The Tenth Circle (20 page)

Washington, DC

“It’s a goddamn mess is what it is,” Robert Carroll said to Colonel Alvin Turwell, who was seated stiffly next to him on a bench on the outskirts of the deserted mall.

“We both lost men, good men,” Turwell told him. “Now we need to get past it.”

“Am I missing something here or are you not getting that this whole mission of yours has gone to shit?”

Carroll was a bullet-shaped man whose narrow head, sitting atop a wide, thick frame, seemed to come to a peak. When he was angry—commonplace in a career spent mostly in hallways walked by few others, where fates and futures were determined—he arched his neck in a way that made the peak seem higher. “An even dozen casualties on that goddamn island and they’re still adding up the tally in Boston. Cat’s about to be let out of the bag, Colonel. That means it’s getting close to the time to head for the hills.”

“Boston’s been contained.”

“And I’m supposed to take your word for that?”

“Make the calls yourself. Bodies will be in friendly hands before anyone can get a whiff of something off.”

“As in the truth, as in you trying to tread water in a shit storm.”

“Then it’s a good thing you’re Homeland Security.”

“I run the Gap,” Carroll said in a slow southern drawl. “Security arm of Homeland that this rogue bastard McCracken you’ve unleashed used to work for.”

“I unleashed him for a purpose. Seized an opportunity. It’s called a mission protocol.”

“But that purpose didn’t pan out, did it? In fact, you even fucked that up royally and put our entire end game in jeopardy,” Carroll said, making sure to stare Turwell right in the eye.

“I respectfully disagree,” Turwell responded, trying not to sound as defensive as he felt. “It was just a setback and a minor one at that.”

“Setback?
Minor
?” Carroll folded his arms, thick overcoat bagging at the sleeves. “McCracken’s been pulling off shit like this since Vietnam. I imagine you’ve heard of that war, right?”

“Enough to know the rules of engagement beat what I experienced in Afghanistan,” Turwell said, not bothering to disguise his bitterness.

Carroll shook his head. “Man, you are just full of all them fancy West Point terms, aren’t you? Thing is, there’s not a hard drive in the world that can hold all of McCracken’s and his Indian buddy’s exploits. Thanks to them, you got shit backing up in your toilet, and I’m the man with the plunger.”

“You speaking for the others?” Turwell asked him, not particularly wanting to hear the answer.

“You rather speak to them yourself, Colonel? I’d advise against it, given they’re even more pissed off at you than I am. Matter of fact, it wouldn’t surprise me one bit if they were racing one another to the Justice Department to see who can nail himself an immunity deal first.”

“Let’s stick to the subject at hand,” Turwell said, trying to sound calm and hoping Carroll didn’t notice how fast his heart was beating or the sweat rising to his brow. “McCracken’s not just a rogue, he’s a wanted man with a dragnet thrown across the whole country. You telling me he can operate even in those conditions?”

Carroll just shook his head. “He was bred in those conditions, for Christ’s sake. But it’s a good thing you got me to hold your hand.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I took some precautions of my own. Let me put it this way, son: since you can’t handle McCracken, it’s a good thing I can.”

THE MARY CELESTE

CHAPTER 61

Boston, Massachusetts

“Nice trick,” McCracken said to Zarrin, after she’d used her universal key card to access the room at the Airport Marriott.

“Works especially well at airport hotels because of the quick turnover,” she said, closing the door behind him and Wareagle after one last check of the hall. “No better place to hide out with so many people coming and going.”

“You already knew the terrorists were Americans, soldiers in all probability,” McCracken said, within the relatively safe confines of their hotel room.

“Thanks to the security tapes taken of the attack on the Golden Gate Bridge,” Zarrin explained. “First, with the way the gunmen were holding their weapons.”

“No one else noticed, including me.”

“Of course not, because you didn’t train in the old Soviet Union like I did. Terrorist training camps still use the old Russian techniques to this day.”

“How could I have missed that?”

“Because you’ve got something else bothering you.”

“Is it that easy to spot?”

“It is, for me. Beyond the gun thing, somebody went through great pains to pin the blame for the Ohio church bombing on operatives with the same training I received.”

“Jihadi terrorists again.”

Zarrin nodded. “Someone very sophisticated and very concerned about planting a false trail was behind that. It was the only explanation and it changed the entire nature of what your country was truly facing, in my mind.”

“What else?”

“I saved the best for last. I grouped the faces captured on the Golden Gate Bridge surveillance footage together and searched for a match that way instead of individually.”

“What’d you come up with?”

“A single, grainy picture taken by an embedded journalist in Afghanistan of an American special-ops team on some black mission.”

“I’m guessing there’s more.”

“No trace they ever served, no match with any military or intelligence database because they must’ve been scrubbed. I think those men made up one of the deep-cover teams responsible for the atrocities over there mostly confined to rumors. I think your army, or government, found out about it and stripped off their uniforms before they could cause any further embarrassment.”

“Making them prime candidates to play pretend terrorists unleashed on a fake jihad.”

“My thinking exactly.”

“All that’s missing is the end game, but not the means to bring it about. That’s where the White Death comes in.”

“White Death?”

Zarrin studied McCracken while he laid it all out for her. Eyes darting into every line and wrinkle on his face, before settling on the scar that ran through his left eyebrow.

“I was set up too,” McCracken concluded. “To make the Reverend Jeremiah Rule seem even more a victim, to increase his following and strengthen his base at the same time.”

“These staged terrorist attacks can’t go on forever.”

“No, because the country’s being set up for something bigger at the hands of the White Death, and right now the only clue we’ve got as to what is the
Mary Celeste
.”

“Ah, the famous ghostship …”

“You’ve heard the story?”

“Bits and pieces.”

“Then let me get an expert on the phone so we can hear the whole thing.”

“Sorry,” Captain Seven said, once McCracken had reached him, “can’t talk now. I’m in the midst of a much-deserved, weed-induced vacation. Twice as high as I am normally and that’s pretty damn high.”

“The
Mary Celeste
, Captain.”

“
Beeeeeeeeep!
Please leave your message at the tone and I’ll return your call when I damn well please.”

“I had to leave for Boston before you could properly explain your theory.”

“I’m trying to smoke here, MacNuts,” the captain greeted over the speaker of McCracken’s phone. “Can I call you back?”

“Multitask, Captain.”

“According to its manifest, the
Mary Celeste
was carrying seventeen hundred barrels of commercial alcohol used for fortifying wines. When the ship was discovered abandoned at sea, the entire cargo was found intact, untampered with, and undamaged. Seems pretty obvious, though, that she was really carrying whatever those British seamen pulled out of the ground on Roanoke Island. And manifests are easily altered, manipulated. Especially when somebody wanted to hide something.”

“Why?”

“Assume, thanks to what Chief Red Water, Red Sea, Red Lake, or whatever his name is, told us, that whoever showed up at the colony in 1872 had figured out the same thing we did. Assume they left with enough of the White Death loaded onto their wagons to head north and fill the cargo holds of the
Mary Celeste
, intending to use it in some war themselves.”

“Like you said,” McCracken noted, “the first weapon of mass destruction. But why wait so long to come get it if they already knew of the White Death’s existence from John White’s journal, Captain?”

“That’s easy. Because until right around then, the technology to pump that much shit out of the ground didn’t exist. The way Chief Water Log described it, sounds to me like that steam engine pumping apparatus was custom made. Somebody wanted that carbonic acid awfully bad and went through a lot of trouble to first haul it north to the Port of New York and then transport it across the ocean.”

“But we’re forgetting something, aren’t we?” McCracken pointed out. “The same thugs we encountered didn’t kill Jacob’s friend in 1872; they killed the boy just a few months ago. Why do that if they already had the White Death in their possession?”

“Because they didn’t, at least not yet. They were looking for clues just like we were.”

Blaine thought for a moment. “What we do know about what happened after that other ship—”

“The
Dei Gratia
.”

“—found the
Mary Celeste
abandoned at sea?”

“Here’s what her ship’s log has to say on the subject,” Captain Seven said, reciting the rest from memory. “ ‘The day begins with fresh breeze and clear, sea still running heavy but wind moderating. Saw a sail to the East at two p.m. Saw she was under very short canvas, steering very wild and evidently in distress. Hauled up to speak to her and render assistance if necessary. At three p.m. hailed her and getting no answer and seeing no one on deck or on board, accompanied the mate and two men on board. Sea running high at the time. We boarded her without incident and found her to be the
Mary Celeste
, bound from New York for Genoa and abandoned with three feet of water in her hold.’ That help at all, MacNuts?”

“Not one bit.”

“Then let’s back up a bit and assume the captain of the
Mary Celeste
knew the seventeen hundred barrels he was carrying didn’t contain alcohol as advertised. His ship springs a leak, just a modest one, but scary as hell given what happens when the real contents of those barrels mix with water. So he goes to check those barrels and notices one or more of them was leaking too. With his own family on board, the captain decides he has no choice but to abandon ship before the same thing that happened to the Roanoke colonists happens to them too.”

“But that doesn’t explain why the ten people who climbed into that lifeboat were never seen again,” Zarrin noted.

“Who’s the babe talking?”

“A friend, Captain.”

“She smoke?”

“I doubt it.”

“ ’Cause I’ve resolved to only trust people who smoke God’s herb. Save me the trouble of getting my ass shot at on account of you anymore. And, to answer her question, the
Mary Celeste
’s crew and passengers showing up in a port would have posed a big problem for somebody. Imagine the story they had to tell, imagine the explanation they’d have to give the ship’s owners, and the insurance company, for their actions. Nope, whoever those barrels containing the White Death were intended for,” Captain Seven continued, “couldn’t afford the truth coming out, a truth only the survivors could tell.”

“Here’s what I don’t get,” advanced Zarrin. “Why would anyone bother with these barrels today? Why not just create something in a lab somewhere that achieves the same effect?”

“What, you think it’s so easy?” challenged Captain Seven, toking audibly on a joint. “Let me ask you a question, girlfriend. In spite of the devastation and death that happened at Lake Nyos, why has no one ever managed to successfully weaponize that event? Because water tends to swallow up anything you dump into it. You wanna know what I think? I think plenty of people have tried to artificially replicate carbonic acid and the effects it has in good old H2O. But the formula, the mixture, is just too damn difficult, especially when you figure the presence of volcanic activity screwing up pH levels to an unfathomable degree. But, now, hear this, if the bad guys we’re chasing really did get their hands on the White Death, you wanna be somewhere else far, far away when they unleash it.”

“What’s the equivalent amount that killed the colony, Captain?” McCracken asked him.

“Impossible to say, MacNuts, but best guess? Try a single barrel at most. For Lake Nyos, a much bigger body of water, I’d say a hundred barrels, maybe as many as two hundred.”

“That event killed over three thousand people,” Blaine recalled. “And our bad guys may have as many as seventeen hundred barrels of the White Death.”

“Don’t think number,” said Captain Seven. “Think area. Even stuff this potent tends to dissipate in the air over a larger area. So with seventeen hundred barrels at the ready, I’d say you’re looking at the size of a city maybe.”

“New York or Washington?”

“Potentially.”

“With a nearly one hundred percent mortality rate, asphyxiated the same way the people living around Lake Nyos were …”

“That’s right.”

“Then we need to find these barrels,” said Zarrin. “Pick up the trail in Gibraltar, where the
Mary Celeste
ended up, and see where it leads. But something else is bothering me.”

“Why didn’t they die?” McCracken completed for her. “The crew and passengers on the
Mary Celeste
.”

Zarrin nodded. “If they abandoned ship because one the barrels in their holds was leaking, the contents should have mixed with the water they’d been taking on and killed them all before they could abandon ship.”

“Now, that’s a quandary.”

“One we can’t solve here and now.”

“Am I done?” Captain Seven wondered.

“For now.”

“I’m changing my phone number, MacNuts. Don’t bother calling back.”

Blountstown, Florida

Reverend Jeremiah Rule knelt before the altar in his church, listening to the plop of the rainwater leaking through the roof hitting the buckets below. No matter how much he patched, sometimes with his own hands, new leaks sprang up.

Rule had come to realize that the leak was an apt metaphor for life, God sending him a message.

Plop, plop, plop …

“I understand, Lord,” he said out loud. “You have shown me the light, the way, the path away from indiscretion and temptation. I see this particular mission you sent me on is drawing to a close and a new one is dawning to replace it. I know I can speak to you as I can no man, because you alone understand the darkness that lurks within me. You know what I brought in my heart to that trailer park; you know the evil intentions that rose out of my soul. You put me in a place where I could relive my becoming, but then you set me on a path to a different salvation. And so I realize it must be for every man who in his nature and soul is neither good nor evil, but both.”

Plop, plop, plop …

Rule realized his knees were beginning to ache badly, but refused to shift positions. The pain made him feel alive; God’s way of reminding him how much work remained for him in this next phase.

“I wanted to blame the devil for the depravity I displayed in that terrible moment of weakness, but now I see the Devil is an excuse for that depravity, not an explanation for it. And if you had not intervened in that trailer park, I would have been lost forever. Sunk into a cesspool of my own sin, never to be brought back to the light. But now that light shines bright upon me and I see what I must do with it; yes, I see why you spared my soul and the bidding I must do on your behalf in return. Make me worthy, oh Lord. I beg of you to make me worthy!”

Plop, plop, plop …

Upon leaving the church, he found Boyd Fowler standing by his pickup truck with two other members of the Rock Machine motorcycle gang, ready to assume their duties taking over his personal security detail.

“I won’t be needing you anymore,” he told the guards assigned by Colonel Turwell. The two men looked at each other uncomfortably. “The Lord has seen fit to bestow upon me my own sentinels.”

The men regarded the massive Fowler and the other two gang members again, now standing with arms crossed against the Ford Super Duty over which he towered, smirking.

“You have my gratitude and the Lord’s for your service,” Rule continued. “And you are always welcome to join me in worship. I believe you know the schedule, and I will make sure the website is continually updated.”

He left them without another word. They were out of his life and, thus, out of his mind, and he moved straight for Boyd Fowler, whose tattoos looked shiny and wet in the fresh soak of the storm.

“I’m going to retire to the residence now,” Rule informed the giant, “to do some things that need doing. I’ll need you and your men to stand post, allow no one entry. Is that clear?”

Fowler moved his gaze to the reverend’s former bodyguards, a wide grin stretching across his face. “It sure is, Rev. For starters, I’ll make sure those boys vacate the premises.” He started to move away, then stopped abruptly. “Oh, and one more thing. I think you may have a rat problem in your crawl space.”

“Rat problem?”

“I heard scuffling under the floorboards. Sounded like a whole mess of the bastards.”

“Let’s leave them alone, Boyd,” Rule said, forcing a smile. “All creatures have a right to be.”