[The Fear Saga 01] - Fear the Sky (2014) (45 page)

“Now,” she said, still holding his gaze, “there are ten more doses of this drug in my bag. You are going to distribute these doses widely around the country. If you don’t, then everyone in Israel will, most likely, die quickly and ignominiously in a few months. I also have forty more doses that you are going to administer as soon as possible to agents of ours deployed in Syria, Jordan, Egypt, and Iran. Do you understand?”

“I imagine you are saying that this will spread the immunity in their countries as well. I cannot help but think …”

“Do not think that, Saul. Do not for one moment entertain the thought of keeping this antidote within our borders. If that happens, I will know, and I will find you, Saul. Know that your fate and that of all you hold dear rests on whether you get this drug spread to all the countries in this region. I will be working on getting it out to surrounding areas as well, but do not doubt that I will be able to tell whether you have done as I have asked today. This is not a time for Zionism, old friend, this is a time for practicality. If Israel survives the coming attack and all around her die, they will say we did it, even though we were in fact the intended target. How do you think the world would react to such a genocidal act?”

He nodded. He knew her well enough to know she was not telling him the whole story, but those same instincts worked both ways. He felt certain the threat she described was absolutely real. What was most worrying about it was that if they were indeed able to crack all of their e-mails and telephone calls, well, that only really meant one country was behind this. He had known for many years that America had established a strong CIA presence among them. They had allowed it because fighting it would have meant alienating their greatest ally. Now, he knew, that presence was too intrinsic to be countered. He would monitor this Raz Shellet, but he would do it extremely subtly, as he knew that even the slightest report of his interest in her would alert the foe that Ayala was trying to protect him from.

She watched his mind work and she knew she had him. He had taken the path she had wanted and she had seen the moment that he had made the incorrect but perfectly logical leap to America.

Good. If he suspected the CIA, he would take the necessary care to avoid detection. That was all she needed. She had sown the seed.

* * *

François-Xavier Marchelier walked down the street to his office. He liked to do this on occasion, especially in the first onset of winter. The cold made him feel alive. He knew that Lieutenant Jeanette Archalle was not far behind him, and neither were the two men who followed him around sullenly all day. The brutes were such a burden. But such were the dangers of his position in the French government. At least as he entered the Ministry the two thugs would leave him behind. The big doors swung easily at his push, and he walked up to the security detail at the metal detectors, noting and trying to place the familiar face of the striking woman standing just inside. She seemed to recognize him too. She was about his age and she was coming over. She was smiling and he knew that face and that smile. Those lips, God, was she a lover of his? No, wait, she was …

She approached him, “Monsieur Le Minister, comment ça va? Madame Winstel, Bettina Winstel.” she introduced herself and tilted her head slightly to one side as he automatically went to kiss her cheeks in greeting.

“Of course,” he said, recognizing her now as the woman who had so notably dazzled him years ago when he had just been appointed to his post. She had not gotten any less beautiful since then, her dark hair and stunning eyes were still offset by her clearly Middle Eastern looks in just the right way, making her mysterious on so many levels. They had only spent an evening together, she had romanced him at the inauguration ball for their new president, which, in a way, had been the minister’s own inauguration ball as well. But what was she doing here?

Ayala had never been assigned to France formally by the Mossad, her French was not as perfect as they demanded, but when a new government came into power in any major global power, it was customary to send a few of the Mossad’s more ‘charming’ agents to get some leverage on its key members. They had not slept together that night at the ball, but the recording she had of his detailed and imaginative proposition to her had been a valuable addition to their file on him, should it ever be needed.

“I was in town unexpectedly, and thought of you.” she said in lilting French, her accent intoxicating, “Might you be able to have dinner tonight?”

He was supposed to attend a gala tonight, but not a very interesting one, or a very important one, for that matter. Maybe he could excuse himself early, “Madame, I am honored that you thought of me.” he smiled charmingly, “I have an appointment that will detain me until about nine, would it be at all possible to meet me at that time? I know of a wonderful restaurant that we could rendezvous at.”

She seemed to think a moment, smiling coquettishly, then nodded, her eyes conspiratorial. “I like to eat earlier than that, I am afraid, my minister,” his spirits sank a moment, but then rose as she touched his arm gently, “maybe you could meet me for a digestif instead? They carry a Martell XO at my hotel. Say at ten? I am in room 1909 at the Renaissance Trocadero.”

He was stunned, she had resisted even his most ardent advances at their first meeting. Oh my. The part of him that was naturally cautious said it was too easy, but that part of him that was more amorous said in rebuttal that if she meant to blackmail him she would have done so long ago. The amorous side won without much of a fight.

* * *

She had spent the day travelling by train to Brussels and back, jabbing various unsuspecting people in crowded train stations, often to shouts and rebukes. But none saw what had actually jabbed them as she expertly blamed their momentary pain on a sharp handbag she had purchased precisely for its impractical points and buckles. On her long flights to Israel and then to Paris she had also drugged several people on the plane with minor soporifics and administered them the antidote as they slept.

As the ardent minister entered her hotel room, she already had a similar draft made up for him. But first she had some business to discuss. He was shocked at her story, but believed it. As France’s defense minister, he had responsibility over all military spending, and she managed to bake into conversation how she had heard rumor in her home country of Turkey of a plot that was afoot to steal one of the expensive Rafale jet fighters from the French army. He was suspicious, but she had a document with details of the career of one Jean-Paul Merard with her, and a disturbingly large amount of information about both this pilot and the minister himself.

He was sad for a while that she had not really wanted him here because she found him charming, he was even angry for a moment at being used this way. But she was very charming, and very sincere. And very beautiful. When, after outlining her strategy for stopping the Turkish agent, and including a couple of veiled threats of what she would say to the French press if he did not do exactly as she said, she offered him a drink and apologized sweetly for being such a bully.

He smiled meekly and accepted her peace offering.

When he awoke a few hours later she was gone, and there was a folder by his side. It contained several clearly recently printed photos of him in this very hotel room, quite asleep but also quite naked, in various creative poses that would quickly end his career if released.

The folder also contained an almost mockingly sincere written apology, barely veiling a reiterated threat to his career should he not pursue the subtle, if effective, course she had described the night before. More importantly, she stressed the consequences would be no less severe should he tell anyone of their encounter. He cursed her and his own gullibility, but he had no intention of straying even one iota from her instructions. He would follow them to the letter.

Unbeknownst to him, she had not undressed him just for blackmail, or even for the considerable fun she had had posing and photographing his slumbering body. She had also saved his life: through a tiny needle mark on his ample posterior, she had introduced the drug that would actually make him the unwitting bearer of the greatest panacea in history to everyone he loved and held dear.

Eight Agents were arrayed in their circle once more, the nothingness of their backdrop emphasizing the esotericism of their virtual meeting.

John withheld his look of concern, not transmitting his personality analog’s emotions to his avatar in the virtual meeting. He did not know what decision the arbiter was referring to, but he knew that Shahim Al Khazar was in America and that made him nervous.

Given that he had called the meeting, Agent Shahim took the lead, “Eight months ago we struggled with the decision of how to handle the remaining members of the group that discovered Agent Preeti Parikh’s capsule in India. Along with the majority of you I voted for allowing them to live, but with the stipulation that if we found more reason to suspect them we would complete the job the hub satellites started.” he paused a virtual moment, then continued, “I have called this meeting because I believe I may have found just such a reason.”

“There is not any concrete evidence per se, but I saw something over the last three days that has made me suspicious. I have been watching Neal Danielson in his home in Washington, DC …” he went to continue but John cut in, his virtual voice perhaps betraying the sudden concern his face was programmed not to show.

“What do you mean you have been watching him? Why? What are you doing in Washington, DC?”

There was a pause and then Shahim went on, “I went there to assess the potential of attacking the Pentagon and White House as part of the package of target options given me by my superiors.”

John restrained himself, hoping someone else would say the obvious response to that statement. Preeti Parikh spoke up a moment later, “But the Council agreed that both those targets were too noticeable and would initiate a weapons build up by America and others, something we certainly do not want to encourage. Why were you looking at them?”

Before he could respond, Lana spoke up, clearly displeased at the direction the conversation was going, “What does it matter why he was there? He has not initiated any attacks on those locations. And by the sounds of it he has discovered something that will require further examination. Agent Shahim, please talk us through this information you have uncovered.”

John knew Lana had no compunction about killing, either here or on their homeworld, indeed they had all been selected at least in part because they were capable of maintaining a detached perspective toward their prey. But the princess was also famous for being just that, a princess. She was used to getting her way and John Hunt had always suspected that she had harbored some level of animosity toward Neal and Madeline simply because she had been outvoted by the Council on her suggestion that they be killed back in the fishing town of Kodikkarai. Indeed, it had only been because John Hunt and a few others had supported the AI’s push for prudence that the two of them had survived this long.

At Lana’s insistence, Shahim continued his thoughts on Neal, “As I mentioned, I was in Washington, DC, and I took it on myself to follow Neal Danielson simply because he had been of such interest to us before. I have not approached him, but I did gain access to the house across the street from his for several days and observed his movements.”

“Oh, I do not question that the AIs have been more than proficient in monitoring the two humans remotely. And Neal’s movements outside his house certainly seem perfectly reasonable.” said Shahim, “But what about the amount of time that Neal spends at his house? What is he doing there?”

Becoming increasingly more perturbed by the conversation, John interjected, trying to defuse the situation, “Do you have any actual information on the actions of Neal Danielson, Agent Shahim? If not, I see no reason to take this topic further.”

“Agent Hunt, forgive me for being so circumspect, but my experience both here on Earth and back on Mobilius has told me that there is rarely smoke without fire, and the smoke I see here is this,” said Shahim, “Neal Danielson spends anywhere up to ten hours a day in his basement. We have the schematics for the house, and they have no record of any computer connections or hookups down there. Plus there is no activity on his e-mail accounts during this time. This would not normally be enough to rouse suspicion, but combined with his pivotal role in the development and deployment of the probe that located Agent Preeti’s landing capsule, it is enough, I believe, to warrant further investigation.”

John was about to respond, trying to select his words carefully when Lana took the conversation in a new and equally disconcerting direction, “And this Madeline Cavanagh, is she also acting suspiciously, Shahim?”

This was not good.

“As for the woman that was with Mr. Danielson in India, I have not seen her come or go from his DC residence during the time I have been observing him. Maybe the hub could update us on her whereabouts.” said Shahim.

“She hasn’t visited her friend Neal once?” asked Lana.

Before John could interrupt, the AI said,