Sunset: Pact Arcanum: Book One (19 page)

“So we have no answers we can trust,” said President Daniels. “And even so, we still need to make some kind of decision in the public’s best interest as to how to deal with them.”

“Mr. President,” Secretary Matthews interrupted, “we have only one official information source while the Armistice has access to all the media exposure they could want. News outlets are engaged in a feeding frenzy, without any effort or ability to filter the truth of the Armistice’s claims. The public is receiving completely one-sided information, and we have not taken any action on their behalf that they can see. We are already being bypassed. There is a real danger that the decision about what to do will be taken out of our hands entirely.”

President Daniels turned back to Director Mitchell. “I want you to set up a taskforce to monitor the Armistice, covering intelligence and covert operations as necessary. Recruit the best and brightest from all of the intelligence services. You have
carte blanche
as far as funding goes. Get me answers.”

“It’s already being done,” Director Mitchell answered. “But it’s unlikely to get you anything useful before you will be forced to make a decision, Mr. President.”

“So be it.” He handed the business card to the Secretary of State. “Set up a conference with the Canadian and Mexican governments as soon as possible so we can put together a coordinated response. In the meantime, start the ball rolling toward diplomatic recognition. There’s nothing we can do to these people, yet, so we might as well open a dialogue to find out what they want.” He stood, eyeing the seal of the President of the United States emblazoned on the wall across from him. “We have been chosen to lead our nation in a historic time, people. We will not falter in our duty, and we will follow this road through to the end.” He turned and walked out as the other Cabinet members got up to leave.

The Secretary of State called her assistants and passed on the President’s instructions. Then she looked at the card in her hand and carefully dialed the number printed at the bottom.

“Armistice Embassy,” a pleasant voice answered. “How may we be of assistance, Secretary Matthews?”

“I need to set up a meeting with Ambassador Jameson.” She didn’t bother to ask how the voice had identified her anonymous cell phone.

“May I inquire as to your reasons and requirements for calling this meeting?”

“I want to discuss the details of the Triumvirate’s application for diplomatic recognition.”

“Stand by, Madam Secretary.” There was a silence on the other end of the line. Twenty seconds later, the voice spoke again. “Secretary Matthews, the Ambassador informs me that he would be happy to meet with you at a time of your convenience.”

“Would tomorrow morning be acceptable?”

“The Ambassador has assured me that he is at your complete disposal, Madam Secretary. The time and place are up to you.”

Like a duel,
she thought. “The State Department, nine a.m. tomorrow,” she said.

“The Ambassador will be there.”

“I look forward to it,” she lied and hung up. Glancing around the room at the trappings of power that surrounded her, she said, “We have been cursed to live in interesting times. God help us all.”

March 2040; Rome, Italy; Two months after public exposure

Alaricus walked the dark streets toward his home, allowing his senses free rein as he breathed in the night air. On the steps of his townhouse, he reached into his pocket for the keys and suddenly felt a biting pain in his upper back. Curious, he reached up to feel the source. Something small and hard was embedded in the meat of his shoulder. He pulled it free and examined it, taking in the long metal dart tipped with a wicked needle. He was still trying to understand what was happening when unconsciousness overtook him, and he collapsed.

When he awoke, still sluggish and dizzy, he immediately tried to assess his situation. He was in a medium-sized room with concrete walls, and a quick glance down at his body revealed he was sitting upright in a metal chair, his arms bound to it by heavy steel manacles. A bag of clear fluid hung from a rack next to his chair, and a tube ran from it into an intravenous catheter in his left arm. The chair was drawn up to a wooden table and faced an empty chair opposite. The room was otherwise bare and accessed only by a heavy metal door set in the wall behind the table. Looking up, he noticed the ceiling was made of clear glass covered by a number of hinged metal panels.

The sound of shifting metal came from the direction of the door, and it opened to reveal a man in his thirties, wearing gold-rimmed glasses and dressed in a simple white shirt and gray pants. He held a small transparent bottle filled with a colorless liquid in his left hand. The thick metal door closed behind him, followed by the clatter of heavy bolts sliding into place.

“Good morning, Mr. Giordano,” he said in Italian, sitting in the chair opposite. “My name is Andrew Kensington. I have been quite looking forward to meeting you.”

“What’s the meaning of this?” Alaricus demanded angrily in the same language. “Have I been kidnapped?”

The man across from him shrugged. “I just wanted to talk to you, Mr. Giordano. I apologize for our necessary precautions.”

“If you wanted to talk to me, you could have picked up the phone.” Alaricus snarled. “Who sent you, and what do you really want?”

Without answering, Kensington unscrewed the cap on the small bottle, leaned forward and tilted it, allowing a single drop of the clear liquid to land on Alaricus’ right hand.

Instantly screaming in agony, Alaricus reflexively tried to jerk his arm away. A metallic squeal rang out as the right manacle bent under the strain, but it remained intact. A crimson, caustic burn marred the back of his hand.

Kensington nodded in satisfaction and put the bottle down on the table, leaving the cap off. He met Alaricus’ stunned gaze. “Holy water,” he said conversationally. “Amazing. A month ago, I would have dismissed such things as superstition, but it’s a whole new world now, isn’t it?”

Alaricus growled. His irises flamed as he struggled to break free so he could reach across the table and kill this miserable human for his presumption. The metal of the chair arms twisted beneath his supernatural strength, but the manacles did not break.

Kensington watched him impassively. “Mr. Giordano, I should warn you that it is well after ten o’clock in the morning. Even if you do break free and kill me, my men have orders to open the shutters over the ceiling and expose this entire room to direct sunlight.”

Alaricus stopped dead. Kensington was telling the truth. His vampire senses detected not even the slightest trace of a lie. Alaricus tried to gather his will and teleport away, but he remained strangely disoriented and could not get his balance. He looked at the IV in his arm and swallowed in sudden fear. “What do you want, human?” he growled.

“I want you to answer some questions.” Kensington leaned forward, casually crossing his arms on the table. “I need information about you and your kind.”

Alaricus let his fangs show. “You appear to be well informed already.”

“Most of what we know is based on folklore and superstition. I require hard intelligence.” Andrew Kensington smiled coldly.

“We are not as corrupt as your kind, human,” spat Alaricus. “I will not compromise my honor to save my life, no matter what tortures you may have devised from your childish fairy stories.” He sat up straight in the chair, his voice proud. “I am Alaricus Praetor Ellestan, and my words are true.”

“I have no intention of killing you, Mr. Giordano. You’re the first viable lead we have conclusively identified. Your capture is the end result of almost six weeks of deep research, investigation, and surveillance. In the end, we found you only by a fortuitous accident.”

Alaricus narrowed his eyes. “What accident?”

“Ten days ago, you were involved in a motor vehicle collision in Milan. You escaped the hospital immediately after you awoke, but not before they drew a sample of your blood for analysis while you were unconscious.”

Alaricus visibly paled. “I was not aware of that,” he said.

“Once we had your description and the fingerprints from your vehicle, we were able to track you. We watched you for some time. When we saw you hunt down a tourist two days ago, we were finally sure. The rendition protocol we had previously prepared was activated, and we brought you to this specially-modified facility for interrogation.”

“You set this all in motion on the basis of a single blood sample?”

“No. The altered blood groups in your sample were quite perplexing to the hospital laboratory, so they referred it to a reference center for more detailed analysis. By itself, it probably would have been discarded as a curiosity—but we were watching for that specific pattern of abnormalities, a pattern that matches the sample recovered from an article of clothing left behind in Los Angeles, heavily stained with the blood of Nicholas Magister Luscian.”

Alaricus went still. “You’re American,” he said in English, having finally identified the faint accent to his captor’s speech.

“Yes,” Kensington said simply, switching back to his native tongue.

Alaricus considered him calculatingly. “You are seeking knowledge of the Triumvirate and of the Armistice.”

“We are.” Kensington stretched his hands in front of him, the tips of his fingers lightly touching. “From the information the Armistice has released, your own leaders are somewhat opposed to their interests.”

“That is a fair statement.” The vampire considered Kensington shrewdly. “My direct knowledge of the Armistice is limited, but I might be able to persuade my superiors to trade intelligence, if you had something of value to offer in exchange.”

His interrogator chuckled. “We have the biochemical signature associated with vampirism, Mr. Giordano. Currently, the significance of that information is restricted to a select group of people at the United States Central Intelligence Agency. The other intelligence agencies of the world were asked to monitor for that signature, but we told them it was simply the blood picture of a high-profile assassin. What we have to offer is the opportunity to convince us not to inform the human governments of the world exactly how to detect your kind. Whether your superiors consider that information valuable is up to them.”

Alaricus tilted his head in amusement as he studied his opponent. “You would try to blackmail the Court of Shadows with the threat of genocide?”

Kensington scowled. “Genocide only applies to human beings, Mr. Giordano. You and your kind are not people. You are simply bloodsucking parasites, mosquitoes with delusions of grandeur. Sooner or later, I will see to it that you are all expunged for the sake of the public good. I am offering you the chance to make it later, instead of sooner. If it were up to me, alone, I would order that information released in a heartbeat. But my superiors believe you could be useful in dealing with the threat from within our own borders. That takes precedence over my desire to see you all destroyed—but make no mistake, your time is coming to an end.”

Alaricus laughed out loud. “Ah, the human penchant for self-righteousness. I remember such words from the mouths of the Inquisitors, the Crusaders, and the Fascists as they swept through our lands.” He grinned, and his fangs gleamed. “They came and went, and we are still here.”

“I assure you that we will not be so transient, Mr. Giordano.” Kensington looked at him sourly. “If you have nothing useful to say, I’m afraid this conversation is at an end.” He got up and turned to the door.

Alaricus snorted. “Don’t bother to try to manipulate me so transparently, spymaster. You need the knowledge we possess or this conversation would never have taken place. Sit down like a civilized man, and we will discuss how this situation can be made to benefit both our peoples.”

Kensington sat back in his chair. “I’m listening.”

“Then let us begin again, and we shall negotiate for real.”

C
HAPTER 15

May 2040; the White House, Washington, D.C.; Four months after public exposure

Nick stood silently on top of the presidential seal that was woven into the carpet as Ana and the Secret Service agents stepped out of the Oval Office, leaving him alone with the President. Outwardly, he was calm, composed even, but inside, the tension made his nervous system hum like a violin string. He held out his hand. “Mr. President, it’s an honor to meet you.”

President Daniels gave him a severe stare and then sighed and shook Nick’s hand. “Why don’t you sit down, Ambassador?”

Nick took a seat across the desk from him. “You asked for this meeting, Mr. President. What can I do for you?”

The President was silent momentarily, studying him. “Your people have caused me a lot of headaches, Mr. Jameson.”

“‘Nick’ is fine, sir.” He shrugged. “Would you rather we had remained hidden and let millions of people die?”

“I suppose not. You saved a great many lives that day, Nick. Has anyone ever thanked you for it?”

Nick swallowed, slightly off-balance. “Not exactly. The fan mail I used to get increased a hundred-fold before my record label began refusing delivery. By then, the death threats outweighed the encouraging ones by about three to one.”

President Daniels allowed himself a half-smile. “If it’s any comfort, my daughter still speaks highly of your music. She was quite disappointed she wouldn’t get to see you in concert after the North American leg of your tour was canceled.”

“I could always leave her an autograph if you like.”

President Daniels snorted. “I think she’d be thrilled.” He leaned forward, steepling his hands on the desk. “Let me be blunt, Mr. Jameson. You and your Armistice represent an unknown and extraordinary security risk to the people of the United States. That is totally unacceptable.”

“I’d be happy to answer any questions you might have, Mr. President, but it’s too late to close Pandora’s box. The truth has set us free. Now there’s nothing left but finding a way for our peoples to coexist, if we can.”

“It seems I don’t have a choice,” the President said grimly.