THE 4400® WELCOME TO PROMISE CITY (12 page)

Tom didn’t find that terribly reassuring.

Collier glanced at his watch. “Is that all?” he asked impatiently. “At the risk of being rude, I have a very busy schedule today.” He tapped a control on the drafting table and the holographic city evaporated. “Transforming the world is a full-time job.”

“I’ll bet,” Diana said dryly.

Jordan scowled. “Give my regards to your daughter.” He moved to escort them to the door.

“Not so fast,” Tom said. He locked eyes with Collier. “You and I have something else to discuss. Alone.”

He rubbed his finger behind his ear.

Collier got the message. “Very well.” He turned to his people. “Agent Baldwin and I need the room.”

His guards hesitated, clearly reluctant to leave their leader alone with Tom. “Sir?”

“It’s all right,” Collier assured them. “I have nothing to fear from Agent Baldwin.” He eyed Tom warily. “Do I, Tom?”

“I saved your life a while back, didn’t I?”

With the help of Isabelle Tyler, Tom had rescued Collier from the Marked during fifty/fifty. If not for the agent, Jordan himself would be one of the Marked now. And sabotaging the very Movement he had devoted his life to.

“So you did.” Collier ushered his retinue out into the hall. “Take five, everyone.”

Diana shot Tom a puzzled look. He hadn’t discussed this with her in advance. “Tom?”

“Just give me a couple of minutes, Diana.”

Looking a tad uneasy, she left the office as well. Jordan waited until the door clicked shut behind her before settling down into an executive chair behind Dennis Ryland’s old desk. His fingers were steepled before him as he assumed a contemplative pose. “Well? What’s on your mind, Tom?”

The cautious agent worried for a moment about hidden cameras or mikes, then decided that Collier wouldn’t want
any record of this discussion, either. “You know what this is about. The assassination of that cardinal in Rome.” His blood pressure rose as he remembered reading on the Internet about Calabria’s fiery demise. “Damnit, Jordan. You were supposed to
cure
that man, not kill him!”

It wasn’t easy, but it was possible to free the Marked from the invaders who had taken over their minds. Tom was living proof of that. A lethal dose of radioactive polonium, injected directly into his spine, had burned out the nanites infesting his brain. Then Shawn had used his healing ability to ensure that Tom survived the ordeal. The experience had nearly killed Tom, but, when it was over, he had been himself again. The cure had worked.

Just like it had with Collier.

“First off,” Jordan began, “you’re leaping to the assumption that I had something to do with the late Emanuel Calabria’s unfortunate accident.” He held up a hand to forestall Tom’s indignant rejoinder. “It may well be that Cardinal Calabria was on the wrong scooter at the wrong time.”

Tom slammed his fist down on the desktop. A crystal paperweight, in the shape of a glowing ball of light, rattled. “Cut the plausible-deniability bull, Jordan. You and I both know you had the man murdered.”

“We know nothing of the sort,” Collier insisted calmly. He sounded as though he had been anticipating this conversation for days. “I defy you to find any link between my Movement and the events in Rome. Check my schedule. I haven’t left Seattle since the outbreak.”

“Screw your alibi,” Tom said. “Eyewitnesses placed
Richard Tyler at the scene. It’s obvious you got him to do your dirty work.”

“Is it?” Collier leaned back into his chair. “Richard and I have rarely seen eye to eye. He’s his own man, Tom. You know that.” He adjusted the paperweight on his desk. “Can I help it if he chose to rid us of this meddlesome priest?”

The coy literary reference did not amuse Tom. “And what about the innocent man whose mind and body was hijacked by the Marked? Didn’t he deserve a chance to get his life back? Like you and I did?”

“In an ideal world, of course.” A somber expression came over Collier’s face. “But consider the practical realities here. The ‘cure’ you speak of is difficult, painful, and time-consuming. It requires illegal quantities of highly radioactive materials and the active participation of Shawn Farrell. Given how powerful the Marked are, and how zealously they protect themselves, capturing a Marked for ‘treatment’ is not always going to be possible. Imagine trying to smuggle a kidnapped cardinal or presidential advisor back into Seattle to be cured. Richard may have simply decided that it’s easier just to eliminate them … or so I assume. It’s tragic, but the threat posed by the Marked is too great to take any unnecessary risks. Hypothetically speaking.” He looked Tom squarely in the eyes. “Knowing Richard, I’m sure he’ll attempt to cure the Marked—when possible.”

Tom refused to let Collier put this all on Tyler. “Are you even going to
try
to save these people?”

“Need I remind you,” Jordan said irritably, “who provided
me with the names of the Marked in the first place?” His patience for this debate was clearly wearing thin. Tom wondered if his conscience was troubling him. “You asked me to take care of this because you couldn’t get to these people. And that’s exactly what I’m doing … my way.”

“That’s not good enough,” Tom argued.

“I’m afraid that’s not your call anymore.” He rose and gestured at the door. “Have a nice day, Tom.”

T
HE LAST TIME
all the Marked had met in the flesh had been in Tunis in 2005. Then there had been ten of them. Now there were only six left.

The meeting was not going well.

“Don’t you get it? It’s over. We lost.”

General Julian Roff sat at an oak round table with his fellow conspirators. Five stars glittered on the epaulets of his uniform. Gray hairs infiltrated his temples. An African-American with a deep bass voice, he had a bellicose expression that dared anyone to disagree.

“That’s a very defeatist attitude, Julian,” Song Yu chided him. A middle-aged Chinese woman with severe features, and the highest-ranking female in the Politburo, she had recently led the campaign to have all Olympic athletes thoroughly screened for promicin. Her lacquered black hair was done up in a bun. She shook her head in disappointment. “What would your colleagues in the Pentagon say?”

She was a long way from Beijing. Located high in the
Hollywood Hills, Wyngate Castle was a misplaced medieval fortress that had been painstakingly transplanted to California by an eccentric silent movie star back in the Roaring Twenties. Heavy oak beams traversed the high ceiling of the grandiose parlor where the surviving Marked had secretly convened. Hand-carved wooden paneling adorned the thick stone walls. A Persian carpet added a touch of color to the floor. A sweeping staircase led to a wooden balcony overlooking the chamber. A roaring fire burned in the imposing stone hearth. A crystal chandelier hung above the round table. A ponderous oak door ensured their privacy. There were no windows.

“Don’t get cute with me, Song,” the general retorted. By convention, the Marked addressed each other by the names of their current identities. It was simpler that way. “Face facts. Fifty/fifty was a game changer. Jordan Collier is more powerful and influential than ever. The so-called war on promicin is a joke. And we’re dropping like flies.”

Sheik Nasir al-Ghamdi frowned at the depressing litany. The wealthy Saudi billionaire was the Marked’s chief financier now that Drew Imroth was out of the picture. A checkered head cloth framed his handsome Arabic features. The youngest of the Marked, his new body was only twenty-nine years old. Safe from the abstemious eyes of his countrymen, he treated himself to a snifter of expensive cognac. “So what do you propose we do, General?”

“Protect ourselves!” Roff barked. “Look at what happened to Calabria, and Rebecca Parrish, and Matthew Ross. Obviously, our covers have all been blown. We need to discard our present identities and set up shop in new
bodies, pronto. Then maybe we can live out the rest of our lives in relative safety and comfort.”

Wesley Burke, senior White House advisor, glared scornfully at the general. His silvery mane and ruddy features were familiar to regular viewers of CNN and the Sunday morning talk shows. A flag pin held fast to the lapel of his tailored three-piece suit. “Every Marked for himself, is that what you’re saying?”

“Damn right,” Roff asserted. “The promicin genie is out of the bottle for good now, and there’s no putting it back in. The future we swore to preserve is not going to happen. It’s as simple as that.”

“Coward,” Song Yu accused him. She made no effort to conceal her contempt. “Did you really think we were going to defeat our enemies without any risk to ourselves? I can’t believe that you pass yourself off as a military leader. Why not just throw yourself on your sword while you’re at it?”

“Hold on,” Kenpo Norbo objected. The famed Tibetan lama was believed by his followers to be the twelfth reincarnation of a legendary Buddhist guru. Saffron robes draped his lean, ascetic figure. “Perhaps Julian has a point. I have no desire to end up like our deceased cohorts. And I don’t wish to spend every hour of every day looking over my shoulder.” He nervously fingered a string of prayer beads. “A new life of wealth and luxury, without any death threats, has its appeal.”

Burke snorted in derision. “Admit it, you’re just tired of living like a damn monk.”

“What if I am?” Kenpo plucked at his robes. “I didn’t mind putting up with this ridiculous persona when I
thought I was helping our cause. But why bother now?” He threw up his hands. “What’s the point?”

Nasir sneered at the lama’s self-pity. “We’ve all made sacrifices. Left our homes and loved ones in order to ensure the existence of the civilization we cherish. What about our friends and families in the future? Are you willing to violate the trust they placed in us?”

“Those people aren’t even born yet!” Roff blustered. “And now they probably never will be.” Spittle sprayed from his lips. “You’re all clinging to a plan that failed. Let it go!”

“Traitor!” Song Yu hissed at him. “You’ve been corrupted by this decadent era.”

“Fanatic,” he shot back. He shoved away from the table. “Get yourself killed if you want to, but leave me out of it.”

“That goes for me as well.” Kenpo flung the prayer beads onto the table. “This
tulku
is ready to be reborn again. Maybe as a fabulously sexy rock star this time.”

Song Yu’s eyes burned with rage. She looked like she was ready to lunge across the table at both turncoats. She drew a sharpened ivory hairpin from her bun. “You filthy, weak-willed—!”

A deafening gong drowned out her final epithet. All eyes turned to see their host, celebrated film and TV producer George Sterling, standing by the fireplace. He let go of a knotted silk bell cord. His deeply tanned face was Botoxed smooth. Wavy blond hair plugs replaced the unconvincing toupee he had sported since the late nineties. A graying beard carpeted his chin. A pair of tinted designer glasses were perched on his nose. He was dressed casually
in a polo shirt and chinos. His new hit show,
Promise City Heat,
about impossibly attractive NTAC agents taking America back from promicin-crazed terrorists, was currently number one in the ratings everywhere but Seattle.

“That’s enough, everyone,” he said patiently. “Let’s chill out a little. Fighting amongst ourselves like this is just what Jordan Collier, and our enemies in the future, want.” He rejoined his colleagues at the table, taking his seat between Song Yu and Nasir. He laid a soothing hand on the irate woman’s arm. His firm but conciliatory tone was the same one he’d used to talk Russell Crowe out of bolting the
Day of the Triffids
remake. “Look, Julian, Kenpo, I hear what you’re saying. Nobody’s denying that we’ve taken some tough knocks lately. The tragic loss of our comrades has affected us all deeply. But I’m sure, if they were with us here today, they wouldn’t want us giving up hope.”

He used the noble sacrifice of their comrades as an emotional bludgeon to dampen the debate. The way he saw it, their real problem right now wasn’t Jordan Collier’s death squads; it was the leadership void created when Isabelle Tyler killed Rebecca Parrish. Somebody needed to step up and take charge now that Rebecca was gone. And who better than the Oscar-winning producer of
Beachhead: Seattle
?

“Look, here’s the thing,” he continued. “I’ve headed enough summer blockbusters to know that things always look bleakest right before the good guys turn things around. And make no mistake, we
are
the good guys here. If we don’t stop Jordan Collier from spoiling the future, who will?”

“But this isn’t one of your damn movies,” Roff protested. “This is life-or-death for all of us.”

“Which makes it all the more important that we stick to our guns, no matter what.” Sterling delivered a carefully scripted pep talk. “Trust me, friends. This isn’t over. We can still crush Collier’s obscene Movement in its infancy. We just need to use our combined influence to get the authorities to do whatever it takes to put humanity back on the right track, even if this means shipping every 4400 to concentration camps, dosing them all with the inhibitor, and nuking ‘Promise City’ back to the Stone Age.”

Nasir and Burke nodded in approval of his vision. And even Kenpo started to look a bit more confident. They were going for his pitch …

“Easier said than done,” Roff groused. “How exactly do you intend to pull that off?”

“It’s all about telling the right story.” Sterling had given the matter a lot of thought before calling this summit meeting. “The trick is to provoke the Powers That Be into taking such drastic step. Perhaps by proving that Collier is planning another Great Leap Forward?”

The general grudgingly returned to the table. “That might work.”

“We can do this,” Sterling insisted. He felt the momentum shifting toward him. “But not if we don’t hang together.” He focused his efforts on the holdouts. “Without your pull in the Pentagon, General, we don’t stand a chance. And you, Kenpo, don’t underestimate your influence in the East, not to mention here in Hollywood. We’re all essential parts of our grand endeavor.”

“But what about Calabria’s assassination?” the lama asked fearfully. “Any one of us could be next.”