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Authors: Jonathan Maberry

BOOK: The King of Plagues
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“We are trying to meet the Inner Circle on the same ground,” said the King of Famine. “They are kingmakers and they have a lot of experience in that regard. We are working toward that end. We want to put one of our puppets in the White House and, ultimately, in Number Ten Downing Street, the Palazzo del Quirinale, the Élysée Palace, and the Kremlin.”
“How far along are you?” asked Gault.
Famine shrugged. “We have a program in place now that is designed to increase racial and religious hatred between Islam and Israel, which should embarrass sitting governments and shake some power players out of their seats. Then it will be a horse race between us and the Inner Circle to fill those seats.”
“Through religious conflict?” asked Toys, and he was careful to keep his voice neutral.
“None of us have any particular anger toward any religion or ethnic group; however, we agree that hate crimes are good for business. Our business,” said Lies. “Our campaign is being driven through systematic disinformation on the Internet, and through bribes and donations to certain extremist groups who lack only funding and a kick in the backside in order to act.”
“And by ‘act’ you mean—?”
“Walking into mosques or temples wearing vests packed with C4. Or leaving bombs in religiously significant areas.”
“Christ,” said Toys, and Gault cut him an annoyed look.
“There are always people willing to kill in the name of their God,” said
Famine. “Because of the open-forum nature of the Internet, laws about free speech, and news media hungry for controversial stories, small and disenfranchised groups have found a voice that can now be heard around the world. It’s lovely. With money, Internet postings, and other support, we give them a fist as well as a voice.”
“And,” said Gault, “because they’re vocal factions instead of countries, hate crimes increase, tension increases, but the actual nations don’t go to war. And you profit.”
The Kings beamed at him.
“This is all so … elegant,” murmured Gault.
“Elegant, maybe,” snorted the American. “But it’s riskier than it needs to be.”
Gold turned to him. “Not so. Your mother, the Goddess, has done great work.”
The American made a disgusted noise.
“You disapprove of this campaign?” Gault asked him.
The American looked around the room before he shrugged. “We may not have secrets here, but we don’t always agree on policy. I was the only dissenting voice on this. Mom still hasn’t forgiven me.”
“What’s your objection?”
“It puts my ass on the line. This whole campaign requires me to use resources that are part of what I do
outside
the Kings. If this falls apart, guess whose dick will be in the wringer?”
There was a brief and uncomfortable silence in the room.
“My brother,” said the Frenchman quietly, “we’ve talked about this. There are so many layers of subterfuge between your businesses and the Goddess’s plan that they will never dig deep enough to expose you.”
“Maybe,” snapped the American with bad grace, “but those Inner Circle pricks aren’t forgiving and they can bring a lot of guns to bear. They’ve already aimed the DMS at us. Those sons of whores took out seven cells that we’ve been grooming for hits here in the States.”
“How?” demanded Toys. “How does the Inner Circle know what you’re planning?”
There was a heavy silence in the room.
Finally the King of Famine said, “We suspect that the Conscience of our former King of Plagues was leaking information.”
Toys glanced at the empty seat. “And where is he now? Seems like you should be turning thumbscrews on the chatty bastard.”
“We did,” said Gold, and when Toys and Gault looked at him they saw that he wasn’t joking. “We can get quite—oh, what’s the phrase?”
“We went medieval on him,” supplied the King of Fear. “But we got a little overzealous. Well … I did, I guess. By the end he was confessing to everything from killing Marilyn Monroe to starting the Chicago Fire. My bad. I thought I could open him up.”
“If I may,” said Rafael Santoro, placing his palm over his heart, “if there is a next time, please consider allowing me to do what is necessary, yes?”
The American nodded. “Not a problem. I should have waited until you were back in the country rather than having a go at it. Even so, the leak seems to have stopped, though.”
The Russian said, “Our goal of instability works even when the Bonesmen are pulling the strings in Washington and, through proxy, the Middle East. We have damaged and will continue to damage governmental credibility, and when America stumbles money spills all over the place.”
“And you were there to lap it up?” said Toys with a smile.
“We were there with big fucking buckets!” declared Famine. “The economic crash of 2008? That was ours. It was our riposte to the invasion of Iraq, and we skewered the Bonesmen very nicely.”
Gold laughed. “People talk about all the billions that were lost, but money is never ‘lost.’ It is like energy—it continues to exist in one form or another. Money drained out of banks and automobile manufacturers and it flowed to us through a thousand channels within the global market.”
Gault smiled. “This is all brilliant, but … is there a place for me in Eris’s program?”
“Please,” said the King of Thieves quickly, holding up a hand. “In the Chamber of the Kings, she is to be referred to as the Goddess.”
Gault bowed. “‘Goddess’ it is, and I can’t think of a better description for her.”
“The first wave of the program is already under way,” conceded the King of Famine. “But your late predecessor, the esteemed and much-missed Dr. Kirov, had been working on several key steps of the second phase. They are very much ‘your’ kind of thing, Brother Plagues.”
“Tell me.”
He told Gault the plan. The information was staggering in its beauty.
“Kirov had about half of it worked out,” said the King of Gold. “And he was preparing for a trip to Egypt when he died. A stroke, by god! A tragic loss and a hard blow, because we don’t know how he was going to accomplish several key steps.”
“Yeah,” observed the American, “it left us with a big fat frigging hole in Mom’s evil master plan. Kirov was the point man for this whole operation. Now we have to decide if we can continue with what Kirov had planned, or if we need to cut our losses.”
Gault pursed his lips. “I’d like to look at Kirov’s research and see his lab. And, of course, I’ll need to know
everything
about what you are planning. What you want to do, who you want to kill, and what you hope to accomplish.”
“That will take some time … .”
Gault smiled a great and icy smile. “Then let’s get to it.”
Fair Isle Research Endeavor
The Shetland Isles
December 18, 2:41 P.M. GMT
Mr. Church’s phone rang and he stayed inside the chopper to take the call. The caller ID said “unknown.” The voice said, “Area 51 was the work of the Seven Kings.”
“I was wondering when you would be calling,” said Church as mildly as if the call were from an old friend. “It’s been a while.”
He attached a cable to his phone and plugged it into his laptop, initiating a seven-continent multiphasic search that used MindReader to hack satellites and phone company databases.
“Did you miss me?”
“I always enjoy our chats. Do you have something for me?”
“I want to see the Kings destroyed.”
The tracking signal began bouncing around from country to country.
“The DMS could accomplish that,” Church said, “if you gave us something more concrete to go on.”
There was silence on the line. The tracker had so far traced the call through eighteen national exchanges and fourteen service providers.
“Can you at least tell me something about the Seven Kings? What do they want to accomplish?”
There was a sound that might have been a laugh. “They want to break the bones of their enemies and suck out the marrow. That’s what they want to do.”
“That isn’t particularly helpful.”
“Yes,” said the caller, “it is.”
And he disconnected.
The signal vanished without any clue to its origin.
The State Correctional Institution at Graterford
Graterford, Pennsylvania
December 18, 2:42 P.M. EST
Nicodemus was led into the office. Rudy sat behind Stankevi
ius’s desk. He had borrowed a technique from Mr. Church and had purchased a pair of nonprescription glasses with tinted lenses. Except in direct light his eyes were virtually impossible to see.
“My name is Dr. Sanchez,” said Rudy. “Please … sit down.”
Nicodemus sat. His hands were cuffed to a waist chain and he laid them in his lap. He stared at Rudy with eyes that rarely blinked.
“Please state your full name.”
Nicodemus studied him for a long time before answering, “Nicodemus.”
“Is that your first name or your last name?”
“It is all that I am.”
“Why are you reluctant to tell me your full name?”
“Why do you need it? Only witches and sorcerers conjure with names. Is that what you are?”
“Do you think that’s what I am?”
Nicodemus smiled but did not answer.
“Do you know why I wanted to see you, Nicodemus?”
“I know.”
“Will you tell me?”
Almost a full minute passed before Nicodemus answered, “It is the nature of prophets to know things that other men do not.”
“Are you a prophet?”
“Sometimes voices speak through me.”
“Are you aware of the event that occurred in London yesterday?”
“I am aware that souls are in the smoke and that darkness stretched across the sky.”
“What else do you know of that event?”
Nicodemus leaned forward. “Are you a God-fearing man, Dr. Sanchez?”
“I am a person of faith.”
One corner of the prisoner’s mouth curled upward in a small sneer. “Then if you are a Bible-reading man, brother, you will be familiar with the Book of Exodus, chapters seven through twelve.”
Rudy had been expecting this. “You’re referring to the Ten Plagues of Egypt?”
“You
are
a Bible-reading man! Yes … God visited the Ten Plagues on Egypt in order to free the Israelites who had been kept as slaves.” He leaned forward very quickly and Rudy noted that the guards gasped and stepped back first rather than lunge forward to restrain the man.
They are just as afraid of this man as Warden Wilson and Dr. Stankevi
ius,
Rudy mused
. What kind of hold does Nicodemus have over everyone?
Nicodemus’s eyes burned with excitement. “Had it been God’s will simply to release His people, He could have done so with a legion of angels. But that teaches nothing. Do you know why God sent so many plagues, and why he hardened Pharaoh’s heart each time so that the Israelites were not freed?”
“Please tell me.” He noted that Nicodemus used the word “God” rather than “Goddess.”
“I asked you, Doctor.”
“Very well. It seems to be a matter of how one interprets the meaning of the words, bearing in mind that they are translated. I do not believe that the passage is saying that God forced Pharaoh to commit evil, but that God allowed it.”
“Why would He allow such a dreadful thing?”
“It is the nature of free will. If we humans have free will, and faith in
the face of doubt suggests that we do, then it comes from God. Otherwise no one would be responsible for anything that they do, and that includes acts of charity and kindness as well as acts of evil.”
“Then, Doctor, by your own statement you do not believe in the guidance of the Divine in our actions.”
“That isn’t what I said, and I believe you know that. Guidance is not the same thing as coercion.”
He watched Nicodemus’s eyes when he said the word “coercion.”
Was there a flicker? Did they tighten just a fraction?
“What about the Devil, Dr. Sanchez? Do you believe that the Devil and his demons can dominate the mind and soul of a person and make them do terrible things?”
“No,” said Rudy. “I do not believe that.”
“How can you believe in one part of the Bible and not all of it?”
Rudy almost smiled, and he appreciated the trap the little prisoner had laid. Very clever indeed.
“That is a longer discussion than we have time for now,” Rudy said. “Though perhaps we’ll have the chance to explore it further. For now, Nicodemus, please tell me why when I ask you about what happened in London yesterday you bring up the Ten Plagues of Egypt? Is there some connection?”
“All things are connected. We float in a pool of time in which all things eddy and swirl.”
“Could you be a bit more specific?”
“We are living in biblical times,” said Nicodemus. “The Bible isn’t a record of what
was;
it is a record of what
is
.” The Old Testament, the New Testament … they are but chapters in a book that will continue to be written. New pages are being written today. Written into our skins, written on the skies above us, written into our souls. The prophets shout it from street corners and are not heard. False prophets speak it from the television, but even when they tell the truth they are not believed. History is unfolding and the words of the prophets are written on the subway walls and—’
“‘tenement halls.’ You’re quoting Simon and Garfunkel,” said Rudy. “Not exactly Scripture.”
Nicodemus chuckled. “Ah, so you
are
awake. I had begun to worry, Doctor.
You come here to ask me questions that you already know the answers to, and when I speak you do not appear to listen.”
“You are being vague and evasive,” Rudy said.
“And you are being disingenuous,” countered Nicodemus. “You do know what I am saying.”
“No, sir, I do not. But I am willing to listen and to hear.” When Nicodemus did not reply, Rudy said, “Please, tell me what you know about what happened in London.”
Nicodemus closed his eyes very slowly and then opened them. It was a very reptilian action. “I know nothing about London. The sky is like sackcloth and my eye is blind.”
Rudy waited. “Yesterday, when you spoke with Dr. Stankevi
ius you mentioned a ‘goddess.’ Tell me about her.”
“Not
a
goddess,” corrected the little man. “To believe in a goddess presupposes that there are many, and that is an untruth spoken by liars and fools. I spoke of
the
Goddess.”
“And yet today you mention God. Doesn’t that suggest more than one deity?”
“No,” said Nicodemus quickly. “Sometimes my mouth speaks the words it was trained to speak, not those which are in my heart.”
“Meaning?”
“God has transformed and
become
.”
“Become what?”
“Become all. Male and female. The eternal yin and yang. This is the completion of a cosmic cycle begun before time.”
“I see.”
“No, Doctor, you do not. You pretend wisdom, but your eyes are blinded by convention and misunderstanding.”
“I am willing to learn the truth.”
Nicodemus’s smile was so strange that Rudy could not easily find an adjective to describe it. The closest he could come was the lurid “goblinesque.”
“The Goddess has opened her eye, Doctor, and she sees all. She has appointed Seven Kings to sit in judgment of all men.”
Ah,
thought Rudy,
now we get to it.
“Who are these Seven Kings? Are they real men?”
“They are the Sons of the Goddess and they walk the earth as the Son of man once walked.”
“And are they connected with what happened in London yesterday?”
“They are connected to all things. The Seven Kings are everywhere. They look over your shoulder and they see into the hearts of men.”
“Nicodemus,” said Rudy quietly, “you seem to know so much. Why not put this insight and wisdom to good use? The Seven Kings are doing very bad things. Surely this cannot be the will of heaven.”
“Do you pretend to know the mind of the Goddess?”
“No, I do not. But if you do, then
help us
. Tell me something that will allow me to protect the innocent.”
Nicodemus chuckled and then repeated the word “innocent” as if he could taste it. His tongue wriggled over his teeth and lips. “I can only repeat what is whispered in my ears.”
Rudy sat back. “I do not believe you are telling me the truth, Nicodemus. I believe that you
do
know more than you are saying.”
Suddenly, like the flip of a switch, everything on the little man’s face changed. In a flash his face lost its sinister cast; the feral intensity in his eyes dimmed like a fire someone had doused with cold water. His mouth worked to speak, but there was no sound. He looked shocked and suddenly stared at Rudy with a deep and terrible desperation.
“Who … who … ?” he whispered.
“What’s wrong?” asked Rudy, rising to his feet.
“Who
am
I?” Nicodemus looked around the office as if seeing the people and the furniture for the very first time. “What … where am I? What is this place?”
The guards stepped back in confusion. Even Nicodemus’s voice had changed. It was the croaking voice of a weak and sickly old man.
“G-God … help me!”
Then Nicodemus stiffened and looked down, but it seemed as if he was looking down into his soul rather than at his body.
“What’s happening to me?”
The scream was so immediate and so shockingly loud that Rudy squeezed his eyes shut and clapped his hands over his ears. The guards staggered backward, both of them crying out in fear. The warden and the
prison psychiatrist reeled back, feet kicking at the floor to push them deeper into their seats and away from the tearing sound of that voice.
Then silence.
Rudy could barely breathe and he slowly realized that he was holding his breath. Slowly, slowly he exhaled, and for a moment his breath misted in the air as if the room were frigid.

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