The Ragnarok Conspiracy (18 page)

The old priest smiled sadly. “So, I still come here to speak with him. These attacks…” he shook his head. “The world seems poised to begin a terrible spiral of violence that will lead to great suffering. I talk to my old friend. I just wish I could hear him now.”

Savas and Cohen traded glances, unsure what to say. “That was why I came, Father. All this has been weighing on me, too. I wanted to ask you to pray for us, for what we are doing.”

“John, if you are trying to bring an end to this growing madness, you have my prayers, certainly. But more importantly, I think I can hear the host of saints praying for all the souls of the world as well.”

On the highest floor of a tower of glass and steel, a man gazed through a large window. His partial reflection displayed a tall and lean form, with pressed gray hair and sharp-rimmed glasses, peering over the sprawling city below him.

Contrasting with the open expanse through the glass pane, where a step would drop him hundreds of feet to the concrete below, he sensed behind him the solidity of his grand office. It was the size of a tennis court, decorated and trimmed with the best that was to be had. Like an anchor, the presence of his enormous cherry-wood desk rooted him inside the room, its bulk framed by the solid sheet of glass revealing the heart of the city.

He pulled on the cuff of his expensive suit, glancing at a timepiece of Swiss manufacture. With mild annoyance, he returned his arms behind his back, clasping them tightly, military-style. The lights were off in his office; he required time for contemplation. Staring into the sky, he counted more than twenty planes in the air at once, small dots like yellow stars moving across the night sky over the three local airspaces. The city appeared like some pharaoh's tomb decorated in one hundred thousand jewels of light, the bridges as streaming necklaces across the waters.

His computer blinked and issued an alert tone. He turned around and stared at it. The screen displayed a security code algorithm, establishing an untraceable connection. Events were moving forward. He took several steps toward his desk and sat in his chair. He pressed ENTER and waited. The image of a chiseled face filled the screen, blond hair and crew cut etched like stone into the LCD.

“Connection is secure, sir,” said the blond man.

“You're late, Rout,” snapped the older man.

“I was delayed.”

“You are ready to proceed, I assume?”

“Yes, sir. Phase One was maximally successful. All targets were destroyed without compromise of personnel or mission. World media and governments have reacted in a panic, and this has had the intended effect. Training for the next several missions has nearly been completed, and all resources and elements are in place. We await your word on this.”

“Investigations?”

“There are too many to name or for us to keep track of. Notable are CIA, FBI, MI6, SIS, European groups—China, you may be interested to know, along with Russia and some others. Everyone is scared shitless, and it's not clear if it's the Arabs, or the Western governments that need them, who are more worried. This is threatening to blow up into a real international situation.”

“Then let us pour gasoline on this small fire we've kindled. Proceed to Phase Two.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Finally, the broken arrow in our quiver. We need to make sure there are no connections to us, no way to surmise how we plan to end this. He has gone his own way for too long now.”

Rout stared coldly into the screen, no movement of flesh betraying his inner thoughts. “He will be missed, sir. He was a real soldier.”

The gray-haired man nodded imperceptibly. “It is a link that must be cut. We cannot afford to leave any bridges intact behind us.”

“Understood, sir. I'll see to this one myself.”

“As you see fit. We have to make hard choices, Patrick. Good-bye.”

The man broke the secure connection, and the screen went dark. He pressed his fingertips together and rotated his chair around to face the skyline once more. Clouds had moved in slowly from the west, and the orange-light pollution from streetlamps seeped upward, giving them a slightly hideous color, like sick flames descending.

It was appropriate, he thought.
Ragnarök is coming.

The morning broke with the last clouds from the evening storm trailing out to sea. The sun rose, slicing through them to give a multifaceted spray of red and orange rays across the sky and water. Philip Jeffrey rolled up the mooring rope and pulled on the halyard, raising the mainsail. The white sheet climbed slowly, and he trimmed the sail to catch the wind, filling and driving the boat forward as the airfoil and dagger boards combined to produce the force of motion. He was quickly under way, as the sun reared powerfully over the cloud line and sprayed its now golden radiance over the harbor.

Jeffrey smiled as the spray of water caught him unprepared.
Thank God I bought this boat.
The irony was that he thought he'd never have time to use it. That was before Liam had called him one fateful night in 2003. He shook his head. Liam's nickname had come from his Irish mother, even though he resembled in appearance and character his father, a Swede; an immigrant family whose son had done more than well.

They had gone way back, to some of the early days of Liam's rise in business, when he still controlled half of the defense contracts for the air force in one way or the other. It was more than just a profitable business relationship—the money to Liam, the promotions to Jeffrey—but a friendship had developed, based on a mutual connection that was rare for men of their ambition. How many nights along the Sound had he entertained Liam and Judy on his older vessel? And the long cruises to the Virgin Islands—those had been special times.

Then a Tuesday in September 2001 had changed everything. Nineteen terrorists flew two planes into the World Trade Towers and brought
those buildings down. Everyone changed after that day, but some more than others. Liam became estranged. He had stopped calling and had hardly spoken to him at the memorial service. Rumors circled that he was retiring or had suffered a nervous breakdown. Jeffrey could only guess. After nearly a year and a half of silence, he had begun to wonder whether the pain of that loss had forever separated him from his friend.

But a phone call in late February changed all that. Liam had called and asked to visit Jeffrey at his beach house on Long Island. Like old times. But the Liam that appeared the next weekend was a creature different from the man he had known before. This was a man with a fire lit within that made his previous ambition to succeed seem a faint light. Liam spoke passionately that evening about the world, the evils of nations, and our need to fight, of not using the outdated strategies of the past. He scoffed at conventional war and diplomacy, convinced that radical efforts were demanded.

And Philip Jeffrey had been converted.

Truth be told, he was never a good fit at the Pentagon. His hard-line beliefs about the changing nature of conflict, so in harmony with Liam's own, did not buy him popularity within the changing power structure in Washington. The neocons had such a naive faith in technology! Jeffrey knew that it was men's hearts, as much as their weapons, that dictated the course of battle. What he and Liam saw brewing in the world was a conflict of men more than machines.

“
Patrick believes he can lead the final mission, Philip. I think he may be right.
”

Jeffrey winced at hearing that voice again. The man haunted him, the force of his personality like some apparition scarring his memory. But he knew better than to fight it. It would have its due. For all that Jeffrey knew, all that he had done, his mind needed to wrestle with what had happened. His soul could find little peace.

“This will take some doing.”

“Yes, it will, Philip,” Liam said, rising and li
f
ting a small object from his desk. He passed it between his hands, the metal glinting in the soft light. “Are you ready to put this in motion?”

“This will not be so easy, my friend. And in the end, my career, a long and honorable one, might I add, will be destroyed.”

Jeffrey closed his eyes, feeling the wind on his face, salt spray crusting his skin. He lost himself in time.

“Do you doubt our plans?”

Jeffrey laughed briefly. “No, of course not. The top brass have all checked their minds at the door of the Pentagon, anyway. I don't belong anymore. Any day now they will give that fool Texan his war.”

Liam straightened quickly, then took the metal object and hurled it against the wall. It struck the paneling and entered, splintering the wood and lodging deep like an arrow.

“We have a blind cowboy for a president!” he spat. “A puppet advised by slow-minded and greedy fools. They cannot even focus on the abomination that orchestrated these acts of murder! They chase and they chase after dreams inspired by their politics. And miss the larger target! The heart of evil of which this diabetic coward is only one foul seed.” He walked over to the wall, grabbed the object, and pried it free with a single, swift tug. “No, my friend, we will not aim so low as that.”

Liam's eyes burned into Jeffrey's mind. His words seem to reverberate and echo. “It is said one must beware the vengeance of a patient man. Philip, we will be very patient. Our organization will be hidden, slowly established in every major target nation on earth—no matter how difficult to penetrate. Only when we are ready, when we have trained an elite force, acquired the weapons and tactics we require, and developed our plan thoroughly, will we strike. And by then, it will be almost impossible to stop us. Then blood will be had for blood, and more. Then fire will rain from the skies.”

Jeffrey stared grimly forward. “Yes, and like Prometheus, I will bring you that fire. Hell, my liver's shot anyway. I'm ready, Liam. You will need patience. This will take time. But it will be done. You know my beliefs.”

Liam nodded and returned to his desk, placing the metal object back on its stand. The light glittered off the glass bottom, serving to highlight the metallic arms on which the object rested. The arms came together at the top, forming a cup-like loop, from which the thinner end of the object
hung. The metal of the tip thickened from the stem to a much wider girth near the end of the shape, flattening, forming a sharp point in an otherwise flat surface. Carved into the face of the metal was the head of a raven. Jeffrey looked at the object and felt vaguely troubled. From this angle, it did indeed resemble a hammer.

A seagull's cry startled him, and he broke out of his reverie.

“I'll never be free of you, Liam,” he spoke to the depths of the sea.

Liam's proposal was audacious, insane, and brilliant. Jeffrey was swept up by it and terrified at the same time. But when his old friend left, he knew that he would help fulfill that plan. He had engineered his transfer to Ward County, North Dakota—
North Dakota!
Minot Air Force Base was the perfect seat of operations for what he needed to do. For four years he worked to engineer one of the greatest betrayals in the history of the United States. A betrayal of the country he had fought for, and would die for, because to save it from itself, from its foolish citizens and leaders, drastic action must be taken. And he had pulled it off, an act that had cost him his job and his honor in the military community. Now he was a disgrace, the truth of his crimes hidden from the public. Were Jeffrey in medieval Japan, he would cast himself on his sword.

Instead, he sailed. At sea, the land faded and the world of men became something that seemed almost small. When the waves rolled on and on to the edge of sight, it was almost possible to forget the shame, and perhaps even the guilt, for what was done, and what was to come. Every great action extracts a terrible price. On the waters of the Atlantic, Philip Jeffrey was sailing to find his soul.

The wind was a strong ten knots north by northwest. He tacked his course northward, seeking the middle of the Long Island Sound. The July sun was already beginning to warm the boat and his skin considerably.
Damn the melanoma
, he thought and steered his course.

Behind him rose a disturbance in the peace he had found at sea, and he turned toward the sound. A boat could be seen at some distance, closing in on him quickly. It was odd. Powerboats didn't usually
come out this far, and rarely had he seen one moving at such high speed. As the boat approached, he could see it wasn't the coast guard but what looked like a dock-bound party boat, right down to the tinted windows. Whoever was piloting the thing was reckless as hell. While he couldn't imagine that his good-sized catamaran was not visible to the other boater, he wasn't taking any chances. He went into the spacious cabin and sat down at the two-way radio, powering up to contact the other skipper. The radio was malfunctioning, issuing only static.
Odd.
He had checked it only last night. After several minutes of fiddling with the knobs, he gave up. Electronics were not his strong suit.

The sound of the other engine was now very loud, and, as he exited the cabin, he could see the boat slow down and approach the left side of his own boat, matching course and speed, much too close for comfort. A figure could be seen standing on the starboard deck, grasping something in his hands.
What in the world is he up to?

The sounds of automatic fire erupted from the motorboat. Philip Jeffrey arched back, his face in shock, his chest and neck exploding in bursts of clothing and crimson. He fell backward, close to the cockpit, hitting the wheel and causing the boat to lurch. The powerboat pulled aside as the catamaran turned sharply into the wind and the sails began to luff. Jeffrey lay in a growing pool of his own blood, grasping at the railings. A searing pain across his midsection, chest, and neck clouded his vision, and he slipped and struck hard against the deck.

Time streamed at the surreal pace of a dream. Sensations were confused, as if he were cast into the sea itself, drowning and sinking, unable to stop falling. After what seemed an eternity, he opened his eyes and found himself clutching the railing, the open sea beneath him. He realized that the boat was no longer moving. Fighting against weakness and a terrible nausea, he turned over on his back. The sky was a bright-blue now, the sun sweltering, and he squinted at its light. For a moment, the light was blocked, and Jeffrey saw a shape above him, broad shoulders and a head in the way of the sun. The figure raised his arm, pointing a dark object at Jeffrey's head. A gunshot rang out over the open sea.

The gray-haired man tapped his keyboard, and the screen in front of him went dark. He swiveled around in his chair and faced the window and the city once more. There were choices to be made, and only some were able to make them. With those choices came sacrifices. In the end, that was how wars were won.

“Good-bye, my friend,” he whispered to the darkness.