The White House: A Flynn Carroll Thriller (18 page)

“A chopper?”

He shook his head. Aeon might look at a helicopter, but far less likely a tender apparently taking seamen on shore leave. “I want the tender to be populated with a shore party and for them to look like guys going on leave. I'll join them. I'll need to be in uniform for that portion of the trip.”

“Somebody's watching you? Eye in the sky?”

Flynn nodded.

He showered in the captain's expansive stateroom, taking delight in the billowing steam, the feel of the fresh water on his salt-raw skin, even the scent of the soap that he lathered on again and again, paying special attention to his gash and to his matted hair. Afterward he found that the captain's orderly had laid out a razor for him. Soon his face had reappeared, its hardness framing the eyes that Diana told him made people look away. They stared back at him out of the cave of secrets that was their home.

The uniform had been laid out for him, the suit packed in a duffel. It was a conservative gray, the sort of thing a naval intelligence officer might wear on a confidential shore mission. You might as well have hung a sign on it that said,
YEP, I'M A COP.
But he wasn't going to be getting any choices. The Florsheims that came with it were weathered but serviceable. Were these the intel officer's civvy togs, stuff he wore to funerals, maybe?

In the tender, he'd be Chief Petty Officer Evans. There were upward of five thousand personnel aboard, so nobody would be surprised that they didn't recognize him. Wherever they were stationed, they'd assumed he was stationed somewhere else.

In the small dining room that was part of the captain's suite, he was served a meal of steak, corn on the cob, mashed potatoes, and ice cream cake, all of it chased by iced tea. He ate every scrap of it. He thought he could feel his starved body putting it to use, racing the protein to his wounds and his depleted blood, the carbs to sagging muscles.

Given that there was now nothing to do except wait, he wrapped himself in what he assumed was the captain's robe, lay back on his bed, and let the stately rolling of the enormous vessel lull him into an uneasy sleep.

Sometime later, he began to dream a familiar and terrible dream. In it, he saw a face, sleek, almost featureless, human but too slick, a face that was at once plastic and alive. For a moment, he didn't recognize it. But then he did, which was the point where the dream became a nightmare.

He was in a coffin, wanting to claw, wanting to scream, sucking the bad air, his body twisting in anguish and agony. From outside came the sound of dirt hitting the lid.

He'd once been buried alive by Louis Charlton Morris. To him, humankind was ripe fruit, there for the taking. He stole people, DNA, sperm, and eggs, whatever he could sell on the black market. He had stolen Abby.

As he struggled, he heard Morris laughing. It was the softest, most chilling laughter Flynn had ever heard, the sound of a machine pretending to be something it was not, and smart enough to hate that.

Then he was running. Morris had set dogs on him, lean and black and quick, with eyes that should have been in the faces of men, eyes of despair and the rage that is born of great suffering.

The dogs were fast and he was falling, going deep into silent water.

The dogs were flying like bullets, leaping in after him, their paws churning.

Morris laughing. The dogs closing in. The silent depths of the lake.

He woke up and found himself looking into the eyes of the cabin steward. “I have your package, sir.”

Morris was dead. The hybrid dogs were dead. The trauma of that fight, though, would never die.

He said nothing; he couldn't talk—his mouth was too dry. He'd lived that dream, lived it and somehow survived. But that's what life was for him—a series of impossible escapes against horrible odds, odds that had to run out sometime, that had nearly run out that time, and again this time.

“Sir?”

“Sorry. Heavy sleeper.” He took the package, but waited until the steward quietly left before opening it.

Another Swiss passport, this time for Hermann Rung. A ticket on Emirates, Dubai to D.C., first class. Fifteen thousand dollars in cash.

He looked out the porthole at a morning sea full of glaring chop, illuminated by the brutal sun that scoured this part of the world.

The Emirates flight was scheduled to take off in six hours. He called the bridge.

“The sleeper awakes,” Petersen said “We have a guest stateroom, by the way.”

“Sorry about that.”

“No problem, I used it. Nicer than my setup, to tell you the truth. It's where admirals park.”

“I need to get moving.”

“Good.”

He sounded cheerful, for which Flynn did not blame him. It must be worrisome having him aboard, a guy with significant pull and no identity. He put on the uniform and heaved the duffel onto his back.

Once again, an ensign led him through the bowels of the ship. This time he was more stable, but still far from fully recovered. At the embarkation port, he found a bouncing tender full of sailors. As he climbed in and took the last seat, the engines started and they were under way. Nobody so much as glanced at him. Been ordered to keep their mouths shut, no doubt.

The journey in took forty minutes in this fast little boat, and when they arrived at port customs he looked back at the gulf, but the carrier, outside the twelve-mile limit because this wasn't an official stop, was invisible below the horizon.

He went through customs with the sailors, having his passport stamped with a day stamp. From there it was an easy matter to get a cab to the airport. He arrived with two hours to spare, entered a men's room and changed, leaving the uniform, stripped of any identifying marks, in the duffel. He stuffed it all into a waste bin.

The businessman who tacked out into the wide lobby drew not a glance. He spent the next hour eating another meal, but in a different restaurant from the one he'd used on the way in. He passed effortlessly through first-class embarkation and set up in the lounge, looking at
Der Spiegel,
as befitted a German-speaking Swiss. Not that he'd need it, but he spent the time working on his German, sight-translating an article about U.S. national security surveillance capabilities. The tone of outrage fit the subject. A man's individuality is bordered by his privacy. When that's invaded, he becomes less.

The moment his flight was called, he boarded. One of the first-class hostesses met him, greeting him by name. She even spoke a little German. Fortunately, he spoke a little more. She showed him to his compact stateroom. As he closed the door, she reminded him that she would open it for takeoff. “I don't want to be disturbed,” he said. “No food, no drink.” He smiled. “I've a lot of work to do, and I'm desperate to sleep.” He'd used halting, thickly accented English.

“Of course, sir.”

He slid the door shut, sat back, and closed his eyes. It was absolutely magnificent to be alive, and incredibly satisfying to know that he had communicated that crucial information to Diana. Even if he didn't make it back, he had at least given her some sort of a chance to fix what was wrong. Whatever in hell it was.

One thing was clear: It threatened the president. But how? Not assassination—Aeon wouldn't care about that. Something else, but what?

The President of the United States was a powerful man, but only in certain ways. The system of checks and balances prevented him from carrying out much of an agenda, and Bill Greene was turning out to be no exception to that rule. He was too conservative for the Republican center, but too liberal for its right wing. So he had no real constituency in his own party. Powerless. And yet, they were targeting him. Somehow, they could use him, and that was very, very worrisome.

The plane taxied and took off, and Flynn's long hours of uneasy, isolated worry began. Aeon could easily make an entire plane disappear. They'd done things like that before, never with an A380, but he had no doubt that they had the capability. Still, he had covered his tracks, he thought, with the greatest possible care. He had no electronics on his person. He'd been in a storm at sea, for God's sake, in the dead of night and swimming for his life. Surely even they would have lost him then. He knew that he wasn't implanted. So maybe this was actually a safe moment in his life, one of the few.

He adjusted the seat to a deep recline. He slept, but uneasily, and when there was movement in his cabin, he came to full wakefulness immediately.

“Hello, Flynn.”

No. Impossible.

Louis Charlton Morris was sitting across from him in the small conference seat, and it was no dream.

Flynn did the only thing he could. He responded, “Hello.”

Morris raised his hands. “Unarmed.” He smiled that liquid smile of his, the lips lifting mirthlessly away from the ugly little pearls of teeth. “You'd like to kill me, yes? Again.”

Flynn said nothing.

“I've been sitting here for two hours. I could have done you, Flynn. Would've looked like a heart attack, yes? Clean job, nothing to it. But you are here and I am here and we really must talk.”

Flynn thought of the pen in his pocket. One quick, smooth move and it would be jutting out from between Morris's eyes.

Morris touched his lapel. Flynn's hand slipped down to the buckle of his seat belt, ready to loosen it so he could leap at the creature's throat.

Morris raised his hands defensively, palms up. “Now, just relax.” Carefully, he slipped two fingers into his suit pocket. “Your pen, my dear. I could see by the way you were looking at my forehead that you were missing it.”

Flynn took it from him.

“We're relatives, you know,” Morris said. “I am, as it were, fashioned from your rib.” His teeth appeared again, a crushed, brief, and extremely sinister smile. “When you were a boy, you and Abby were out on the prairie. You were twelve. You were lying side by side. Do you remember?”

“The meteor night?”

He continued. “I wasn't born of a mother. I'm not really alive. You have a soul; you continue into higher realms. But I do possess one thing of yours, which is your marvelous DNA—or rather, a deeper element of the life force. There's no word in English for it yet, as you haven't discovered it. The closest would be the Chinese chi, but that's not the half of it. Still, let's just say that you and I share your exceptional chi.” He spread his pink, fat hands. “But this is as far as I go.” The smile became a leering jack-o'-lantern grin. “Nature's largesse doesn't extend to us toys.”

“I don't understand.”

“No, and it's not even important, is it? My fate? Less important than the fate of a dog. About as important as the fate of your Ferrari, I would think. Destined to be junked and forgotten, though not until after a good run.”

He leaned forward. Flynn prepared to fight. “No, no, we need each other now.”

“How did you do it?”

“Survive?” He shrugged. “Machines don't die, they break. ‘Broken' can be fixed.”

“By whom?”

Morris chuckled. “You never stop, do you? Calculating, questioning.”

“Trying to understand.”

“As you know, there was a revolution on Aeon.”

“Which you won.”

“Me? Hardly. Creatures like me are less than slaves there. As I said, I'm a toy. I was raised in a factory, schooled with implants, then sold to an elderly woman who used me sexually. I escaped, got myself out onto the wild frontier of Earth, and started my little business.”

“Stealing people.”

“Part of it, yes, as you know. Which I may not be able to continue.”

“Why not?”

“That would be why I'm sitting here now.”

“I don't believe we could ever have mutual interests.”

“You want to preserve humanity. I trade in humanity. Mutual interests.”

Flynn looked into the strange, dead eyes. “What are you getting at?”

“How much do you understand of the revolution? Its motives? Policy toward Earth?”

“The new regime is setting up an alliance with Iran.”

“But do you know why?”

Flynn said nothing.

“So you don't. But I do. For me, mankind is a resource—a gold mine, as it were. Rich DNA pool, strong chi. You're the richest pool we have ever found. Oh, Flynn, we can do wonders with human material. Create genius animals, biological robots with the minds of gods and the skills of warriors or whores. Anything you can imagine, you can do with that magic clay. Right now, human beings are the most valuable commodity in this galaxy, and I want to continue to reap that harvest.”

“But you can't?”

“The new regime considers mankind dangerous. Human slaves on Aeon are nearly impossible to control. Fortunately, I can still sell elements.” He gazed into the middle distance, and Flynn could see that he regretted no longer being able to sell slaves. How he had enjoyed killing him. How he would enjoy doing it again, only this time he'd put the remains in the burn at Wright-Pat. This
thing
would never be reconstructed again, not if he could help it.

“What about Abby?”

“You know she was dispersed.”

“I don't know.”

“Sold in elements, Flynn.”

He had only a vague idea of what that meant. He had encountered dogs with human eyes. He knew a tiger that was as smart as a man and was, in some way, human. Probably they were creatures fabricated by these evil beings.

“She's not conscious, not in any form?”

Morris shook his head. “Her intelligence is probably in use, but in some mechanical context. There would be no memory.”

“So they consider us dangerous. Seems like that'd encourage them to stay away.”

“From a planet like this? Earth is a jewel, Flynn. They plan to colonize it, very frankly. To do that, they have to get rid of humanity. Kill you off.”

“Thus destroying the planet. That doesn't make a lot of sense.”