Extinction Machine

Chapter Forty-eight

Turkey Point Lighthouse, Elk Neck State Park

Cecil County, Maryland

Sunday, October 20, 10:14 a.m.

The inside of the cottage was a wonderful mess. It was clean but a long way from neat, and the way in which the living room was arranged seemed to suggest that there were at least two distinct sides to Junie Flynn. One half of the room was given over to big squashy armchairs, comfortably lumpy couches, brightly colored throw rugs, endless decorative pillows, tables piled high with art and craft magazines, a half-finished macramé bedspread, and hardwood stacked haphazardly by a massive stone fireplace still cluttered with cold ashes. Christmas lights framed the windows and ran along the edges of the walls even though this was still October. Or perhaps they were last year’s lights never taken down. The floors were polished wood covered by overlapping rugs with Navajo and Turkish weaves. A guitar stood against the hearth and various handmade instruments—a buffalo horn, a tube zither, reed pipes, tongue drums, and several brightly colored BaTonga Budima Drums. In one small glass-fronted cabinet were dozens of packs of tarot cards, some new and some very old. The decks were interspersed with crystals and semiprecious stones. Deep purple amethyst, yellow citrine, dark blue lapis lazuli that was flecked with red, golden tiger eye, watermelon tourmaline, and sky-blue turquoise. These were quality pieces and even though they were indoors they seemed to radiate light that was as rich as the bright sunshine outside.

If that was all that I saw of this woman’s home I would not have been surprised. It was in keeping with her garden, her manner of dress, and her apparent lifestyle. A dull and unimaginative person might dismiss her as one of those soft, fringe people, a latter-day hippie, a child of the New Age.

The other half of the room showed a different aspect of Junie Flynn; a separation so dramatic that it suggested a true dichotomy, or perhaps a mind in schism. Still too early to tell. There was a functional desk on which was a high-end ruggedized laptop, laser printer, scanner, podcasting equipment that included a good camera on a tripod and a quality microphone. There were six steel file cabinets in a neat row, and a side table on which was a wire sorting rack filled with neatly arranged papers. The chair tucked into the desk was a leather business model similar to the kind I had in my own office. Everything was neat and precise and functional.

Standing between the two halves of the room, almost as a deliberate bridge between them or a doorway from one to the other, was a tall bookshelf crammed with books on every subject: physics, astronomy, linguistics, symbology, politics, genetics, molecular biology, engineering, religion, and medicine. The walls directly adjacent to the bookcase were covered, floor to ceiling, with framed pictures of Egyptian cartouches, a semaphore signaler, an obviously blind woman touching the face of a child, Maori body art, strange animals carved as geoglyphs into the hardpan of a Peruvian desert, and even crop circles.

There were two things that made me go “hmmmm.” Standing neatly side by side near the front door was a bulging suitcase; and leaning against the wall just inside the doorway was a good old-fashioned Louisville slugger.

I nodded to the suitcase. “Planning on going somewhere?”

“I was going to drive up to Philly, my friend just had a baby.” She was a pretty good liar, but not a great one.

“Glad I caught you,” I said. “And the baseball bat?”

She shrugged. “I live alone.”

“You didn’t bring it with you when you went outside to meet me. A guy you thought was here to kill you.”

“I didn’t really think you were here for that,” she said with a laugh.

“Oh? What tipped you off? My boyish good looks? Crinkly blue-eyed smile?”

She plucked at the sleeve of my Orioles shirt. “The kind of killers the government sends dress better.”

“Hey, I’ll have you know this is a genuine 1983 World Series away-game shirt.”

“Okay.”

“Tippy Martinez wore this shirt when he got the save against the Phillies in game four!”

“Tippy who?”

“My dad gave me this shirt when I turned eighteen.”

“Your face is turning red.”

“Baseball,” I said, the way most people say “religion.”

“Baseball seems like a lot of time with men standing around spitting tobacco and scratching their crotches. I like football. Things happen in football.”

Before I could construct a properly devastating reply, Junie waved me toward the couch. “Sit.”

“I’d like to set up a video conference call,” I said, hefting the case I’d brought. “Okay with you?”

“Sure. You can set up on the coffee table. Just push the magazines and stuff onto the floor.” She vanished into the kitchen.

I set the case down but instead of opening it I stepped to the far side of the living room and pulled out my cell to call Church. When he answered I said, “Where do we stand?”

“Nothing new,” he said. “Have you made contact with the Flynn woman?”

“With her now. She’s a bit paranoid, thought I was here to kill her.”

“That’s interesting,” said Church. “Try not to do that.”

“Very funny. I’ll patch you in as soon I’ve prepped her.”

I disconnected, sat down and opened the MindReader substation. It had a powerful satellite uplink, a 128-bit cyclic encryption system, and a battery good for forty-eight hours.

Junie came in carrying a tray of cups and fixings, which she set down on the edge of the coffee table. I covertly watched her eyes take in the sophisticated machine. Her appraisal was cool and I saw the tiniest lift of one appreciative eyebrow.

“My tax dollars at work?”

“Nope,” I said. “This system is privately owned and its use is loaned at no charge to Uncle Sam under very restricted circumstances.”

Junie poured tea from a Japanese pot decorated with cherry blossoms, selected a fat slice of lemon and squeezed the juice through the steam. I accepted the cup, sniffed, took an experimental sip. The tea was far richer than I expected, and it swirled with several flavors that I could almost but not quite identify.

“Delicious,” I said, setting the cup aside.

“What’s your dog’s name?”

“Ghost.”

“Ah,” she said, nodding. “That figures.”

“Pardon?”

“He can see spirits. This place is haunted.”

“Okay,” I said, mostly because how else do you reply to a comment like that? It didn’t help that Ghost sat beside the couch staring at the empty air across the room. He turned his head slowly as if watching someone idly strolling from the window to the front door. I wanted to tell him to knock it the hell off. “I thought this house was brand new. The old one burned down, right?”

“This house is a hundred and sixteen years old. It was dismantled and brought here from Cape May, New Jersey.”

“That sounds expensive. Why bother?”

She looked puzzled. “Why not?”

“Good point.”

“So, why are you looking for the Majestic Black Book?”

“That’s—”

“Classified?” Her smile was very charming and a few degrees below freezing. “Have a safe flight back, Joe. I can put your tea in a travel mug.”

“Hey, it’s not a joke. This is an actual matter of grave national importance. No bullshit.”

She snorted.

“You don’t believe me?” I asked.

“You’re with the government,” she said, as if that said it all.

“Wow, cynical.”

“I tried naive faith in all people but that became a drag.”

“You’re paranoid, too.”

“I prefer the term ‘realist,’” she said. “Surely you’re not going to tell me that the government has never spied on its citizens, denied them their rights, violated their constitutional and civil rights … et cetera. You’re not going to go there, are you, Joe?”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

Ghost was watching this exchange like a spectator at a Wimbledon match.

“Maybe I’m going about this the wrong way,” I conceded. “How’s this—I’d like to hire you as a paid consultant.”

“A consultant on the Black Book.”

“Sure,” I said. “On the book and where I can find a copy.”

“Paid?”

“Yes.”

“How much?”

I shrugged. “What’s your standard fee?”

“You couldn’t afford it,” Junie said with a sour laugh.

“I have pretty deep pockets.”

“You still couldn’t afford it.”

I sipped my tea. “Try me. What’s your price?”

“The truth,” said Junie Flynn.

“Ah … now that is expensive.”

“And nonnegotiable.”

“Even though this is a matter of—”

“Grave national importance,” she finished. “Yes, you said that. But how can I believe there’s any crisis at all unless you tell me the truth?”

I sat back and crossed my legs. “How would you know that I am telling the truth?”

“I’d know.”

“I’m a very good liar,” I said. “It’s a professional requirement. You know, working for the Man, and all.”

“I’d know,” she insisted. She didn’t lay into it, she wasn’t selling it. She was telling me.

“What? Can you read minds?”

“Not in the way you’re thinking. It’s more empathy than telepathy. I don’t know what people are thinking, but I can tell if they’re being honest or not.”

“That’s a useful skill.”

“Yes,” she said. “Though often disappointing and disheartening.”

“I’ll bet.”

We sipped our tea.

“Even if I can meet your price,” I said, “it doesn’t mean that I can tell you everything.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to,” said Junie, “but I don’t want to be lied to.”

“Guess I can promise that much. If there’s something I can’t say, I won’t.” I set my cup down. “So … what is it you want to know?”

She blew out her cheeks. “Lots of things. Everything. I guess the first thing, though, is why there’s such a rush to get the Black Book? Why right now? It’s been around for years.”

A dozen lies and two dozen variations on the truth occurred to me, but what I said was, “Someone has cooked up a pretty damn good way to extort the United States. A lot of people could die and the country would never recover. Never. Because of certain circumstances related to this matter, we believe that this is a credible threat.”

“How does the Black Book play into that?”

“Apparently, that’s the price to keep America safe. We obtain the book for them and they don’t make good on their threat.”

“I thought America didn’t negotiate with terrorists.”

“That’s really more of a guideline than a rule,” I confessed. “It’s all a matter of what kind of leverage they have. Threatening to blow up a school bus or release anthrax into a Grand Central Station is one thing. Bad as those events would be, the disaster would be, to a degree, containable.”

“What about all those lives?”

“We’re at war, Junie,” I said, and it hurt my mouth to say those words. “And for all practical purposes the nature of war has changed. It isn’t a matter of who can put the biggest army in the field. The Taliban taught us that, just as they taught the Russians before us. War is about threat, leverage, bribery, duplicity, subterfuge, and political gain.”

“Wow,” she said softly, “you’re really not lying to me.”

“No.”

“It takes a lot to tell the truth.”

“I get my strength through purity.”

“Just like Lancelot.” She cocked her head to one side. “Didn’t he steal the girl and betray his best friend, though?”

“Best not to look too closely at heroes,” I suggested. “They often have feet of clay.”

“Very sad, but also very true.” She pursed her lips. “What kind of threat are we talking about? And using what leverage? A terrorist bomb? Anthrax?”

There was no way I was allowed to answer that question. I could get fired. I could get locked up. But … sometimes, with some people, you simply have to take a chance.

“They’ve threatened to cause a mega-tsunami in the Canary Islands that would totally destroy the coastlines of Africa, Great Britain, and the eastern United States.”

“Cumbre Vieja,” she said automatically.

I leaned forward and very quietly asked, “Now, how the hell do you know that?”





Interlude Four

Hotel Riu Palace Aruba

J. E. Irausquin Boulevard 79

Palm Beach, Aruba

Six years ago

Erasmus Tull knocked on the door of room 67, waited for ten seconds. Knocked again.

When there was no answer, he leaned close to the door, listening for sounds from inside the room. There was a faint mutter of voices on a television turned low. Nothing else.

Tull knocked one more time.

Nothing.

The hallway was empty. Most of the tourists were baking by the pool or crammed into faux pirate ships on the way out to prime snorkeling spots. Late morning was the deadest time in a resort hotel, especially on floors reserved for time-share swaps. The cleaning staff only came here by appointment and the mass exodus that required extensive cleaning wouldn’t happen until Friday afternoon.

Nevertheless Tull waited for a full minute to make sure the hall would remain empty before he dug a small device from his pocket. It was about the size of an old Zippo lighter but had no visible moving parts. At a glance—and even on close inspection—it looked like a piece of metal. Aluminum or magnesium. Something pale and light.

Tull moved close to the electronic door lock, using his body to shield it from view as he pressed the blunt edge of the metal right below the keycard slot. There was no sound at all from the device he held, but the light on the card reader shifted from red to green and there was a faint click.

Easy as pie, he thought as he gently body-blocked the door open, careful not to touch the handle or wood with his hands. The door swung inward and Tull stepped quickly and cautiously into the room.

“Mr. London?” he called.

The man he was there to meet, Thomas London, was a broker of some note on the international technologies scene. London was in his late sixties and had navigated the treacherous waters of the black market ocean since his boyhood apprenticeship with father, brothers, and uncles. If something with wires, gears, circuits, or hard drives was needed and there were no conventional means of obtaining said item, the London Brothers could get it for you. Quickly, cleanly, discreetly, and at a good price.

Tull’s employers, the three governors of M3, had authorized Tull to reach out to the Londons in order to obtain an exceedingly rare and extremely valuable piece of debris. Thomas and Tull met four separate times to haggle over price for the item, the purchase being complicated by the presence of other bidders who were—as London put it—very aggressive and passionate.

Competition creates a seller’s market, and the price skyrocketed from its initial $1.2 million to its current $4.5 million.

Even at that amount, Tull thought it was a bargain. After all, this was not a top-quality facsimile—which abounded on the market—or one of the damaged items that circulate and circulate, waiting for the unwary enthusiast to snap them up. No, this piece was very nearly perfect. A few minor dents and some scorching. Operationally sound, though, and that was all that mattered.

Or, rather, as far as M3 and Tull knew at the time, that was all that mattered.

They would later learn hard lessons about the dangers of using D-type components with any surface damage.

Tull stepped aside to let the door swing closed behind him.

He immediately dropped the metal device into a pocket and darted his hand under his jacket to pull his gun.

Thomas London lay sprawled on the floor. Most of him. Some of him was on the bed, and some was spilled out onto the balcony. The walls and carpet and drapes were painted with blood. Tull stared at the carnage, his mouth suddenly going paste-dry. London was not merely dead—he had been destroyed. Torn apart.

Blood dripped from the lampshade and a pool of it spread out beneath each ragged piece.

Realization shot through Tull’s shocked brain in a microsecond.

Blood dripped. It still pooled. In a dismembered corpse. That could only happen if the slaughter had taken place seconds ago.

Tull threw himself to one side, turning in midair, bringing his gun up toward the corner as the closet door swung open. He did not see the killer; all he saw was the snout of a weird-looking pistol.

Both guns fired at the same time.

Tull felt a blast of superheated air scorch past him as if some monstrous fire demon had exhaled at him. The lamp on the bedside table exploded into a thousand fragments and the tabletop split down the middle.

But there was no second shot from that strange gun.

The gunman sagged slowly down to his knees, canting forward in slow motion as he toppled bonelessly out of the closet, the gun clattering from his hand. A red hole glistened in center of the man’s chest and a bloody bubble expanded from the hole and then popped as the man fell forward onto his face.

Tull lay on the carpet, gun held in both hands, staring at the dead man.

“Jesus Christ,” he gasped, and abruptly drank in a huge lungful of air.

He scrambled to his feet, aware that his shoulder and thigh were smeared with blood. Not his own, but still hot.

He hurried over to check that there no other surprises. The bathroom was clear. So was the balcony. He was alone in the room with two dead men.

Thomas London was barely recognizable. There were enough parts to add up to a human being, but the damage was so severe that the police would need to use DNA or dental records.

The other man was another matter. Tull rolled him over. The killer was Asian; though Tull didn’t think he looked Chinese. Possibly Korean. Slim, wearing the uniform of a hotel maintenance man, but when Tull checked his pockets he found a wallet belonging to another man, a local, who did indeed work at the hotel. That man was also dead somewhere, Tull thought. The only thing in the killer’s clothes that did not appear to belong to the genuine maintenance man was a thick bundle jammed down into the left front trouser pocket. It was the size of a large bar of chocolate.

Tull hastily opened it and when he saw what it was, he let out a huge lungful of air.

“Thank God,” he murmured.

The stabilizer.

One of the rarest D-type components of the Device, the one most often damaged during a crash or misfire.

Howard Shelton would be so happy.

Though admittedly less so for the loss of an important contact like Thomas London.

Tull rewrapped the component and slipped it into an inner pocket of his jacket. Then he bent and retrieved the odd-looking pistol. It was far lighter than he expected, and badly designed. Square and clunky. Instead of a barrel opening there were four prongs at the business end. Tull glanced down at London and over at the destroyed lamp, and he remembered the blast of heat.

He took a cell phone from his pocket and hit a speed dial.

When it was answered, Tull said, “This is a secure line.”

“Very well,” said Howard. “How did it go?”

Tull told him.

“That’s unfortunate,” said Howard. “And the component?”

“Secured.”

“Thank God.” The governor put so much emphasis on the last word that it came out like a prayer from a devout supplicant. Tull thought that was as accurate a picture of this man as any he’d had. To Howard, the Device was God, and the arduous process of obtaining D-type components were quests to obtain relics. What did that make him, he wondered—Percival?

“We’re getting so close,” breathed Howard. “We’re going to do this and we’re going to change the world.”

“Save it, you mean,” corrected Tull.

“Of course. Save it. That’s what I meant.”