The Atlantis Legacy - A01-A02 (44 page)

C
ONRAD STARED IN SHOCK
at the 9mm Glock in Brooke’s manicured hands, his mind trying to make sense of how he could have so thoroughly misinterpreted the nature of their relationship, and how long he had before whomever she called arrived.

“You’ve got to understand, Conrad, I had no choice,” she said. “But you, you still have a choice: Give up the globe or die.”

She’s either with the feds or the Alignment
, he thought. If it’s the feds, he could live with it.
But, God, not the Alignment
.

“Some choice,” he said, and coolly walked into the bedroom. Brooke followed him, and he could sense her gun pointed at his back until he sat down in a chair and looked up at her. “So everything we had was a lie?”

“No, Conrad,” she said, her voice shaking with emotion. “Everything
but
us is a lie.”

“Like you and Max Seavers?” he said, putting it out there.

“Tell me where you put the star map from the first globe, Conrad, and I’ll let you go before he gets here.”

Damn. She’s Alignment.

He said, “What about the second globe?”

“Max doesn’t have to know. But I need something to give him.”

Conrad nodded, trying to figure his way out of this. “Does your father know about any of this?”

“No. He’s a Mason. That’s why it was a coup for the Alignment to
nab me as a teenager and then use me to get to you, the son of General Yeats.”

“But I’m not his son. Not his real son.”

“No, you’re much more special,” she said. “I know about Antarctica, Conrad. I know about your blood.”

Conrad looked at her. “What about my blood?”

“It’s the basis for Max’s flu vaccine.”

Conrad started. “And how’s that?”

“Max came to DARPA to genetically engineer the perfect American soldier,” she said. “Along the way he discovered certain immunities to disease in the bloodlines of native Americans, specifically the Algonquin Indians. Immunities that had been diluted over the generations. So Max launched a global DNA testing program to connect the lost cousins of the Algonquins in the Americas, Europe, Africa, the Middle East, and Asia. It was called Operation Adam and Eve. By studying the mutations in Y chromosomes and mitochondrial DNA, Max was able to reconstruct their tribal migrations throughout the globe and trace their roots to Antarctica and one common ancestor: You.”

“Me?”

“You’re more American than any of us, Conrad. The last of the Atlanteans.”

“Atlantis?” Conrad had thought he was ready for anything, but not this. This was over the top even for Brooke. “What on earth are you talking about?”

“You may be of this earth, Conrad, but whatever is in some of your dormant DNA strands isn’t. You’re one in six billion. Why else do you think your father was so hell-bent on going to Antarctica in the first place? Or didn’t Her Holiness, Sister Serghetti, and her friends in Rome tell you?”

No, she hadn’t, Conrad thought, and he hoped to God she was going to beat Seavers to the room so he could personally hash this out with her.

“So I take it you’re not going to help me with the feds?”

“The Alignment IS the federal government, Conrad. That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”

“You cannot seriously expect me to believe that every low-level grunt in the federal government is Alignment.”

“No, but they all work for the Alignment, whether they know it or not.”

“Not me,” he said, and with a quick move of his right arm grabbed her arm holding the gun, slammed her body against the wall with his own, and then with a hard twist snapped her wrist.

“Ahh!” she cried, but wouldn’t drop the gun. She was almost as tough, physically, as Seavers.

He gave her a sharp elbow in the stomach, spun out as she doubled over and then hit her on the neck, sending her to the floor.

He picked up her gun and pointed it at her head as she slowly rose on all fours.

“You broke my fucking wrist, Conrad,” she said.

He dug the barrel of the gun into her temple. “Why do the monuments line up with the stars tomorrow, Brooke? Why now? Why 2008?”

“Something about the transit of Venus or something.”

Conrad knew the transit of Venus—when Venus crossed the path of the sun to the naked eye on Earth—came once every couple of hundred years. But when the transit came, it came in pairs—eight years apart. As it happened, the world was in the middle of such a transit. The first crossed the sun in 2004, the year he and Serena had their adventure in Antarctica. The next transit was due in 2012. There wasn’t anything scientifically significant about such a conjunction, but it held great meaning to the ancients.

“We’re between the two transits, Brooke. Why 2008?”

“Something about solar years and the number 225. It’s all Alignment esoterica. I’m not at that level.”

But Conrad was. The planet Venus took about 225 Earth days, or about 7½ months, to go around the sun. At the same time, Venus took more than 243 Earth days to turn on its own axis, making its days longer than its years. Conrad subtracted 225 from the current year, 2008, and came up with 1783.

“Newburgh,” he said, recalling the coup attempt Washington allegedly quelled in 1783 at his final winter encampment. “It has something to do with Newburgh.”

“I don’t know!” Brooke screamed.

He kept pressing her. “What’s the connection to my family,
Brooke? What did Robert Yates have to do with it? Was he responsible for this?”

Brooke bared her teeth. “He was nobody, Conrad, a side note to history like you want to be. He was the goddamn lawyer.”

Conrad paused. “For what?”

Brooke rammed her head into his, and with a scream lunged for the gun in his hand. Caught off-balance, Conrad fell back and brought the butt of the gun down on the back of Brooke’s head, knocking her out.

With a heave he pushed her body off him and dragged it to the bed. He then tied her hands to the posts, spread-eagled, as she came to.

“What’s going to happen tomorrow, Brooke?”

“I don’t know,” she moaned. “Only that the Alignment is going to make it happen.”

“Not good enough.” He tightened the knot around her broken wrist until she winced in agony.

“I’m just trying to save your life!” she cried.

“Funny way of showing it,” he said, waving her gun in her face. “Now, for the last time, what’s going down tomorrow?”

Her voice, when she finally spoke, had a dead tone. “Max is going to release a weaponized bird flu contagion.”

Conrad stared at her. “Where?”

“Somewhere on the Mall, I don’t know. But it’s got a 28-day incubation inhibitor so that it won’t jump human-to-human until August 1. Everyone will assume it originated at the Olympic Games in Beijing.”

“So Seavers kills a billion Chinese,” Conrad said. “What happens to all the Americans who get saved with his vaccine?”

“You know that, thanks to Congressional gerrymandering, there are only seventeen competitive districts left in America that can swing a national election. Undesirables, including representatives, get their vaccines turned off and die. By the time the voters elect replacement officials—Alignment types—it’s too late. A democratically elected coup.”

“And this thing from Newburgh is their moral, if not legal justification.”

“Oh, God, I loved you, Conrad.”

He gagged Brooke and left her writhing on the bed as he placed the gun on the dresser and walked to the door. He slowly opened it and looked down the hallway just as the ding of the elevator sounded.

He quickly walked across the hall and knocked on the second door to the right. It was Meredith from Texas who answered. “Harold, it’s Pastor Jim!”

Harold was in the bathroom, vomiting up his dinner.

“May I come in?” Conrad said, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. As he did, he looked out the peephole and saw Max Seavers walking toward his room.

T
HE ELITE CLUB ROOM
on the tenth floor of the Hilton was on the same level as Conrad’s room, but Serena felt a world away. What she had hoped to be a brief meet-and-greet after the media dinner had stretched into the early hours of the next morning. It was against her nature to not sympathize with and pray for those in need, whatever their station in life. And it was also the perfect alibi for her whereabouts during those hours between the media dinner and the prayer breakfast.

A Hollywood producer was confessing to her that his reason for attending the Presidential Prayer Breakfast was to meet well-heeled “Christian coin” to fund “family movies” to cover his alimony payments and cocaine habits. As he spoke in hushed tones, she couldn’t help but steal glances at the large flat-panel TV screen on the wall flashing pictures of Conrad and the swarm of police outside the Library of Congress. The dateline flashed July 3, 2008, across the screen, and it was clear the story was going to dominate the morning news shows in an hour or so. This was what America was going to wake up to.

Dear Lord
, she prayed,
I hope he’s OK.

Her iPhone vibrated and she looked down to see a text message from Benito that Conrad had made it to his room and had called the hotel’s room service. Serena let out a low sigh of relief. She wanted to bolt right then, and struggled to maintain a calm expression before this reprobate of a producer who saw American Christians not as a flock to be fed but a market demographic to be fleeced. His “career,”
it seemed, consisted almost entirely of living off other people while he indulged his talent for making box office flops.

That moment a concierge walked over to tell her that there was a gentleman outside the club lounge who would like to see her.
Could Conrad really be that stupid and have left his room?
She casually stood up and politely excused herself, pausing only to shake a few hands on her way out.

Max Seavers was waiting for her in the foyer, along with two Secret Service agents.

“What did you do to your finger, Max?” she said, trying to hide her alarm. “And is that a gash on your forehead?”

“Follow me,” he said sternly.

He led her down the hallway to the third door on the left—the room she had reserved for Conrad. She tensed up.

The game’s up, girl.

The door was open and two more Secret Service agents were inside. But she couldn’t see Conrad.

Only Brooke Scarborough, tied to the bed, spread-eagled, a bullet hole in her head.

Oh, my God
, she thought with a shudder.
Conrad, what have you done?

“I’m sorry you had to see this, Sister Serghetti, but I need to ask you if you’ve seen Conrad Yeats at the hotel.”

“No,” she said, still staring at Brooke. “What does he have to do with this?”

“He’s a wanted man,” Seavers said. “This was his room. He checked in under the alias Carl Anderson. I thought you might know something.”

“I don’t.”

Seavers turned to the Secret Service agents. “Not a word to Senator Scarborough or anybody until after the prayer breakfast,” he ordered. “We have a killer on the loose. We don’t want to give him a heads-up that we’re onto him by creating any unusual disruptions. Seal off the room and post two security guards outside the door. I want room-to-room sweeps during the breakfast while everybody is downstairs in the ballroom. This killer isn’t getting out of this building.”

The lead special agent nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Seavers took her by the arm and escorted her out the door.

“Where are you taking me, Max?”

“Somewhere safe,” he told her. “There’s no telling what this maniac might do.”

He led her down the hallway to a service closet that turned out to be an express service elevator. It linked the small kitchen of the 10th-floor club room to the hotel’s main kitchen on the ballroom level. They took it all the way down and emerged in the service corridor between the back of the ballroom stage and the main kitchen.

Waiting for them were six Secret Service agents, who instantly formed a protective ring around them.

They turned down another hallway behind the back of the ballroom, a curving corridor with wood-paneled walls and portraits of every president and first lady since George Washington. Step by step they passed through succeeding epochs of administrations until they came to the portraits of the sitting American president and his wife and then a small, unmarked door.

Inside was a special VIP room with red carpets and gold walls that reminded Serena of a funeral parlor. The president’s advance Secret Service detail was there. So, too, were Secretary Packard, Senator Scarborough, and several Chinese officials, all awaiting the president.

“Sister Serghetti,” said Packard. “You know Senator Scarborough.”

She was caught off guard but smiled and shook the hand of the father of the dead woman she had just seen. “How are you, Senator?”

“On behalf of the Presidential Prayer Breakfast, I’d like to personally thank you for offering up the opening prayer.”

“The honor is mine, Mr. Senator.”

“And this is Mr. Ling, China’s top Olympics ambassador. Max Seavers is going to show him and all the Olympics delegates some real fireworks tomorrow on the Fourth.”

Mr. Ling was all smiles. “I told my wife I was going to see the Fourth of July from the ultimate skybox—the observation deck of the Washington Monument. She didn’t believe me.”

Senator Scarborough looked at his watch. “Well, Mr. Ling and
I have to get backstage. Sister Serghetti, you simply walk out when Bono is finished performing and open the breakfast in prayer. The rest of the program will take care of itself.”

Serena nodded. “Yes, Mr. Senator, thank you.”

She watched Scarborough leave with Ling and two Secret Service agents. It was just her, Seavers, and a glaring Packard in the room now, along with the president’s personal advance team.

“What the hell is going on, Seavers?” Packard burst out.

“We found the body of Senator Scarborough’s daughter in a room checked out to Yeats. Yeats murdered her.”

“God Almighty!” Packard said. “This is a nightmare!”

“I don’t believe Dr. Yeats murdered Ms. Scarborough,” Serena said quickly. “Not for one second. Dr. Yeats is an American patriot of the first order and comes from a family of patriots. I also know he had feelings for her and would never kill without just cause.”

Packard looked at Max Seavers. “What’s Yeats doing here at the Washington Hilton of all places, anyway?”

Seavers said, “We believe his primary target is the president, sir.”

“What!” Serena cried. “You can’t be serious.”

She was astounded, considering his relationship with Conrad, that Packard seemed to think it plausible.

“I suggest you mass e-mail a photo of Yeats to all agents on the premises immediately, Mr. Secretary,” Seavers pressed. “He’s wanted not only for the death of a security guard and an attack on the Library of Congress, but now the slaying of a U.S. senator’s daughter. And the senator will have all our heads if we fail to apprehend Yeats.”

That was enough for Packard, whose purse strings were controlled by Scarborough as chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee.

“OK, do it.”

Max Seavers nodded, clearly proud of himself.

Serena realized that Seavers had cleverly managed to turn the one person she and Conrad needed to reach—the president of the United States—into the one person he would never be able to get close to.

“What about Sister Serghetti, sir?” Seavers asked. “She has a history with Yeats and might pass along intel to him. Or some key or means to escape.”

“That’s absurd, Mr. Secretary.” She then looked at Seavers. “You want to frisk me, Max?”

Seavers motioned to a couple of the stone-faced Secret Service agents but was cut off by Packard.

“This is the Presidential Prayer Breakfast, goddammit,” Packard said. “Sister Serghetti is in the program for the opening prayer. We can’t hold her, Seavers. We’ll just watch her.”

A Secret Service agent walked up and said, “Mr. Secretary, the presidential motorcade is two minutes away.”

“I’ll be back in a minute to walk with the president to the ballroom.” Then Packard offered her his arm. “Ladies first.”

“Thank you, Mr. Secretary.”

Packard looked back at Max Seavers and the security detail. “After the breakfast we’ll meet here with the president and break the news of his daughter’s slaying to Senator Scarborough,” Packard barked. “By then you better pray that you’ve got Yeats in custody. Now go find that goddamn bastard.”