far too much light.

His front door was ajar by half an inch.

“What the…” he mumbled. He pushed the door open completely and rushed in.

The living room was an utter mess. I’ve been burglarized, he thought as he stopped and surveyed the damage. But then he noticed that his antiques, though upset or rearranged, were still in the room, and many of his collectibles were actually still in their places. How can the place be such a mess, he wondered, if nothing was taken?

He walked over piles of books lying on the floor and called out. “Fae? What happened?”

Silence.

“Fae? What the hell…?”

He stopped by the end table next to his favorite chair and tapped the holo-display, trying to bring it to life. It sprang up without difficulty, and he accessed the icon that should have brought his household AI to the forefront…