The 4 Phase Man (40 page)

A silent minute later Sarah knocked on the door, then let herself in. “They’re back. Meeting in fifteen minutes.”

Fabrè nodded and began cleaning the weapons. Valerie stepped carefully around the head, carefully placed the doll of the baby on the table, then headed for the door.

“Alvarez.”

She turned back to the man who was quickly disassembling the H&K. “Yes?”

He never looked up as he pulled out solvent and cleaning patches. “What else could you do?” he said flatly.

Valerie took a deep breath. “I have to change.”

The gunman nodded as she left. “A great deal, I imagine.”

In his small room off the main area of the warehouse that he had made his, Xenos carefully reviewed last-minute notes, intelligence reports, and estimates. Everything was taken in, well chewed, tasted, then swallowed. His fingers flew over three pads in front of him—refining this plan, changing that operation, rescheduling another event. The final brushstrokes of the first Four Phase plan he’d fully assembled in ten years.

Vacantly he wondered if he still had what it took. If years of isolation had robbed him of the edge he would need to outguess—outluck—another of his kind who had stayed in the game, constantly sharpening his pestilential claws. Was his heart even in this abortion that he had fathered and now saw no escape from?

He shook his head at the notion.

Of course he was still good enough. What he had wasn’t a learned skill—as he liked to claim—or the result of years of successful repetitions of arcane arts. It was a blessing/curse from a practical-joking God who had grown bored with the twentieth century and loosed the Four Phase Men upon it. Already he could feel the lack of emotion, the combat iciness working its way into him. That thing that activated as he did, the defense to protect him from any responsibility for what was to come.

But this time was different somehow, and he hoped God would be amused by that difference. Because this time,
he
was taking responsibility.

Complete.

Unqualified.

Undiminished.

Because he could no longer run away.

Then he glanced at the hard-to-get bottle of nepenthe on the table in front of him that Albina had obtained for him.

He heard its call, felt its pull; picked it up, testing the weight in his hands, shaking it slightly to hear the bare rattle the tiny black capsules made. Popped the lid, sniffed at the somehow rancid smell within.

Then he put it in his shirt pocket.

“It
is
God’s work, you know.”

Xenos looked up at his father, standing in the doorway.

“Is it?”

Avidol smiled, walked fragilely forward, then sat in the one chair in the room. “Without question.”

His son shook his head. “I wish I could be as sure.”

“What kind of son doesn’t listen to his father?” The old man laughed. Then he grew quiet, his face paled, he rubbed his arm, he coughed painfully, weakly.

Xenos rushed over to him. “Papa!”

Avidol reached up, cupping his son’s face in his large hand. “Chuni, we are all here on this planet for a reason. Although many of us never see or fulfill that reason.” A wince from a deep pain, then the smile returned. “And God has returned you to me, to us, for this moment.”

Xenos looked anguished. “Papa! Let me get someone!”

“Why? I need no help to die. It feels … it
is
natural. Just be with me,” he mumbled. A paroxysm of pain exploded in his chest, neck, and arm as Avidol stiffened, falling out of the chair.

Xenos caught him, laying him gently on the floor. “Sarah!” he screamed out.

His sister, followed by the others, rushed to the small room. Sarah ran to her father’s side, took his hand, stroked his hair out of his eyes. “Daddy?” she whimpered as she clutched his hand with both of hers. “Oh, Daddy!”

“Shh,” Avidol whispered gently. “It was my time even before our little adventure.” He managed a laugh. “But it is worth it, in the end it is actually worth it.” He looked from his daughter to his son to his grandson. “Family. It
is …right.” He stiffened again. “Be there for each other,” he wheezed out.

“We will, Daddy,” Sarah cried.

“Always, Papa,” Xenos said with tears flowing freely from the scar-tissued eyes.

Avidol’s face suddenly took on a strange, quizzical expression. He looked over to the side at a blank wall.

“Will they be all right … my children?” he asked the empty space. He nodded slightly. “Your will.”

He turned, staring with a zealot’s eyes into his son s.
“Shm’e Yisroyal, adonai elohaynu, adonai echod. V’imru osay…”

He fell silent, gripping the hands of his children, a confidently tranquil expression in his eyes. A look of… triumph!

As Sarah moaned and was held by her son, Xenos reached down, gently closing his father’s eyes.

“Yiskadal, v’yiskaddash,”
he began in a low tone,
“shme raboh.”

Behind him there were mumbled prayers, the Corsicans crossed themselves, some falling to their knees and offering closed-eyes prayers for the soul of the man lying so peacefully calm before them.

Valerie cried silently, not understanding either the old man or his son, but grateful to the core for their existence. Grieved beyond measure—without fully knowing why—for his loss.

After finishing the traditional prayer for the dead, Xenos stood up, still looking down at his father. “Constantin?”

Vedette came forward immediately. “Sir.”

“You’re free for a few hours?”

The international smuggler nodded. “I will see to everything, Dureté. My hand upon my soul.”

Xenos nodded. “Let’s do this. He bent over,” kissed his father’s dead lips, then turned and strode purposefully from the room.

No one noticing the bottle of pills being dropped on the cement floor and being crushed under resolute feet.

Barry McNown had been a soldier and a good one. For seven years he’d served in the Royal Marines, a small-arms specialist. A career and a life to come of promotions, the right marriage, and eventual retirement with the rank of brigadier and ownership of a small hotel somewhere in the North Country.

But an incident with an illegally obtained Russian RPD led to a rash decision to lie and face court-martial.

Acquitted on the gun charge, but convicted of lying and conduct unbecoming an officer, he was stripped of his rank and served sixteen months in a British stockade.

Abandoned by the system he’d idolized, he immediately joined with Canvas upon being approached. If he couldn’t soldier for queen and country, he would do it for the Swiss franc and personal satisfaction.

Even if it did mean—on this occasion—walking a lonely patrol on a wooded luxury estate in northern Virginia.

He stopped suddenly.

Nothing had changed around him, the night birds still sang and the dimly lit ground around him looked as deserted as always. But something didn’t
feel
right. He shouldered his rifle and lowered his night-vision glasses.

The orange reflected world showed him windblown piles of leaves, gently hilly terrain, old-growth trees, and…

He would never finish the thought—as the ground seemed to rise up in front of him, almost instantly cutting off his view and life.

Clance Laughlin died while urinating behind a tree.

Bob Vincent’s head was severed in one savage stroke that gave him—in his final moments of life—the unique view of his body reaching up to an empty neck.

Xenos rolled on.

He was pure instinct and mentality now. Virtually part
of the grounds he moved through. An unseen, unheard, complete predator in search of an electronic prey.

And if the living should inadvertently cross his path, well…

The equipment he carried in his backpack and deployed carefully to the west of the fallout shelter was simple enough.

Signal absorbers that would suck in microwave search nets and spit them back at their receivers—leaving an undetected ten-foot-wide path cleared.

Thumpers—windup hammers that struck the ground at random, irregular moments and strengths—that would confuse motion detectors, seismic devices, and the such to the extent that men could move among them … so long as they tread lightly.

Mirror arrays that used sophisticated programming to reflect peaceful night scenes (seemingly in motion) at cameras that had been immobilized.

It was second nature to Xenos as he moved and studied and acted. All done on an autonomic level at best.

Then it was done. He moved off to the east as he activated the go signal for the others.

By the west fence, Franco and his eighteen gunmen—dressed in dark green and blue uniforms—heard the signal, cocked their weapons, and moved toward the fence.

“Perdonami Gesé Cristo, perché ho peccato.”
Franco crossed himself, kissed his thumbnail, then climbed over the fence. The others followed suit and were quickly on the estate side of the wall.

One hundred meters in, the silent assassins stopped.

“Alvarez,” Franco whispered, “you will remain here with the rear guard.” His expression was unequivocal and she nodded.

“Bring them back to me,” she said in a near cry. Franco nodded grimly. Then he signaled to his men. And they were gone.

Valerie unholstered the VP 70, checked the clip, then took positions as instructed by the three men with her. Never stopping her prayers for a millisecond.

Canvas finished his cigar, just outside the command center, stubbed it out against the wall, then went back inside.

“Report.”

“All systems on passive search,” a man at a computer said as he checked the readouts. “No intrusions, no detections, everything functioning five-by.”

Canvas nodded. “Perimeter?”

A man at a plastic map of the estate, who occasionally made notations on it based on what he heard on his headphones, smiled. “A quiet night in the country, boss.”

“Right.” The mercenary leader started into the next room. “Let me know when the patrol reports come in.”

“Right, boss,” the man said as he made a notation.

“Gonna be a little late, though.”

“What?” Canvas immediately reappeared in the control room.

The man looked very casual about it. “Patrols must’ve wandered into a dead zone. We’re having trouble reading them.”

Canvas took another step into the room. “You’re out of touch?”

The man shook his head. “No, sir. They’re reading us clearly enough. We’re just not receiving
them
all that clearly. Garbled, kinda. Probably a battery problem, no sweat.”

But Canvas had started to sweat. Just a little, on his upper lip. “Try them again.”

His assistant nodded and picked up the radio. “Three, eight, two from base. Report please.” Nothing. “Three, eight, two from base. Report please.”

A phone rang a moment later. The man picked up the receiver. “Probably calling in on his cell.” He turned back to the phone. “Bayshore Imports, night desk, this is Lou.”

He froze and his face went white. Slowly, as if dazed, he held out the phone to Canvas. “He’s asking to speak to Colin Meadows.”

Canvas took the phone, holding it gingerly as if it were alive—almost reluctant to put it next to his ear. “Hello?”

“Hello, Colin.”

“Jerry?” For the first time in years, Canvas allowed panic to flash across his face. He instantly banished the expression and wildly signaled for a trace to begin.

“This has to end.”

“Save me the trouble, Jerry. Tell me where you are.”

“Close.”

Canvas walked to the door, shut the lights in the room, and opened it. “We need to talk, he said as he looked out into the night woods.”

“No.”

“I promise my offer will more than make up for any inconvenience or hardships you’ve had.”

“Will it bring my father back from the dead? Xenos asked in a subdued, committed tone.”

“Shit,”
Canvas whispered away from the phone. “Jerry, it was never my intent—”

“This has to end.”

Canvas wildly motioned his men into action. Alarms were silently relayed, guards called on cell phones, locks thrown, and systems put into active mode. “What do you have in mind?”

“Do you remember Romania?”

“Sure. Last time we worked together.”

“Remember those two Magyars?”

Canvas
did
remember. “The
pas de morts.
Sure.”

“Two men,” bound together by a large silk scarf, fighting to the death over a matter of principle.

“Beautiful bloody moment,” Canvas said as he allowed the memory to come over him. The music, the passion, the two men locked in the
death dance
that would decide all issues between them. “You inviting me to dance, Jerry?”

“You made the invitation when you involved my family. Xenos sounded… tired, but resolved.”

Canvas was handed a note that read “He’s close!” Involuntarily he took a step out into the night. “Where and when, old friend?”

His answer was a volley of shots from the dark that barely missed him, but tore the door off its hinges. The
experienced soldier dropped to the ground, rolled, and rushed into the woods.