Father Night, page 35
Alli, gun out, sprinted into the hallway. All the Secret Service agents were shot or coughing up a lung. Smoky gas was coming from the fire stairs; she’d get no help from the agents stationed there. She pulled the alarm lever on the wall, but nothing happened. Her cell was useless, as well—no signal. Grabbing a sidearm from the closest agent, she returned to the situation room, and wrapped Vera’s hand around the grips.
“Keep Caro safe till I get back,” she said in Vera’s ear.
When she returned to the hallway, she had just enough time to register figures moving when one of them took a shot at her. She ducked back, then, lying flat on the floor, eeled out and squeezed off two shots. The first threw the shooter back against the far wall, blood spurting from his chest. The second gunman aimed and fired at her, forcing her back inside the situation room.
“What’s happening?” Vera’s voice was thick, muffled by the wet towel.
“We’re under attack,” Alli told her. “Secret Service is down; there’s only us now.”
Vera crawled over. Her eyes were red and tearing, her breathing labored. “I’ll give you cover.”
Alli nodded and they both crawled to the doorway. Unprotected, Alli’s eyes were tearing and some of the tear gas had seeped into her lungs, making them burn, but the women had no other protection.
“I saw three of them,” she said. “I shot one. If I can get to him—”
“You can put on his gas mask,” Vera finished for her. “Gotcha.”
Vera crawled past Alli and began shooting. Alli rose to a crouch, tapped Vera on the back, and sprinted out. She immediately saw a second man heading for her uncle’s room, brought her gun to bear, and shot him twice. As he pitched sideways, she heard a shot emanate from her uncle’s room and her heart lurched heavily in her chest. The snout of a gas mask emerged from her uncle’s room and, with unerring aim, she put a bullet through it.
The figure recoiled. Then the now-useless gas mask was chucked into the hallway. A moment later, a figure lunged out of her uncle’s room. She fired on the run, but missed him. He turned on his belly and fired at her, twice. She felt shards of plaster and wallboard whiz by her ear, one of them drawing blood as it nicked her.
* * *
REEDER, BLOOD gushing from his ruined nose, lunged for the gas mask on one of his downed men at the same moment the girl did. She looked no more than sixteen, but she had killed two of his highly trained men. Who the hell was she? He elbowed her aside and ripped the gas mask off Johnson. Johnson groaned, still alive. Reeder finished him off with one blow; no loose ends, those were Herr’s orders. Eyes tearing, lungs wanting desperately to clear themselves, he began to fit the gas mask over his head.
He saw the girl. Roaring, he launched himself up. She fired her gun, and he was struck in the chest as if by a pile driver. Flung backward across the hall, he lay there, half stunned. He looked down in disbelief at the blood pouring out of him.
With consciousness flickering and dying, he stared up at the damned girl who had killed him.
* * *
JACK AWOKE with a massive headache and a pain in the side of his neck. He reached a hand up, felt a sore spot where he thought he had been shot. He swam slowly into full consciousness. There had been no noise when Lorenzo had shot Weaver, no recoil, no smell of cordite. He’d just had time to register those facts when the driver had shot him.
At the moment, he was lying on a sofa in a richly appointed library. The far wall was lined with shelves of books. To his right was a huge fireplace in which flames cracked and sparked merrily. Above, a carved marble mantel held an ornate ormolu clock in the style of Louis XVI.
The sofa on which he lay was covered in midnight-blue satin. A painted porcelain coffee service on a low Carrera marble table gleamed in the buttery lamplight. Swinging his legs down, he sat up, but his head pounded so painfully he was obliged to sit perfectly still as he deepened his breathing, pushing through the pain. The aromatic scent of freshly brewed coffee invaded his nostrils.
“Krankheitsgefühl, sind wir?” Feeling poorly, are we?
Jack raised his head, his eyes focusing on the figure sitting in a high-backed chair upholstered in the same fabric as the sofa he was sitting on. Werner von Verschuer.
“Ich fühle mich wie Scheiße,” he said. I feel like shit. “What did your flunky hit me with?”
“I needed to make certain you wouldn’t come out of it prematurely,” von Verschuer said by way of answer.
Baring his square teeth, von Verschuer lifted back one of the lapels, revealing an enamel pin: a swastika, along with the double-lightning-bolts insignia of the SS.
“Mein Vater ist.” My father’s. Von Verschuer let go of the lapel. “To keep his memory alive.”
“That’s not all you’ve kept alive of his.”
Von Verschuer shot a quick glance over his shoulder at the closed door. He frowned. “You seem to have figured out quite a bit about Acacia.”
“Everything except its true purpose. Attempting to assassinate the supreme leader of Iran once is insane enough, but twice?” He shook his head. “That wasn’t why you created Acacia.”
“Of course not. The assassination was to be a training, that’s all.” Von Verschuer smiled again. “Tell me, McClure, have you ever heard of Louis Simpson?”
Jack stared at him, unblinking.
“Simpson was an American Pulitzer Prize–winning poet, but before that he served in the 101st Airborne Division and fought in France, the Netherlands, Belgium, and Germany. You’d do best to mark his words. I did. He wrote that ‘the aim of military training is not just to prepare men for battle, but to make them long for it.’” Von Verschuer’s smile broadened. “That, in a nutshell, is the aim of Acacia, to create a class of modern-day warrior who longs for battle, who is so proficient in mind, body, and, most importantly, spirit, that he is virtually undefeatable.”
“But twins?”
“You know nothing of my late father’s work, do you? Well, neither do most people, even historians who pawed through the wreckage of the Kaiser Wilhelm Institute of Anthropology, Human Heredity, and Eugenics.”
“That’s how you got your nickname: Your father was given that code name within the SS high command: Vater Nacht.”
Von Verschuer shuddered like an old lady. “I detest nicknames, especially that one.”
“Twins,” Jack prompted.
“Yes, twins.” Von Verschuer leaned forward. “Coffee? It was just brewed. No?” He shrugged, poured himself a steaming cup, and continued. “One of my father’s aims was to create the perfect soldier, not simply the perfect Aryan. Twins have special qualities, whether it’s chemical, physical, or ephemeral, my father did not know. But that was the journey he was on, the one I picked up, refined, and extended. I had his notes, you see—all of them. He was far too clever to keep them at the institute.”
Von Verschuer sat back. “And he was right, mein Vater war brilant. Sadly for us all, he wasn’t privy to the advances in science I was. The genes of twins are subtly different and this, in turn, gives rise to shared enzymes in their brains. This has been my work for decades.”
“Gene manipulation.”
“Precisely.”
It was at that moment that Jack realized just how demented von Verschuer was. How he had seduced other people to his way of thinking was beyond Jack’s comprehension.
“So the Fraine twins.”
“Washouts.”
“And the others—Batchuk’s sons.”
“Loony as Coney birds. Too much manipulation, a dead end, so to speak. The Batchuks ended up being at war with each other, as did the Fraine twins, instead of hating a programmed enemy they could be sent out into the field to destroy.”
“Yet you allowed these time bombs to roam free.”
“First of all, they are my children, so to speak. Dear God, one doesn’t harm one’s children, McClure! Second of all, they were still in the experiment. Their ongoing behavioral patterns were closely monitored, the better to refine my system.”
“And what about Frankie Heroe?”
“Who?”
“Frankie Heroe, the twin who Acacia took to the Horn of Africa in 2002.”
“Oh, him.” Von Verschuer shrugged.
“In what way was Frankie a part of your experiment?”
Von Verschuer winked obscenely. “You’re the clever one, McClure. You’ll figure it out.”
Jack considered for a moment, and then the entire dreadful scenario blazed clearly in his mind. “Frankie was recruited to be the exception that would prove the validity of your rule.”
Von Verschuer had adopted an equally obscene professorial air. “Continue.”
“He was the control in the Acacia experiment on human beings.”
“No. Frankie Heroe is a twin, but he’s also black. He proved himself incapable of channeling his thoughts the way my own children could. My experiment was validated.”
“Aryans.” Jack felt disgust clog his throat. Von Verschuer was so arrogant he hadn’t bothered to try training Frankie. “And then he had to be eliminated.”
“Naturally. Only, well, the incident became a bit problematic when he didn’t die in the directed mortar attack. Still, when he was sent home he was more dead than alive.”
Jack barely restrained himself from attempting to throttle the demonic creature so effortlessly confronting him. “Which leaves us—where?”
Von Verschuer spread his hands. “Here. Your last stop, McClure. As for me, I have shut down Three-thirteen, rather than have its constituents interrogated. I will leave here, to continue my experiments elsewhere.”
As if on cue, the heavy wood-paneled door to the library swung open, revealing a large, powerful-looking man with one blue eye and one green eye. According to Caro’s description, this was the Syrian. Then Jack’s blood turned cold.
Striding in, at the Syrian’s side, was Annika.
* * *
ALLI RIPPED the gas mask off the man she had shot and slipped it on. For the next fifteen seconds she experienced the immense relief of breathing normally. Then she rose up, staggered a bit, and had to hold on to the wall while she regained her equilibrium.
* * *
“GET THE hell away from him,” Iraj ordered.
Like a soldier, Werner kept his position. “But you promised.”
The Syrian grabbed him and threw him bodily onto the sofa.
“Jack,” Annika said, for the moment ignoring the two other men, “my grandfather is dead.”
“Dead?” For the first time in his life Jack felt as if his mind were moving in slow motion. “How?”
“Hit-and-run.”
“What? I can’t believe it. He seemed indestructible.”
“Mortal,” Iraj said, “like all of us.”
Jack focused his attention on Annika. “What are you doing here?”
“Was machst du mit diesen Leuten zu tun, meint er.” What are you doing with these people, he means. Von Verschuer’s smile had turned sardonic.
“I am upholding my grandfather’s alliance with the Syrian.”
“What alliance?” Jack said. “I don’t believe you.”
“That is your prerogative,” the Syrian said as he stood in front of Jack, “but the truth is staring you in the face.” He shrugged. “What you think is no concern of mine.” His fingers snapped. “Now come, stand up and meet your fate like a man, not sitting down like a child.”
As Jack rose, he hefted the porcelain coffeepot and smashed it into the Syrian’s face. The Syrian cried out, staggering back, hands over his burning skin. Von Verschuer leapt to his feet to help the Syrian.
Annika drew a small-caliber handgun, but before she could aim it, von Verschuer knocked it away and shoved her. Jack dived after the gun, grabbed it, and fired once, twice. Von Verschuer reeled into him with such force the gun flew out of his hand, skittering to the other side of the room. Blood burst from von Verschuer as if from a dam. He clutched himself, his eyes wide and staring.
The Syrian, having regained his balance, wiped his face, trying to clear his vision. He had hauled out a CZ Phantom, and was trying to find a target. Von Verschuer, lying sideways where he had fallen onto the sofa cushions, tried to speak, but only bloody bubbles emerged from his open mouth. He was drowning in his own blood.
Jack took hold of Annika’s arm and, before the Syrian could regain his sight completely, hauled her out of the library.
* * *
“CARO, WHAT’S wrong?”
Vera had heard shots being fired and had been undecided about sticking her head out or staying put as Alli had asked her to do. Now she put her arm around her half-sister as Caro bent over, head between her legs.
“I can’t … catch … my … breath.”
“It’s the tear gas.” Vera, trying to keep her breath shallow and losing the battle, wiped her eyes. “I’ll get us both new towels.”
She slid off the bed and was crossing to the bathroom when Ms. Mallory, the nurse she had been introduced to, stepped into the room and said, “Back away from there.” Vera recognized her under the gas mask she had clamped over her face.
It was only then that Vera saw the 9mm Glock pointed at her. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Caro move, a blur of motion as she grabbed the water pitcher. Mallory swiveled, aiming the Glock at Caro.
“No!” Vera shouted, tackling the head nurse, slamming her to the floor. By some horrific miracle, Mallory retained her grip on the Glock, and now brought the barrel down on Vera’s forehead. Blood spurted and a bolt of pain shot through Vera’s head. She gritted her teeth and, drawing up her right leg, jammed her knee into the nurse’s jaw. Ripping off her gas mask, Vera broke her nose. The Glock waved in front of her face, and she crushed down on Mallory’s throat with both her thumbs. The nurse’s mouth opened, filled with blood. She arched up, almost dislodging Vera, but Vera bore down with all her strength. With a muffled crack! Mallory’s throat cartilage shattered.
Vera rose and, leaving the head nurse to gasp out what was left of her life, slipped the gas mask on Caro, then staggered to the bathroom, put her face under the cold water, and rewet her towel, once again masking the lower half of her face. She was wringing it out when she heard a thud, and raced out to find Caro leaning against the wall nearest the door.
“Caro, what are you doing?”
“The Syrian’s people are here. They’ve finally found me.”
Vera tried to pull Caro back to a chair, but Caro was so agitated and Vera was so debilitated from the tear gas that she merely sat down in the doorway with Caro leaning against her.
“Where are the alarms?” Caro said. “Where’s the Secret Service?”
The second question was answered as they crawled out into the hallway and saw the bodies strewn all around.
“Good God,” Vera said. Gaining her feet, Caro helped Vera up. Caro reached one of the downed intruders first, ripped off his gas mask, and adjusted it on Vera’s face.
“Thanks, Sis.”
“Anytime.”
As she stepped over one of the bodies, Vera reached down and took the gun. They moved on.
“What the hell happened here?” Caro said.
Vera peered into every room. “Where’s Alli?”
They found her in a room farther down, where Henry Holt Carson lay. Alli turned, Glock at the ready, but she relaxed visibly when she saw them.
“You two okay?”
Vera nodded. They all looked so odd with their snouty masks on.
“We’re isolated up here for the moment,” Alli said. “All the lines have been cut or bypassed and they must have set up a cell blocker like what’s done at some hotels, because my mobile won’t work.”
Vera stood stock-still. “There he is.”
Alli nodded. “Henry Holt, yes.”
Caro turned away, shaking her head. “I don’t want to even look at him.”
“He’s dead,” Alli told them. “He died on the operating table.”
Vera stared down at him. “I don’t feel anything—not a fucking thing.”
Caro shuddered. “Why should you? He was a monster.”
Caro, staring into the corridor, cried out as a figure emerged from the elevator service door. Vera lurched past her as he aimed a handgun at Caro. Alli pushed Caro aside, saw the figure, heard the shot. Even as Vera was spun backward into Caro, she squeezed off two shots, both into the left side of the man’s chest. He dropped as if poleaxed, and did not move again.
Agents in gas masks and riot gear, brandishing assault rifles, now began pouring out of the fire stairs and elevator service doors.
Caro sat, her legs beneath her. Vera’s head and shoulders were cradled in her lap. Alli came and knelt beside them. She reached out, pushing Vera’s damp hair away from her face.
“It’s nothing.” Vera smiled, raising her left arm and wincing. Despite her bravado, her face was very pale. “Just a flesh wound.”
There was a stricken look in Caro’s eyes. “Damn me, Vera, I don’t know what I would have done if—”
Vera raised her good arm, her hand caressing her sister’s cheek. “Look at her,” she said softly.
Alli ripped off a sleeve from her own shirt and, using it as a tourniquet, wrapped it tightly above the spot where Vera had been shot.
“Alli,” Vera said, “does it still hurt?”
Alli called to one of the agents for an emergency medical team, then looked at Vera steadily. “I imagine it still hurts both of us.”
Tears, glittering at the corner of Vera’s eyes, spilled over, running down her pale cheeks.
* * *
“I CAN’T.”
In the hallway of the villa, Annika pulled away from him.
Jack stared at her. “You can’t what?”
“I can’t go with you, Jack.”
“What?” He heard heavy footfalls. “What are you talking about? Come on, Annika, the Syrian is coming.”
“I know he is, Jack. That’s why I have to stay.”
“I don’t—”
“Get out of here.” She shoved him toward the front door. “Now!”
Jack came back for her. Reality was shrinking down to the space between the two of them. “Forget it.”
