Kill Switch (15 page)

“Findings? Ha! That bunch couldn't find their asses with a laser-guided missile. Of course I disagree. Don't you?”

“It's not my case, Harcourt. Why are we having this conversation?”

“Geez, why are you so cranky lately? You didn't used to be like this.”

“Harcourt…”

“Right, right. I'm calling you because it actually might
be
your case after all,” said Bolton. “I called the president as soon as I was done reading that piece-of-crap report. I told him that it was wrong.”

“And how did you come to that conclusion, Harcourt?”

“Easy math, Deke. I've been juggling a couple of investigations, you know, tapping my old network to see if I can shake some bedbugs out of the linen. There are a couple of case profiles I've been putting together to hand off to the young lions here at Central Intelligence. But as it turns out, two of these cases are different ends of the same case. First one is a real Dan Brown thing, you'll love it. Somebody ought to write a book. Short version is that there's a new black market that's been operating on the fringes of the Middle East. Run by a guy named Ohan, who's a non-Muslim Turk who'd cut out your mother's liver and sell it back to you for ten bucks plus installation. Sweetheart of a guy by all accounts.”

“Ohan?” said Church. “I haven't heard of him.” He glanced at Brick, who was already typing it into a MindReader search. Brick shook his head and mouthed the word “nothing.” “How did you come up with this intel, Harcourt?”

“Oh, you know what the kids are calling me when they think I'm not listening. Mr. Voodoo. I have my sources.”

Church made a noncommittal grunt.

“Anyway, Deke,” said Bolton, “this Ohan character has cornered a very specialized part of the global black market. He's managed to obtain a lot of items from libraries, tombs, sacred sites, and university museums in areas overrun by ISIL. A lot of the stuff they claim to have destroyed because it doesn't fit their version of Islam wasn't so much ‘destroyed' as sold. Ohan fences it for them and their cut goes into the Islamic State's war chest. Somebody has to pay for all those bullets and beheading swords. Actually, from what I've been able to put together, it looks like ISIL is using that money to step up its game.”

“Step it up how?”

“That's where this story gets really interesting, because I managed to get a partial inventory list from one of Ohan's people. Call it a catalog page, or close enough. Some of the stolen tech had been in development by an international team of for-hire science nerds. Like DARPA, except they are completely mercenary with no specific national or political affiliations. Geeks R Us. Apparently some private labs in Syria had become go-to spots for off-the-books R and D. According to Ohan's list, they had stuff in development for the Russians, the North Koreans, the Iranians, the Egyptians. Fun stuff, too. Missile defense jamming systems. Laser-guided man-portable rocket systems designed to take out drones. Like that. This is quality science, Deke. This is the kind of thing that could cause real problems for us and for NATO.”

“Sounds like it.”

“Three items on that list popped out and that's why I called. The first is something called a ‘God Machine,' which I can only assume is a code name. I showed it to a couple of big brains. You're not the only one with friends in the industry. Heh-heh. Anyway, one said that it looked like a portable version of a hadron collider, which is a contradiction in terms. Those things are huge. The other said that it was a component of a directed-energy weapon being developed under the code name of ‘Kill Switch.' A kind of nondestructive EMP device, as I understand it.”

“Ah,” said Church.

“Now you're interested, right? Ohan claimed to have partial schematics for the God Machine and a completed prototype of the Kill Switch for sale. My sources tell me that ISIL snapped it up, which means that they're looking to take the fight to us. And get this, they didn't buy Kill Switch with cash money. What they did is give Ohan a couple of tons of priceless ancient sculptures and rare books for it.”

“This is very interesting, Harcourt,” said Church, “and I very much appreciate you bringing it to me. I'll talk to POTUS about having the power blackout case shifted to the DMS.”

“Good luck with that. You're not POTUS's favorite guy these days.”

“We still have a useful working relationship.”

“Sure, but for how long?” said Bolton. “Look, it's no secret that he blames you for him not having a chance at a second term. He thinks you should have stopped the Seven Kings. He hasn't come right out and said that the drone disaster was your fault, but it's clear that's how he feels.”

Church said nothing. Brick shook his head, wanting to say something but keeping his vitriolic comments locked inside.

Bolton said, “Geez, I didn't call to kick you in the shins, Deacon. It's just that this power outage thing is scaring the crap out of me. If I was twenty years younger I'd go after this myself. Guess you feel the same way. But, bad luck streaks happen in baseball and special operations, too. They pass. Shame about Gateway, 'cause this Kill Switch thing would have been perfect for your boy Ledger.”

“Captain Ledger is not the only team leader I have in play.”

“Oh, I know, but he's the best now that Samson Riggs is gone.” Bolton sighed. “He was good, Samson. The only guy I thought could give me a run for my money. Now there's Joe Ledger. But you know, Deke, if we're going to be honest about this, you'd never have gotten the funds to open the Special Projects Office if the president hadn't taken me out of the game. That's a fact.”

Brick Anderson watched Church's face as Bolton said this. Was there a flicker of annoyance there? Or pity?

“Harcourt,” said Church quietly, “this isn't a cult of personality. You did a tremendous amount of good as a field operative and now, with your intelligence network, it's possible you're even more valuable to the war we fight. No one will ever say otherwise.”

There was a pause on the line, a heavy silence.

“Christ, will you listen to me?” said Bolton. “I sound like an old dog yapping at puppies. Sorry, boy. Let's put it down to stress and not enough sleep. Don't hold it against me, Deacon.”

“Of course not, Harcourt.”

Bolton made a sound, somewhere between an uncomfortable laugh and a self-deprecating sigh. “I hate getting old.”

“We all do.”

“Yeah, well, it hits some of us harder than others. You never seem to change.”

“I feel my years,” said Church. “It's why I stopped going into the field, too. I leave the gymnastics for younger men and women.”

“You left under your own terms, though. I didn't leave the game, the game left me.”

“And yet here we are, Harcourt. You've brought valuable intel to me twice in one day.”

“Yeah, yeah. We're all superheroes. Got it,” said Bolton. “Listen, talk to POTUS. Run down that ISIL thing. Don't back-burner it, Deke. If ISIL has gotten hold of some kind of portable EMP technology, then we are in deep, deep trouble.”

“Yes, we are,” said Church.

“Ohan knows who bought it. I passed this along to some guys I know in the field. Agency station chiefs who don't have their heads up their keisters. I'll send Ohan's info to you, too.”

“I appreciate that, Harcourt,” said Church.

“And…,” said Bolton, drawing it out, “there's one more thing. I don't see how it could be connected to Gateway or ISIL or the EMP tech, but those ancient books ISIL gave to Ohan? I recognized some of them and it really gave me a jolt, too. Remember that op we ran about thirty-odd years ago? Belgrade?”

“Thirty-seven years ago. What about it?”

“That was the first time you and I crossed paths. I was hunting for a couple of Kazakhstanis who were trying to sell nuclear components from the old Soviet days. And you were doing that hinky little deal with Arklight to close out those shooters from the Ordo Fratrum Claustrorum? The Brotherhood of the Lock, remember?”

“I remember.”

“Remember what the Brotherhood were doing in Belgrade? Remember what they were after?”

Church said nothing.

“You never did find it. Well,” said Bolton, “someone else is looking for it now, and Ohan says he has it to sell. My sources tell me there are at least two buyers bidding on it right now.”

Church said nothing.

“Yeah,” said Bolton, “I figured that would get your attention. Someone is trying to sell one of the Unlearnable Truths.”

 

INTERLUDE EIGHT

BELL FAMILY ESTATE

MONTAUK ISLAND, NEW YORK

WHEN PROSPERO WAS TWELVE

The man looked like what he was.

A killer. Though Oscar Bell knew that this was a side effect of his profession, not a calling. The man was not psychotic or sociopathic, and from the reports Bell had paid for, it seemed clear the thief did not particularly enjoy killing. It was a means to an end when all other options proved inefficient.

Bell could appreciate that. The blood he had on his own hands—at however many removes—was equally cold. Emotional attachments to that sort of thing created problems.

Bell hated problems. What made him happy were solutions.

“What do I call you?” asked Bell.

“Priest,” said the killer. They sat on opposite sides of Bell's big desk. They hadn't shaken hands when the thief arrived. Bell's courtesy extended to providing the man a cold beer, which sat untouched, beads of sweat running down the outside of the bottle. Bell hadn't even suggested a glass of his very old, very extraordinary scotch. The killer was dressed in a dark suit, with a white shirt and dark tie. His sunglasses lay on the edge of the desk.

“‘Priest'?”

“An old joke,” said the killer. “You had to be there.”

“Whatever,” said Bell. “You come very highly recommended, Mr. Priest.”

The man said nothing; merely lifted a finger and let it drop back.

“And yet,” said Bell, “your former employer was killed.”

Priest smiled. “Not on my watch. My team was in Yemen when that went down.” He spoke with a faint Spanish accent. Cultured and elegant, though Bell thought it was overlaid atop a more plebian one. A self-made man.

“Would things have been different had you been there?” asked Bell.

“I could not say,” said Priest. “I wasn't there.”

Bell shifted the subject. “Have you had time to go over my request?”

“I have.”

“And—?”

“I asked a few discreet questions and received some interesting leads,” said the killer.

“How interesting?”

“We do not yet have a contract, Mr. Bell. I did not mind asking those questions, but sharing the answers is different.”

“Fair enough.” Bell opened a drawer and removed an envelope, weighed it in his hand, and then tossed it onto the desk. Priest took it, opened it, leafed through the sheaf of bearer bonds.

“It's light.”

“It's enough to pay for those answers. If I like what I hear we'll negotiate a fee for the rest.”

Priest nodded. “The Unlearnable Truths aren't a myth. References to them have been heavily fictionalized, but they are real.”

“And you know this for a fact?”

“I do. It's why my colleagues referred you to me. I have had some experience with rare collectibles of this kind.” Priest grinned, showing a lot of white teeth. “You might say that this is kind of ‘my thing,' as the saying goes. It is a very small community of people who deal in such things, and a much smaller group who know about the Unlearnable Truths. Whoever told you about these books, though, must have very specialized information sources.”

“That's an understatement,” muttered Bell. “Continue, please.”

“Do you know the phrase ‘Index Librorum Prohibitorum'?”

“I can translate the Latin. Let me see … ‘list of prohibited books.' Something like that?”

Priest nodded. “The Index Librorum Prohibitorum was a list of books deemed heretical, lascivious, or anticlerical. Exciting, yes? Intriguing. Such a list makes you hunger to know what is in those books, does it not?”

“I will admit that I have a certain interest,” conceded Bell.

“Yes,” purred Priest. “The first list was authorized by Pope Paul IV in 1559.”

“Ah,” said Bell, “you're talking about the Pauline Index.”

“Then you have heard of it.”

“A passing reference,” said Bell. “I'm not too familiar with it. Feel free to explain.”

Priest laughed. “You would not believe what I would tell you.”

Bell sipped his scotch. “I wouldn't make assumptions, friend. Now, stop dancing around it. Give me the basics. I catch on pretty quickly.”

“Very well. The Index Librorum Prohibitorum has two parts. One was made public through priests whose job it was to remove restricted texts from their parishes. These priests would visit homes and inspect books to make sure that their flocks had no access to heretical, blasphemous, or obscene materials, yes? And as the years passed this became less official and more of an advisement. Banned books, book burnings. These things happen even today.”

“Sure. There are a lot of very aggressive idiots in the world. I do business with some of them.”

“You disapprove?”

“Whatever else I am, Mr. Priest, I am not a fan of censorship, and particularly enforced censorship. It gets in the way of the flow of information. Now, you said that there were two parts…?”

“The main list is the Index Librorum Prohibitorum. That is the published list of forbidden books. But there is a second list that is shared only among the most trusted members of the inner circle at the Vatican. This list is never named except in oblique references, but in the house of the Goddess—and to a few true scholars—this most secret of lists is known as the Unlearnable Truths. Many of these books have been found and destroyed by the
Ordo Fratrum Claustrorum
.”