Threshold (49 page)

“Buried beneath a pyroclastic flow,” King said. “Like Pompeii.”

“Exactly,” Rahim said.

“Is it possible Ridley figured all this out?” King asked, looking at Alexander.

“When he determined that the Tower of Babel was not here, assuming this theory was published, he would pursue it,” Alexander replied.

“Has the theory been published?” King asked Rahim in Arabic.

“It’s not widely known,” the man said, “but I do believe it has been published several times since our search here ended.” He became nervous and fidgeted with his hands.

King noticed. “What is it?”

“You said a name,” the nervous Iraqi said. “Ridley.”

King, Queen, Bishop, and Alexander tensed. “Yes,” King said.

“The man who funded our search here. His name was Richard Ridley.”

King nearly fell over. Ridley had been searching for Babel before he was even on their radar, before the mess with Hydra. And after all his searching, he’d found what he was looking for. “How deeply was he involved?”

“He would visit once, maybe twice a year. One time he came with Saddam himself. But that ended in 2003, when”—he motioned at the mass of boxes around him, but seemed to imply the base as a whole—“all this happened.”

“And what about the Hanging Gardens?” King asked. “Did he know about them?”

Rahim shook his head. “The site was discovered just before the war. I don’t believe he ever knew what we believed was buried there.”

Which is why he looked for the tower there, too,
King thought.
But when he didn’t find it, he set up shop temporarily and then moved on.

“And he wouldn’t have been told about the site in Turkey?” King asked.

“It was just a theory some of the archaeologists held and had nothing to do with the dig here,” Rahim said.

King nodded. It all made sense.

Light filled the room as Knight returned. “We’ll have a satellite over the area in twenty minutes and we’re cleared for a drop in Turkey. The
Crescent
is en route. We can be on the ground inside of three hours.”

“Thank you, Rahim. We’ll send someone to pick you up,” King said as he took the map and headed for the door. The others left ahead of him as Knight held the door.

Knight stopped King at the door. “Something’s going on back home. Deep Blue didn’t sound like himself.”

“How’d he sound?” King asked.

“Distracted.”

King knew about the media blitzkrieg back home and wondered how Duncan would handle it. If his distraction was noticeable on the phone, then he must be close to a solution. The man could handle just about anything thrown at him. He’d come up with a solution. He just hoped the solution would be permanent. The team needed Deep Blue. He ran the show for a reason. He couldn’t help wondering how things would have worked out if Duncan had been on board as Deep Blue. Rook might not be M.I.A. The dead Delta operators might still be alive. And Fiona might already be back in his arms.

But there was no time to think about Duncan. He’d figure out the problem without his help. Fiona, on the other hand, needed King, and needed him now. He stepped past Knight and headed for the waiting Hummer.

SEVENTY-THREE

Location Unknown

THE BACK WALL
of the cell was cold and filled Fiona with a chill that pocked her skin with goose bumps. Despite the cold, she did not move. She didn’t have the energy and the cool stone helped reduce her rising body temperature. The hyperglycemia, now unchecked, exaggerated the effects of the second threat to her life—dehydration.

Her throat stung to the point where every swallow was agony. As there was no saliva in her mouth to swallow, she tried her hardest to avoid the natural reflex. Her lips were swollen and cracking. Her dry skin felt like old fabric, and the itch was maddening. But most disturbing to Fiona were the changes going on inside her body.

Her heart occasionally palpitated. She pictured it struggling to pump sludge through her body. Her breath seemed to never fully appease her body’s need for oxygen. She figured her drying lungs couldn’t absorb as much. And her stomach … Despite being empty she felt a rising urge to vomit. She expected she would only dry heave, but dreaded the pain it would bring her contracting throat and cracked lips.

She closed her eyes, fought off a wave of nausea, and focused on what she’d learned in the hours since the woman had been shot. There were now four men in the space beyond her cell. Alpha, Adam, Cainan, and Mahaleel. Based on their conversations, it was Cainan who had brought her here. And it was Adam’s wet voice she’d heard earlier speaking in uncanny unison with Alpha.

They had discussions about genetics, of which she only understood bits and pieces. They spoke of ancient languages and the power they contained. The powers of creation. The future world remade.

She had listened to Alpha instruct the others on how to use the ancient tongue. She heard countless phrases, and tried to remember what she was hearing, but it wasn’t possible. So she focused on the one she thought would be most useful, the one spoken casually by all when the services of the conjured stone monsters were no longer needed.

But her body was failing and unless she could call forth a spring from the stone, she would soon die. But that was just as well. If she were dead they couldn’t experiment on her. They couldn’t control her. They couldn’t have her kill her father. Death was preferable, so she laid back, closed her eyes, and accepted it.

Darkness closed in around her vision. A faint ringing grew louder, then faded. She felt each beat of her heart, slowing. In the absolute darkness that followed, she heard a voice.

The voice of the devil.

Calling her back.

The words came as a whisper, pulling her from unconsciousness, from death. Her eyes opened. A large bald man knelt above her, his lips moving. She couldn’t read his lips, but knew he must be speaking the ancient language she’d heard before because her body was responding to it. She felt herself growing stronger. The pain eased. Her thoughts cleared.

And then a canteen of water was offered.

She took it and drank. At first the cool liquid stung her throat, but it was unnaturally absorbed into her body. With the canteen drained, Fiona stood to her feet feeling fully replenished. She had been on the brink of death, but Alpha had pulled her back.

He’d saved her.

“Praise be to Alpha,” she said, then knelt at his feet.

SEVENTY-FOUR

Washington, D.C.

FOR THE FIRST
time in a very long time, Duncan felt at peace. Some people experienced this feeling after quitting a stressful job, or breaking up with an overbearing partner. In every case the emotion experienced is the same: freedom.

“I can’t believe we did this,” Boucher said, staring at the flat-screen TV. The pair had holed up in the situation room because they couldn’t be seen together. Not now. Not for a very long time. To the rest of the world they were political enemies.

After watching Marrs call the press conference, Boucher had snuck back to the White House to watch the fireworks start.

Duncan looked at his CIA chief. “We did what needed to be done. It will all work out for the best.”

There was no arguing that. Duncan had thought of everything. And the world would be better off for it.

The last part of the plan required no paperwork. No signatures. No trail.

Black ops were like that sometimes.

And the Chess Team would become the blackest of all black ops. Their operating budget would be lessened, but still substantial and one hundred percent under the table. They would lose their all-access pass to military support, but they could operate with total anonymity and freedom. No red tape. No political repercussions. They would retain a flight crew from the Nightstalkers, two stealth Blackhawks, the
Crescent,
and a handpicked staff of scientists, weapons experts, and intelligence operatives. The former Manifold Alpha facility hidden beneath a mountain in New Hampshire’s White Mountain region would become their base of operations.

And no one, not even the future president of the United States, would know they existed. Outside of the expanded Chess Team, just Boucher and Keasling would know the truth.

Only one task remained unfinished. Duncan needed to assume his role as Deep Blue, permanently, and step down from his position as commander in chief. And for that to happen, Marrs had to fulfill his end of the deal.

Boucher switched on the wall-mounted TV and sat down on one of the couches. The press conference was just getting under way. The crowds from the recent rallies were all there cheering. And at first they were as fervent as ever. Even more so when Marrs launched into his claims. But when he offered his proof in the form of authentic documents and the future testimony of Dominick Boucher, the crowd fell silent. The reality of Duncan failing so miserably set in hard and took the wind out of their sails. Even Marrs looked sad.

“He doesn’t deserve it,” Boucher said. “He’s a sham. You know that, right?”

Duncan nodded. “But he served a purpose, albeit unknowingly.”

“A pawn?”

Duncan smiled. “Exactly.”

SEVENTY-FIVE

Severodvinsk, Russia

THE DOCKS WERE
quiet. For that, Rook was thankful. His host seemed far less excited. Burdened by the weight of his sister’s death, Maksim Dashkov was not in a cooperative mood. The old, red-nosed fisherman was built like the great Siberian brown bear, but he had a heart similar to his sister’s. He had openly wept for her in front of Rook, and had asked about the state of her cabin, how she survived the winters, and if she was happy. He expressed regret over having not seen her since the death of her husband, and told of hard winters and small hauls.

The pair stood on the old wooden fisherman’s dock. The sub yard sat about a mile away. Rook could see a docked Borei class submarine, probably rotating crews and getting resupplied. A patrol boat with a large mounted machine gun cruised back and forth, ever watchful.

Dashkov breathed into his hands. “Hard times have forced me to take on less than noble jobs in the past. And I assume that’s why Galya sent you to me.” He made a point of looking back at the security boat. Rook had been watching it a little too keenly.

“I’d like to avoid conflicts if possible, yes.”

“As would I,” Dashkov said. “Which is why I cannot do what you ask.”

Rook had explained, without going into detail, that he needed a quick and quiet trip out of Russia, destination Norway.

Rook frowned. “Why not?”

The large man sighed. “My ship has already been chartered.”

Rook knew he was asking a lot. It was clear that Dashkov and much of the city were hurting for money. He could promise to have money sent, but that’s all it was, a promise. Without money up front he was asking for a free ride.

Dashkov turned away and looked out at the gray ocean. “You seem like a good man, I’m sorry.”

“Put me to work, then,” Rook said. “Pass me off as a member of the crew.”

“I can’t afford a crew.”

“Does your charter know this?”

“No, but—”

Rook stood in front of Dashkov. “What are you afraid of?”

Dashkov took out a cigarette and lit it, sucking in the tobacco smoke and letting it out slowly. “These men, they are not like you. They are not good people.”

There was more to it than that. Rook waited.

“Sometimes I see things and look the other way. Understand?”

Rook did understand. The Chess Team had to do the same on occasion to serve the greater good. Deals with drug dealers, warlords, and gunrunners weren’t uncommon when fighting a greater enemy. “Then I will look the other way, too.”