The Pressure of Darkness (45 page)

"Help me get down below." Pal quotes with wry humor, "It is time to cry havoc and let loose the dogs of war."

Gorman takes his arm with a firm but sympathetic grip. He guides Pal out into the hallway.

"You will be the Prince of Man," Pal whispers seductively. "It is the dawn of
your
era, my loyal student."

Gorman responds in a voice thick with emotion. "And you shall be remembered as the incarnation of Shiva himself, the creator and destroyer of worlds. This is a promise, my guru."

"It is a shame that fool Stryker got cold feet," Pal wheezes. "With his writing talent he could have created works that would have survived us all by thousands of years. Would that he had only remained true to the cause."

Gorman grins wickedly. "His bowel tasted like fine pork sausage."

The two men laugh, which causes Pal to stumble and lean against the wall. Gorman holds him, looks down upon him lovingly like a grown child doting over a senile parent.

"I have prepared the virus for you, Gorman. As discussed, it will be contained in your suitcase, in a coffee thermos. There is one thermos for each of the cities on your route. Your airfare has been prepaid, the tickets and your passport are in the locker at the Mexico City airport. Do not fail me."

"I will not fail you."

"Your hypodermic with the antidote will be in the suitcase, along with the containers. Remember, the antidote will not be effective
unless you have already been exposed
, so do not use it until you have opened the first thermos. Perhaps when you are about to leave Los Angeles airport would be best."

"Yes, sir."

"Then you are scheduled to visit airports in New York, London, Zurich, Tokyo and Moscow. Then India."

"Then Beijing, Ho Chi Minh City, then to Africa, Australia. I know the whole route, sir. I have it memorized. I will be living on airplanes for a fortnight."

"And the world will be changed forever."

They come to the end of the hallway, turn right, and arrive at the stairwell. Down below, they hear a woman shriek in terror or pain. Gorman raises an eyebrow inquisitively. Pal chuckles. "That was my unfaithful wife, no doubt. This nonsense is taking far too long to suit me. Perhaps it would be best if you fetched her, Gorman. Just send Mr. Nandi to join me in the laboratory at once."

"Are you well enough?"

"I will be fine, Gorman. Bring Indira to me where the subject's bodies are kept, and be sure to carefully bind her hands and feet."

Gorman bows respectfully, a slight leaning forward from the waist. He turns on a dime and jogs down the hall. Pal straightens against the wall. He feels a wave of dizziness and a razor-edged cramp grips his bowels. To his humiliation, a small squirt of diarrhea escapes into his trousers.
But soon I shall leave this useless body behind, and be as a God!

Pal steps carefully down the carpeted stairs, clutching his abdomen. He does not want to take more heroin until he has finished one final task. He steps out through a side door into the courtyard. A guard lies dead near his feet. Pal assumes this is the work of his own people. He is pleased. He stumbles across the lawn by moonlight, through the dirt and up the steps to the laboratory. He uses his key and steps inside. Another guard is lying in a pool of blood near the desk.

A fresh, electrical shock of pain causes his flesh to quiver. Pal closes his eyes and leans against the wall. After a long moment he forces himself forward. The discomfort passes as he finds himself moving more rapidly through the sterile, white complex. Pal takes an elevator down to the basement. When the door opens, he sees the white-coated scientists who worked for Buey piled in a corner of the room. Their throats have been cut. The sight makes him giggle.

"Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, for your dedication."

Pal goes behind the stainless steel table and opens the door marked DANGER in English, Spanish, and Russian. He moves into the room past the white cell where several test subjects were imprisoned, injected, and observed. A red-and-black checkered suitcase lies open on the floor. It is filled with silver cylinders that contain the deadliest poison ever created by man.

Pal sits on the floor, cross-legged, and tries to go deep into meditation. Nonetheless, he feels a flutter of fear grip his heart. Pal's dark secret is that his faith in the surreal is less certain than his driving ambition to be immortal. Still, he slows his breathing and tries to relax. He soothes himself that he has enough heroin to insure that his own demise will be painless. No one need know that he fears and rejects the pain required of self-immolation. That bitch Indira shall be denied anesthetic, however. Pal wants to see her tormented flesh burning before he administers his own, merciful overdose.

"Sir?"

Pal opens one eye, looks over his shoulder. It is Miyori, one of his Japanese followers, who is on a paid sabbatical from the Los Angeles Coroner's Office. Dr. Miyori is a chubby man with an annoying alcohol problem. Pal has arranged for Gorman to dispose of Miyori later, so as not to leave any potential embarrassment behind. Pal forces a thin smile. "Our work here is nearly done."

Miyori bows rapidly. "I am joyous, guru. Is there more that I can do?"

You have probably done nothing since the executions but drink and pass out in the back room,
Pal thinks, his mind sour with cynicism. But aloud: "Go and find Mr. Nandi, perhaps he will have some more work for you."

Miyori bows again and backs away. Pal returns to his meditation. He summons up the image of the Goddess Mother, Kali-Ma, with her necklace of human skulls and her sleek, black skin. He is vaguely aware of a ping as the elevator arrives to take Miyori upstairs. Some time passes.

PopPopPopPop!

The distant sound invades his consciousness, a metallic noise he cannot quite place. One second later Pal's eyes open wide as he registers the sound as silenced gunfire. Perhaps one of Buey's men has survived and removed Mr. Miyori for him? But that also means the man must be descending into the laboratory. Pal curses himself for being without a weapon. He pushes the suitcase out of sight, behind the lab table, and looks around rapidly. He settles on a closet, steps inside with the lab coats and jackets. He shrinks into the clothing and closes the door behind him, leaving just a narrow slat open for viewing the laboratory.

The man who enters is dressed in black and his face has been painted garishly. He has a pair of night vision goggles dangling around his neck and holds a silenced weapon at the ready. Pal barely contains a gasp of astonishment. Someone has invaded the sanctuary. Although he wears no formal uniform or identifying insignia, the man is Caucasian, perhaps American or English. Pal curses silently and his fists curl in frustration.

Pal observes as Bowden slips his pack off and starts removing small containers filled with enormously powerful explosives. He works rapidly, smoothly, like someone quite familiar with the task. He has nearly emptied the pack. The entire laboratory has already been wired to blow. In the closet, Pal twists and turns, wondering what to do.

Another sound, a ping from down the hall as the elevator arrives.

Startled, the man in black raises his weapon and steps back out of the way. Pal knows the visitor is likely to be either Mr. Nandi bringing Indira, or perhaps—far worse—his heir apparent, Gorman. The man seems unfazed and more than ready to use his silenced rifle.

Without thinking Pal starts to open the door.

The intruder whirls at the sound, his eyes searching the room, but only sees the wall and a closet. Before he can turn around again a knife penetrates his right arm. It seems to go numb, fall straight, and the man reaches for the rifle with his left arm, but by then Mr. Nandi is upon him. A second knife slices into his neck, right at the shoulder. Mr. Nandi holds it there; the threat presented by the blade near the artery speaks for itself.

The man lowers his hand and allows Mr. Nandi to disarm him. Mr. Nandi kicks the side of his knee, full force. The man grunts and falls to the ground in pain. Pal opens the closet and steps into the room.

"Tell me who you are," he orders. "Who sent you?"

The man's eyes roll up, exposing white. Mr. Nandi kneels by him, yanks his hair back and places the tip of the knife in his right nostril. "You will answer the guru, or be mutilated," he says in his soft, respectful voice.

The man says: "My name is Scott."

Mohandas Hasari Pal stumbles to the table and pulls the suitcase into plain sight. "You have not even slowed us down, Mr. Scott. The virus will span the globe within a matter of days. Your life will have been sacrificed for nothing."

"I doubt that," Scott says in a whispery voice. He is in pain and barely able to remain conscious.

"Oh, believe it," Pal replies. He removes one vial from the suitcase. It is different from the others. It is tied to a tightly bound package of plastic and a second, smaller bottle.

Pal cannot resist gloating. He holds up the package. "And this one is my gift to the corrupt populace of Mexico." Pal mockingly pronounces it properly,
Me-he-co
. "When I activate this brilliantly designed little balloon, it will float up to a height of several hundred feet. The internal guidance system will take it fourteen miles to the nearest highway rest stop, where it will explode into a mist. Every traveler who passes through that area tonight and tomorrow will be infected. Within ten hours their first symptoms will appear, but by then they will be lost in crowds all over the southwestern United States and down into South America."

Bowden is losing it, but he wants to know and still manages to ask: "Why?"

Pal chuckles, mockingly. "Because I am the physical incarnation of Shiva, consort to Kali-Ma, and the destroyer of worlds. You should feel honored to be in my presence. You do, don't you?"

Bowden snorts in disgust. In a flash, Mr. Nandi has sliced open his nostril. A thin tendril of bloods spurts. It hurts. Bowden squeals, but the pain helps him recover his senses.

Pal clucks with his tongue. "Such needless suffering. Please, refrain from being macho, Mr. Scott. Now, I will ask you a question. You will answer immediately and honestly, or Mr. Nandi will do you harm. Do you understand?"

"I understand."

"Who came here with you?"

"I am alone."

Mr. Nandi clasps the wounded hand. He raises the knife and severs his two smallest fingers. Bowden shrieks and then grunts in agony. "God damn you! You bastard, that's the truth. I came alone!"

"And why did you come, Mr. Scott? Remember, you have many more fingers. Mr. Nandi and I are very patient men."

"To rescue your wife, asshole."

Nandi removes his thumb. Bowden passes out. Annoyed, Pal looks around, locates a pitcher of water. Moving gingerly, he picks it up and hands it to Mr. Nandi, who tosses it in Bowden's face. Bowden does not seem to regain consciousness. Pal sighs. "We must assume we have been compromised, Mr. Nandi. Regrettably, I must dispatch you with the suitcase to locate Mr. Gorman. Send him on his way immediately. I will proceed to the burial ground alone. Once Mr. Gorman is en route, bring Indira to me. You shall assist in the rite of Sati."

Mr. Nandi bows, takes the suitcase. He stops by Bowden and leans down to cut his throat. The goggles are in the way. Irritated, Mr. Nandi begins to saw at the strap holding them in place. Pal waves him off. "I will shoot him. Go." Mr. Nandi leaves and the heavy case seems as light as a shoebox in his grasp.

But when Pal tries to operate the rifle, he is puzzled by the safety lock. He fumbles with it for a moment, but another icy sheet of agony overwhelms his bowels. He drops the rifle and bends over the table, losing precious seconds, but the captive is bleeding to death regardless. Pal kicks the rifle away, out into the hallway, and stumbles toward the elevator.

SIXTY-SEVEN

Indira backed rapidly out of the master bedroom, one hand to her mouth. The sight of so many bodies in a pile tore a ragged scream from her throat. The fact that so many are men in ritual women's clothing had also stunned her.
Mo is killing his own people
. She realized immediately that she had given her location away. She raced down the hall, head swiveling, looking for a place to hide. She ran barefoot, her passage virtually silent.

She could hear the steady footsteps of the man who was now pursuing her, even over the thudding cadence of her terrified heart. This man was large and unbelievably fast, especially now that the scream revealed her position. Her only advantage is that she has been here before, in the drug dealer's hacienda.

Move. Keep moving . . .

A locked door, another door, a room that contained video equipment; Indira barely noticed the nude body on the bed. There was a second door at the back of the room and she pushed herself that way, even though it was probably just a bathroom and she might be trapped, but that door was locked. Indira thought and stripped away the paper gown. She flung herself face-down on the round bed, beneath the mirrored ceiling.

Her bare skin broke out in bumps at the uneasy proximity of the woman's cold, dead flesh. Her nostrils caught the vague stink of urine. Her gorge rose and soured. She forces herself to breathe, stay loose, and allows one arm and one leg to dangle over the edge of the bed. The man's footsteps pounded down the hall and paused at the bedroom doorway. The door opened, whispered across the shag carpet like the hissing of a large snake. Indira, face pressed against the stained bedspread, held her breath.

The man entered the room. He was moving swiftly, someone familiar with his surroundings. He passed the round bed and went straight for the locked door. Indira, eyes closed, knew when he tried the handle. She heard an eerie, throaty chuckle and the jangling of some keys. The door being yanked open. The man searching the other room and emerging back into the bedroom. Her chest was beginning to tighten now and she desperately needed to breath, but somehow held herself motionless, praying, hoping to remain undiscovered.