Author: James R. Hannibal
Category: Thriller
Go to read content：https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/james-r-hannibal/page,17,59578-shadow_maker.html
“It’s been sixty-one minutes since I last heard your voice. The colonel has been pinging me every five to find out if you’re dead or alive. You have no idea the kind of stress you’re putting me through.”
“My sympathies. What about the virus at Paternoster Square?”
“Only the cyber kind.”
“Are you sure?” argued Drake. “We don’t know that the explosions weren’t the delivery method. This is how zombie apocalypses get started. You don’t know you’re infected until it’s too late. One minute you’re remembering Bert and Ernie. The next you’re an undead freak. Maybe that’s what’s going through every zombie’s head. On the outside they’re all gore and brain-munching rage but on the inside it’s ‘Rubber ducky you’re the one—’”
“Do you see what I’ve had to put up with?” interrupted Scott.
“You’re fine, Two. The target is DC, remember? Besides, the bioweapon isn’t the second sign. It’s the third.” Nick closed his eyes and visualized the translated verses from the catacombs. “The Hashashin listed four signs before the return of the Mahdi. The messenger on the plain of the great empire was the suicide bomber on the DC Mall. The marketplace in turmoil is this cyberattack. It was the third verse that talked about pestilence and disease. That has to be the bioweapon, and that’s what’s coming next. They’re getting progressively worse.”
“There were four signs,” said Drake. “So there’s one more after the bio-attack. What’s worse than that?”
“Only one thing.” Drake’s point worried Nick. They had no leads beyond the third sign. “Four, have CJ go back over the evidence and look for links to the fourth sign, the sky of molten brass and the black smoke.”
“Will do.”
As the fogginess wore off, Nick became aware of a distinctive pain in his left arm. “Sixty-one minutes. That’s way too long to be knocked out from a simple blow to the head.”
Drake confirmed his suspicions. “You were drugged. That plainclothes bobby hijacked an EMT on our way to the paddy wagon. He had the kid inject a sedative into your arm, citing some regulation about ‘excited delirium.’”
“I’m going to kill him.”
“We have to get out of here first.”
“Right. Four, where is Romeo Seven on securing our release?”
“About that,” said Scott, dragging out the words. “Getting you out is proving more difficult than we thought.”
CHAPTER 39
Washington, DC
Capitol Hill
No one summoned Colonel Richard T. Walker. Usually he informed the Joint Chiefs of an impending threat and went straight to the Pentagon. Occasionally the chairman or the White House notified him of a potential situation and scheduled a meeting. But no one had ever summoned Walker. Not until today.
The colonel sat fuming on a leather chair in a dim anteroom paneled with dark oak, waiting to see Senator Cartwright like a Virginia cadet waiting to see the commandant. He sat with his back rigid, refusing to relax because the chair’s tightly stuffed cushion made an unfortunate sound every time he shifted his weight. He would not give the senator the satisfaction of making him look awkward.
Walker did not have time for this idiocy. A biological weapon was adrift in the terrorist nethersphere, and the team he sent to find it had been locked up by some two-bit Cockney cop. Now his team’s Interpol covers had suddenly evaporated from the system. He should be running down the glitch and securing their release instead of running up to the Hill like an errand boy. The senator’s office had not even given him the courtesy of a reason, but he had a pretty good idea.
The first explosions of the London attack had occurred at 0910 hours Eastern Standard Time. Thanks to Dr. Scott Stone’s frantic SATCOM report, Walker knew about it within thirty seconds. The network news stations knew almost as quickly.
Molly’s team of intelligence techs could barely keep up with the incoming reports as an unprecedented video timeline developed. Smartphones and tablets captured the events from the first quakes within Fishman Zeller to the moment the great column heaved up out of the square and crashed down onto the London Stock Exchange. Sky News released a dramatic tablet video in which the impromptu cameraman was thrown from one of the atrium bridges by the quaking. The tablet captured the young accountant’s terrified face as he tumbled four stories to the granite floor, surrounded in the eerie freefall by shards of broken glass. A less-disturbing video showed an unknown hero carrying a woman out of the building through a billowing dust cloud. It was a miracle that his face remained hidden.
The TV hanging in one corner of the anteroom showed a live feed of emergency crews pulling bodies out of the rubble while a talking head babbled on in morbid appreciation of this new terrorist art—blending the physical destruction with the virtual.
The talking head explained that the virus, now called the Second Sign Virus by network consensus, targeted key commodities and banks on the London Stock Exchange. It worked subtly, artificially nudging some prices down and others up until it triggered a wave of automatic trades. That wave triggered another, more serious wave, and then another, and the digital snowball picked up speed.
Millions of transactions took place in the first minute alone, driving bank stocks and gold into the ground and oil through the roof. Then the snowball leaped across the Atlantic and hit New York as well. The Americans shut their markets down, but the damage was done. Within a few minutes, the Second Sign Virus had caused the single greatest destruction of wealth the world had ever seen. The talking head predicted falling markets across the globe for weeks to come, with losses reaching into the trillions. A well-timed ticker floating across the screen noted that three suicides had already been reported.
As the video switched to a leggy brunette asking the expert a question he had already answered, the senator’s door opened. A stocky gentleman with thick white hair and a disingenuous smile emerged. “Ah, Colonel Walker,” he said in an overstated Virginia accent, “I’m so glad you made it.”
Walker stood without so much as a squeak from the chair and took the senator’s offered hand. “I was not under the impression that I had a choice.”
“Very direct, sir.” The senator motioned Walker into his office. “Very direct. I was told to expect that.”
Moving from the dark oak paneling of the anteroom to the sunlit ivory walls and blond furniture of the senator’s office gave Walker the impression of emerging from a dank cave into fresh air. He knew this was intentional. He had once played similar games with his own office at the Pentagon. The senator offered him a seat—a twin of the overstuffed chair outside except for the lighter color of the leather. Walker opted to stand.
Cartwright shrugged and sat down on the edge of his desk. “I often find that I am disadvantaged when it comes to first impressions,” he said, opening his hands. “My life is an open book, always on public display. You must feel that you already know all about me.”
“Only what I see on the news,” Walker lied. In truth, Molly’s team had started digging into Cartwright’s background the minute the politician had started harassing CJ. Their report was worrisome to say the least.
The liberal senator from Virginia had served his state in that capacity since 2002, but he had not made his mark on the national stage until recently, elbowing his way into the limelight of the second campaign by becoming the president’s most vocal supporter. Cartwright likely expected to be rewarded with a cabinet position for his loyalty. All he got was a seat on the Intelligence Oversight Committee and an occasional invitation to dine at the White House. The senator was not a major political player. He was a minor player with a lot of ambition, and that kind was often the most dangerous.
“Why am I here?” asked Walker, checking his watch. “With all due respect, sir, I have a lot on my plate and the drive back to my office isn’t exactly short.”
“So I noticed. You took quite
a while to get here. I was under the impression that you worked at the DIA’s Directorate of Analysis. Heading up Section Seven, was it?”
“Romeo Seven.”
“Right. But the DIA offices at Bowling are just a hop, skip, and a jump across the river—just a hop and a skip, really. Surely traffic wasn’t that bad at this hour of the day.”
“Romeo Seven is an off-site section. Our offices are in a different location.”
The senator raised a set of bushy eyebrows. “And that would be . . .”
Walker’s features remained a flat scowl.
Cartwright lightly punched the air with his fist and grinned. “G-14 classified. I get it.” He stood up and walked behind his desk, backlit by a broad window with the U.S. and Virginia flags on either side. He placed his hand on the high back of his chair. “Colonel, you do know that I have a top-secret clearance with multiple caveats, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir, and Romeo Seven is not one of them.” The colonel checked his watch again. The more time he wasted here, the longer Baron and Merigold would sit idle in a British jail. “Again, why did you call me here?”
Cartwright nodded. “Very direct.” He picked up a small remote and pointed it at the flat-screen TV that hung over his faux mantel. The muted feed from CNN blinked and became a paused video. Walker recognized the image of Baron with the woman slung over his shoulder. “Do you know this man?” asked Cartwright.
Walker cast a sidelong glance at the senator. Through all the subtle changes in Cartwright’s expression, that phony smile never faded from his lips. He could not read the mind behind it. “Hard to say.”
“Too true, what with his face hidden behind that young lady’s rump and all. Let’s see if I can fix that for you.” Cartwright clicked his remote and the video began to play, the same video Walker’s techs had recorded from the news stream. He wasn’t worried. The bystander would stop filming before Baron’s face came into view.
But the bystander did not stop filming. The video kept playing beyond where it had before. A man in an overcoat held up a badge and pointed a gun. The scene jostled around as the cameraman fiddled with the zoom to get the gunman’s face. Then it shifted back to Baron, who had just set the woman down. Merigold was next to him. Both of them raised their hands.
Cartwright paused the video. “This is a much better picture. How about now, Colonel? Do you know this man—the blond guy with the angry scowl?”
“Never seen him before.”
“Well, that is disappointing.” Cartwright came around his desk and stood between Walker and the screen. “I suppose you already know that I have a vested interest in these attacks.”
“Why would I know that?”
“Oh, right.” The senator touched the side of his nose. “G-14 classified. Okay, I’ll play along.” He walked over to the screen and scrutinized the men in the video, keeping his back to Walker. “One of my staffers was injured in the first attack, you know. He lost an eye.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Me too. Anyway, the injured party swears up and down that a blond man was on the scene right after that suicide bomber blew up on the Mall. That same blond fella refused to help him with his eye and even punched him.” Cartwright tapped the image of Baron. “Isn’t it funny that another blond fella, who matches the description of the first blond fella, appears here, smack in the middle of the second attack?”
Walker nodded. “That does seem suspicious.”
Cartwright turned from the TV and shook the remote at Walker. “You’re telling me, but it gets even more interesting.”
He pointed the remote over his shoulder and pressed play. On the screen, the constable flipped open Baron’s ID wallet. The bystander got a nice shot of the badge before a policeman waved his hands in front of the camera and the screen went black.
“Are you sure you don’t recognize that man?” asked Cartwright. “Last chance.”
“Positive.”
The senator nodded. “I know you have a lot of friends, Colonel. It seems that half this town owes you a favor, even though no one knows quite what section Romeo Seven does for the Defense Intelligence Agency’s Directorate of Analysis.”
Walker raised one eyebrow. “We analyze stuff. Mostly intelligence.”
“That’s clever.” Cartwright carefully set the remote down, squaring it with the side of his desk as he spoke. “I have friends too—like the one at CNN who kept that blond fella’s face off the television. You’re welcome. Another friend told me that the Brits were pinging State about two American Interpol agents named Nicholas Stafford and Drake Martignetti.” He stepped around the front of the desk, moving closer to Walker. “Turns out Stafford and Martignetti each have a very authentic-looking file. One problem: not a single person at American Interpol has ever heard of them.”
The smirk abruptly vanished and Cartwright glared at Walker, pointing an accusing finger at his chest, millimeters from his pressed green shirt. “Here’s what I think, Colonel. I think those are your men, not Interpol’s. I think you’re running your own covert war out there, and civilians are getting killed in the crossfire.” He backed up and narrowed his eyes. “Your friend at the FBI can only stonewall me for so long. The Intelligence Oversight Committee will be conducting an investigation into these attacks, and we will be looking into Romeo Seven.”
“Romeo Seven isn’t under your committee,” said Walker, matching the senator’s scowl with his own. “You don’t have the authority.”
Cartwright nodded. “We’ll see, Colonel. We’ll see.” He sat down on the edge of his desk again and the phony smile returned. “In the meantime I’ve had Interpol deactivate the Stafford and Martignetti files. I guess those two boys are on their own.”
CHAPTER 40
London, United Kingdom
New Scotland Yard
The Brits were disappointingly unimaginative with their interrogation room. A folding table surrounded by sickly yellow walls—one with a large two-way mirror—and an obvious microphone suspended from the ceiling. Nick had hoped for more from Scotland Yard. He had ordered Scott to mute the earpiece signals to avoid any chance of the Brits detecting them. Now that he saw the unsophisticated facilities, he realized that measure probably wasn’t necessary. A uniformed bobby led him around the table, sat him down on a stool, and then took up a position at his shoulder, silently staring at the door.
“So, what are you in for?” asked Nick, glancing up.
The bobby said nothing. He kept his eyes level.
“You used to work the gate at Buckingham Palace, right? I almost didn’t recognize you without the fuzzy hat.”
Still nothing.
“Were you born without a personality, or did you have it surgically removed when you joined the force?”
The bobby finally reacted, looking down at Nick and pursing his lips. Then his eyes returned to the door.
While Nick was searching for some other way to harass the uniform, his interrogator entered the room, the same plainclothes superbobby from the square. He carried a file packed with papers.
“You clubbed me over the head and then drugged me,” said Nick. “Do you know how dangerous that was?”
The plainclothesman shut the door. “You stole my service weapon and fired it in a public square. Do you know how dangerous that was?”
Nick’s eyes narrowed. “You might want to start collecting job ads, Constable.”
“It’s Detective Sergeant, actually. Detective Sergeant Thomas Mercer, SO15, and you are?”
“Wasting time, here. Release me so I can find the people responsible for Paternoster Square.”
Mercer shook his head. “No, mate, you got your lines all wrong. This is the part where you say ‘Nick Stafford, Interpol,’ and then I say ‘No, you’re not,’ and then you say ‘How do you know?’ and then I slap this down in front of you.” The detective
pulled a thin stack of papers from his folder and tossed them onto the table.
Nick recognized his phony Interpol file. Large block letters printed across the top said SUSPENDED. He had nothing to say to that. He tried to redirect, throw the detective a bone. “Why don’t you go look into a financial firm called Kingdom Ventures Incorporated?” He needed this guy to see him as an ally.
Mercer gave him an unexpected nod. “That is a very good idea. In fact, we already have.” He pulled another packet from his file and slapped it down on the table.
Nick had expected the Interpol file, but this one hit him like a punch in the gut. The top page was the CEO profile for KVI. Nick had seen the file before—Molly sent it to him on his way to the square—but Molly’s file had not come with a photo. Mercer’s did. Nick stared down at his own face beneath the heading MOHAMMED AJAM. It was the same picture that CJ found on the suicide bomber, and it must have been added to the digital record after the Second Sign strike, a clear setup.
Nick looked from the file back up to the grinning detective. “Don’t be an idiot. Do I look like a Mohammed?”
“Mohammed,” said Mercer, leaning forward and placing his hands on the table, “a common name taken by converts to Islam. The spelling is changed out of respect for the prophet.” He tapped the file with his index finger. “Ajam—meaning foreigner—also commonly taken by converts, particularly white guys who join fundamentalist organizations.”
This was going in exactly the opposite direction that Nick had anticipated. He switched to a different vein of evidence. “What about Dr. Maharani? He’s the scientist they’re using to build the weapon.”
“Dr. Nashak Maharani?”
Nick nodded. “You met his daughter. She told you he was kidnapped.”
“Oh yes, I talked to the Indian bird. She was all worked up. Then I called old dad’s mobile and guess what? He picked right up. He told me he didn’t want to see her. I gave her the phone, and he told her the same thing. Big alligator tears. Very tragic.” He shrugged. “Not my problem.”