Protocol 7 at-1 Page 10
She was used to the process. She had grown accustomed to it over the years.
There were many corridors and many doors; she was sure of that much. Sometimes the air was warm; sometimes there were sudden, chilling blasts that came across her bandaged face that made her shiver. There were many different hands guiding her-some as small as the little girl’s, others larger and with sharp nails, and still others thick and rough without intending to be, all guiding her from passage to passage.
It would not be long now, she knew.
She began to hear the echo of the chanting, even through the fabric that covered her ears. It grew louder as she moved down one last, straight corridor.
The hands disappeared the instant she passed into the ceremonial hall. She was alone now, blind and half-deaf. Now she could rely only on her memory and training: thirteen steps forward, turn to the right, two steps forward and one to the side. And on. And on. She had been taught this sequence long ago. She did not falter; she never had.
The humming vibrations of the chants grew louder as she moved through the sequence. The air felt colder than ever, but familiar, almost welcome. She could feel the chilled puddles of water under her feet. She was closer to the sacred space now. Much closer, once again in a room with others-others with whom she had communicated for years but never seen.
There was no society on Earth as obscure, as secretive, or as ancient as this. The ancient rite she was practicing at this moment had been practiced in just such a way, in just such a place, for millennia-for as long as there have been humans to perform it. They were here for a reason. They persisted to protect one of the most powerful secrets of all time, a secret passed down from generation to generation by a carefully chosen few.
She was privileged-blessed-to be the bearer of that secret.
She completed the sequence of steps, confident in her movement. She sank to her knees, still blinded, and put out her hands, fingers outstretched, palms down. She could feel intense cold radiating just below them.
The block of ice, she told herself. As always. In place.
She lowered her hands slowly and carefully and touched the frigid surface of the block. Unsurprised, fully prepared, she moved her hands down the block-top to bottom, left to right. There were forms carved in the ice in a language lost for millennia: her instructions, her new assignment. She would have time to read it only once before the block melted away, leaving nothing but cold water in its place.
For one instant, she felt a wild, nearly uncontrollable impulse to snatch the blindfold from her eyes, to look into the room, into the faces of her masters for the first time.
But that was not an option. It never was. She was the society’s instrument, its tool, and she would now be its weapon. And weapons did not make their own choices. They simply did what they were designed to do.
As she absorbed the instructions, as the ice melted beneath her trembling fingers, she knew how difficult this would be. It was, almost certainly, the last assignment she would be given. When the ritual was performed in this place again, as it certainly would be, there would be a new woman, a new acolyte, in her place.
She did not object. She did not speak.
There was an obscure marking on the back of her neck-the same one that all the members had-an ancient symbol tattooed on her when she was a young child. The geometric shape meant “the unspoken word” in a language that was nearly forgotten, and it was an indelible reminder of the First Rule: Never Speak of This.
She never did.
The last indentations in the ice melted away. The message had been delivered. She had read and understood. She was shivering slightly, from cold and revelation, as she stood, turned, and performed the memorized steps exactly in reverse, still sightless. Soon she found herself standing at the door, where a new set of hands touched her, drew her forward, and led her away from the Place of Silence.
Two hours later she boarded the same jet that brought her to Malta and returned to London. There were three men on the aircraft with her this time, but they did not speak to her. They didn’t even look directly at her as she entered the cabin. They were stern and fierce looking, as if they were her bodyguards. All were of ethnic decent, Mediterranean, with strong, dark features. The plane had not been in flight for more than thirty minutes before one of the three men held his hand over his ear, listening to the incoming message.
Two minutes later he spoke to the woman. “Seems our source has located the team. We’re not sure what’s been leaked, but I’m on top of it.”
“Careful,” the woman said, “We don’t want to blow the plan. I need to rendezvous inconspicuously. Need to know exactly where to meet.”
“We’re on it,” the man said. He spoke into the collar of his black suit as the other two watched, stoic like statues but dangerous looking. “Extract info-that is all,” he said. “No one remembers, and no one gets hurt.” He disconnected by tapping his collar.
The woman spent the trip staring out the window as Western Europe passed silently beneath her.
This, she knew, would be no ordinary mission.
OXFORD, ENGLAND
Samantha's Flat
The stranger entered Samantha’s building using a simple lock pick, a close variation on a design that had been used by burglars for centuries. He did it absolutely silently, without so much as the skirl of metal on metal. A separate device in his pocket, no larger than a golf ball, automatically countered the security systems that should have alerted her of an intruder. No lights flashed; no alarms sounded.
He slipped up to the third floor like a shadow.
Samantha had been exhausted by everything that had happened the day before. First the phone calls from her friends, then that incredible conversation at the Stanton, and finally the dinner at Ryan’s. It had drained her completely. She had actually dozed off still fully clothed, toothbrush in hand.
She didn’t even flinch as the stranger opened the door to her flat and slipped inside, closing it silently and securely behind him.
He moved swiftly and with deadly purpose. Within seconds, he was standing over her bed, where she lay in a deep sleep. He smiled with utter confidence as his gloved hand reached into the pocket of his jacket and withdrew a square white cloth folded double. It was already soaked with a foul-smelling liquid.
The stranger snapped it over her mouth so swiftly, so securely, she scarcely had time to react. Her first panic-stricken intake of breath pulled the foul smell into her lungs. It was already too late.
Samantha tried to resist, but the strength of his hand was simply too much. In the space of five heartbeats she fell back onto the bedcovers, unconscious. A moment later the stranger pulled a circular bit of plastic from his pocket-a medication induction patch, standard issue in every hospital across Europe-and slapped it onto the side of her neck.
Samantha would be ready to answer any question he asked within five minutes.
He would be gone in ten.
OXFORD, ENGLAND
Simon's Apartment
Simon was so exhausted he almost fell asleep in Jonathan’s car on the way back to his flat, and he had to rouse himself as Jonathan pulled into his driveway and let him out.
“Tomorrow,” he said, and Jonathan agreed, clearly as beat as Simon himself. His old friend had backed the car down the driveway and off into the night before Simon had made it to the entrance.
He took a moment to breathe in the clean, cool pre-dawn air. The rain had passed, at least for the moment, and though he was weary beyond belief, he felt strangely calm.
It had been a good meeting. Now he had a plan, crazy as it was. And a team of people he could trust. And…
And there was something wrong here.
The first hint came as he entered the lobby of his apartment. The regular greeting at the door was silent, which was highly unusual. The attendant was not there. He looked around as he started to walk upstairs, but nothing else seemed out of the ordinary until he reached his own front door.
His front door was ajar by half an inch.
“What the…” he mumbled. He pushed the door open completely and rushed in.
The living room was an utter mess. I’ve been burglarized, he thought as he stopped and surveyed the damage. But then he noticed that his antiques, though upset or rearranged, were still in the room, and many of his collectibles were actually still in their places. How can the place be such a mess, he wondered, if nothing was taken?
He walked over piles of books lying on the floor and called out. “Fae? What happened?”
Silence.
“Fae? What the hell…?”
He stopped by the end table next to his favorite chair and tapped the holo-display, trying to bring it to life. It sprang up without difficulty, and he accessed the icon that should have brought his household AI to the forefront…
…but the icon shivered to digital dust at the touch of his fingers. He tried to recover it; he checked his archives and backups.
It was useless. Fae, who had served as his loyal assistant for more than five years, had been thoroughly fried.
He gaped at the display for five heartbeats, trying to understand what had happened. Then he looked at the ceiling, thinking about his library upstairs. “Damn it,” he said and dashed to the stairs, taking the steps two at a time.
The library was destroyed: artwork, charts, data plaques, and discs were scattered all over the floor. Every cabinet had been emptied, every drawer overturned; every one of his books had been thrown off the shelves.
“Who would do this?” he said out loud. “Who-”
He suddenly grew stone cold.
“Jake,” he said.
He turned to the hallway door and dashed back into the hall.
“Jake!” He ran back downstairs shouting, “Jake, Jake! Come on boy, where are you?”
He checked under the tables, behind the sofa, trying not to shake as his body went cold. “Jake, come on boy!” He even pushed at the furniture that was far too small for Jake to hide under, desperate for a clue. Finally, he rushed to the bathroom, the last door he hadn’t opened. He almost broke the handle in his frantic rush to get inside.
The door flew open and slammed against the wall, revealing Jake, dazed and tied up on the floor, wrapped in tight silvery loops of duct tape.
Simon fell to his knees and put his arms around the Great Dane, impossibly grateful the dog was still alive. “Jesus, who the hell would do this to you?” he said as he pried at the bonds.
Jake whined as Simon gently opened the duct tape around the dog’s muzzle. Anger swelled in him, but he forced himself to keep his voice low and comforting as he kissed the dog and murmured in its ear. “It’s okay, boy,” he said. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, it’s okay.”
He checked every inch of the room and pulled the tape away from the animal’s paws. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary; nothing revealed who had broken into his home or what they were looking for.
With the last of the tape pulled away, Simon stood and dashed out of the bathroom, determined to continue his search. Jake grumbled and struggled to compose his clumsy limbs, equally determined to follow his master as he always did.
Simon went through the whole apartment a second time, this time with even greater attention, but he could find nothing missing. After twenty minutes, he flopped down on the sofa in frustration and buried his head in his hands. Who would do this? he asked himself again, trying to quell his rising anger and failing miserably. Why?
Jake tottered into the room, his doggy expression made up of equal parts shame and curiosity. “Hey, buddy,” Simon told him. “Do you know who got in here?” Jake tilted his head and opened his warm brown eyes even wider than usual. Simon was suddenly happier than ever that his companion hadn’t been hurt…or worse. He patted the cushion next to him and said, “Come on over here, you big potato. Come on.”
Jake didn’t climb onto the couch. He just lumbered across the room, put his massive head in his master’s lap, and gave him a huge sigh, long and deep. Simon stroked the short, dense fur on the crown of Jake’s head and said, “It’s okay, buddy. It’s okay. I knew you were never much of a guard dog.”
He looked blindly at the chaos around him and tried to make sense of it. It couldn’t be a straight and simple break-in; nothing of any value had been taken. It wasn’t simple vandalism, either; everything had been tossed around, but nothing had been broken or defaced. Jake cocked an eye at him, as if to say I agree. Simon watched as the wounded dog lifted his head and turned away, moving slowly and a little painfully out of the room and into the kitchen. Clearly, he hadn’t fully recovered from being tied up for hours; he was looking for something to eat and drink.
Simon rose and walked behind him. “I know you’re sore, Jake. Let me get you-”
The realization stopped him cold. It was so obvious: they were looking for something. It wasn’t burglary or vandalism-it was a search. That’s why they had killed the AI. That’s why they had overturned every single drawer.
And he was willing to bet what they were looking for was what he had been carrying in his coat pocket all along-since the moment Jonathan gave it to him.
He pulled out the hand-bound chess diary with one hand and the bulky, awkward “safe” phone with his other. Clumsily, he worked the foreign keyboard, finally sending a single-word text to Jonathan: “Urgent.”
Jonathan called him back immediately. He hadn’t even reached his hotel. “What’s up?” he asked, sounding tired and a little miffed at being bothered so soon after he’d left.
“My flat has been tossed,” he said without preamble, quietly. “They had to be looking for the diary.”
“Shit.” Jonathan tapped the break and swung his rental car into a U-turn. “They know. Somehow, they know.”
Dread was like a fist full of ice in his stomach, but Simon pushed the sensation away. “We’re going to have to move even faster than we thought,” he said. “I’m the most obvious target, but any-”
There was a raucous beep in his ear. He pulled the phone from his ear and glared at it. Samantha’s number was glowing in the screen. He stopped cold, realizing the danger everyone could be in.
“I’ve got to call Sam,” he told Jonathan, “make sure she’s okay.”
“Never mind. I’ll be there in five minutes.”
Simon hung up and dialed Sam’s number. “Come on, Sam. Pick up,” he urged the ringing phone. But she didn’t pick up. He tried again. Still no answer. “Something is wrong,” Simon said redialing Sam, over and over.
He had to go to her. Now. But he had to do one other thing first. He had to take care of Jake.
Moving as fast as he could, Simon snatched Jake’s leash from its hook by the door and snapped it onto the dog’s collar. “Come on, buddy,” he said softly. “Let’s go see Mrs. Elli.”
Her door was straight across the hall from Simon’s, and Jake went willingly. Simon had no time for explanations. He tied Jake’s leash to the handle of his neighbor’s door and kissed his companion on the head. He knew that Jake would be safe with Mrs. Ellingsworth. That was all that mattered. He rang the bell and disappeared in two seconds. He didn’t know when he would see his Jake again. He had no time and no strength to look back. Simon gave up on dialing and ran to find her. Jake looked on as the form of his master’s body and scent faded into the hallway and down the steps.
OXFORD, ENGLAND
Samantha's Flat
A distant ringing faded and Samantha’s eyes snapped open. She lurched into a sitting position, gasping as if she had been touched by a live wire. Her head was pounding; her bedroom spun around her. She clutched at the bedclothes as a powerful wave of nausea surged through her. The safe phone faced away from her on the side table; Simon’s missed call disappeared from the screen.
The last thing she remembered was a shadowy man standing over her. Then a stinking cloth slammed over her mouth, so tightly she could
n’t breathe. There was a struggle, and then…
Nothing. Nothing until this moment, still in her clothes from last night, in agony as the room wheeled around her.
She couldn’t remember what had happened or who that may have been. She had a strong sense that she had spoken to him, or vice versa. She half-remembered a voice, but she had no real recollection, no idea what she might have said or what she might have been told. And when she tried to think of it, when she concentrated on the moments after that ghostly stranger stood over her, she could see only one thing-the man’s lithe frame.
She pushed away the half-memory and the nausea, fighting to think clearly.
She had to tell Simon. He would know what to do, how to help.
She took a breath and called to her AI. “Hollis? Call-”
— and she stopped herself. Why didn’t my security systems work last night? she suddenly asked herself. Where was Hollis? Was the system compromised? And what about the phone lines now?
Simon had given them all those silly, old-fashioned phones at Ryan’s house last night. Maybe she should-
“Call whom, Doctor?”
“No one,” she said, thinking it through. “Never mind.”
She reached to the side table, picking up the cell phone Simon had given her. She knew she could use it safely. She had to tell him what had happened. Ask for help. But she stopped, her hand an inch away from the phone.
She felt confused and began to reconsider. If she did indeed tell him what had happened, she knew what would happen next: she would be cut out of his plan to find Oliver. She’d be left isolated and alone. Too big a security risk, they would say. Compromised. And the others would go off without her. She wouldn’t be there to help them, wouldn’t be able to protect Simon. And she knew, she was positive, he was going to need her more than once-more than ever-in the difficult days to come.
What else could she do? She thought looking around her immediate surroundings, then decided Simon needed to know. Otherwise, he may be in more danger if she didn’t tell him.