The Apocalypse Codex (29 page)

“The communion hosts…” I stare at the Bible. “That passage. The Apocalypse of St Enoch. Isn’t it a bit heavy on the
thou shalt do this and that
?”

“Yes. I didn’t have time to read further; I have other worries. But where the Revelation of St John is descriptive, this book is
pre
scriptive. A road map for opening the way and speeding the return of Jesus Christ.”

I close my eyes.
That dream.
The skin in the small of my back crawls. “The Sleeper in the Pyramid.” The giant step pyramid on a waterless plateau, baked beneath the ruddy glow of a dying star, surrounded by its picket fence of necromantic sacrifices—

“Of course, the trouble with following occult texts blindly is that there is no guarantee that the thing the ritual summons is what it says on the label.”

“But they’re Christians. If you want to get them to raise something from the dungeon dimensions,
of course
you tell them it’s Jesus Christ. I mean, who else would they enthusiastically dive into necromantic demonology on behalf of?”

“I believe the KGB have a term for people like that. They call them ‘useful idiots.’” Her expression hardens. “I want to know who is behind them. Or what. Johnny had a theory. I think I discounted it too soon.”

“I’d be interested to hear it.”

She looks at me oddly. “Why are you still here? You said Lockhart ordered you home.”

“He did.” I peer at the doorway of the Dunkin’ Donuts. “But I don’t leave people behind. It’s a personal habit.” I try to explain: “Lockhart should have known that. He’s got my transcript. He could have asked Angleton—my regular boss.”

(It’s not quite that simple, but some years ago I was leaned on to leave someone behind—and refused. Which worked out for the best, insofar as when a subsequent job went wrong she returned the favor, and we’ve been happily married for some years now; and if that’s not positive endorsement for the idea of not leaving anyone behind, I don’t know what is.)

“Hmm. This is your first time working for Mr. Lockhart, isn’t it? Mr. Howard, Bob, you are working for
External Assets
. I think Mr. Lockhart regards everyone as disposable—including, ultimately, himself.”

“You’ve worked with him before?”

She shrugs and changes the subject: “I suggest we pick up Johnny and try to drive out. But if the airport is closed and more than one highway is blocked, that could be very difficult, don’t you think? We might be trapped here.”

I sigh. “I’ve been trying not to think of that.” I start the engine. “Next stop, Denver.”

RAYMOND SCHILLER SLUMPS IN THE BIG EXECUTIVE CHAIR
behind his desk. The skin below his eyes form dark pouches in his face, wrinkled and tired. Joe Brooks studies him, concerned. Ray is powerful, but Joe’s seen him perform miracles before, understands the toll that God’s work exacts from his latter-day prophet.
Please, Lord, let him be all right this time,
he prays. The last thing the mission needs is for its shepherd to take to his sick bed for a week just now.

“Father.” Roseanne—now decently veiled and gowned—sounds as concerned as Joe feels. “Can I get you anything? Coffee and a Danish for your blood sugar? I can call one of Doctor Jensen’s residents if it’s your sciatica again—”

“Coffee and pastries all round.” Ray dismisses his handmaid with a tired wave. He yawns, then focusses on Joe: “I reckon we’re going to be here a long while, son.”

“Yessir.” Joe pauses. “You were right about the Hazard woman. I fed her fingerprints to our local FBI office. And her associate, the McTavish guy. They got back to me half an hour ago.” He wrings his hands together in his lap, fighting the urge to hold his face in them. “It’s not looking good.”

“Don’t blame me!” Pastor Holt is indignant: “How was I meant to know she’s some sort of witch—”

Schiller closes his eyes again. “Brothers. No use crying after spilled milk.” He raises a hand. “The Holy Spirit showed me what was in her mind. A black and evil faithless one, loyal to the Whore of Srebrenica—Babylon. An apostate and practicing witch. I should have warned you to hold her under guard until the communion service.” He opens his eyes and looks at Alex. “What do the FBI say?”

Alex swallows. “The name is genuine. British citizen, naturalized a few years ago. But there’s stuff that doesn’t add up. She’s tagged as a person of interest by a, a bureau in DC that I’ve never heard of. That’s a bad sign; when I asked agents Brooks and O’Neil they’d never heard of it either, so I called Sam Erikson in Denver and he just about shat a brick. Apparently nobody’s supposed to know that this, uh,
Operational Phenomenology Agency
even exists. Sam says they call it the Black Chamber, and what goes in never comes back out, and he can’t protect us if we draw their attention. And this Hazard woman is of interest to them. She shouldn’t be underestimated.”

The door opens: Roseanne slips in, followed by handmaiden Julie pushing a trolley loaded with refreshments.

“Julie.” Schiller smiles at her; she bobs a nervous curtsey. “I believe you escorted Ms. Hazard between the lecture theatre and her abrupt departure from the communion service?”

“Yes, Father.” She licks her lips, nervous and wide-eyed as a doe caught in headlights. Her voice is soft and hoarse. “She said she needed the restroom, so I led her there. I saw her go inside, but Pastor Dawes was paging me to find a clean surplice for communion so I had to go sort that out. When I got back she was still there and it was time for the service, so I led her straight there—” Her words come faster, until she’s nearly gabbling.

“Be at peace, my daughter.” Ray smiles at her again and Alex tenses. The stink of blame hangs in the air, a cloud of doom floating from head to head: it has just left Julie’s vicinity and is now bumping around, looking for a victim to attach itself to like an imp from hell. His expression hardens. “Alex. The cameras.”

Alex swallows again: his tongue is dry. This is the delicate bit. “I had Bill and Tony run the tapes. Julie had barely left when the Hazard woman came out of the toilet. She headed for one of the reception rooms, and did something to a PC. Then she went straight back to the toilet, and that’s where Julie found her. Near as I can work it out, she then went on…” He outlines the Hazard woman’s exit via the hospital ward and the car park while handmaid Julie pours Schiller a mug of coffee and passes him a pastry.

“Hmm. And just what exactly did our black sheep get up to on the computer?” Schiller is staring at Alex again, his gaze as black and sharp as an Aztec savage’s obsidian dagger.

“I don’t know, sir. She rebooted it right after, and didn’t leave anything attached. But in view of what happened next, I’m assuming the computers were her target all along, so I’ve taken the liberty of shutting down the entire admin network and calling in our best computer forensics dudes. They’ll be here this evening to take everything apart. They’ll be looking for keyloggers, rootkits, spyware—that’s my best guess. And when we find it, we’ll use it to feed our visitors what we want them to hear.”

“I’m glad you’ve got it all covered. Can you keep it locked down until after Sunday’s special service? It would be especially unfortunate if the Black Chamber were to become involved before the Harrowing.”

“We’ll work on it.” Alex licks his dry lips. “Mark and his team have a contingency plan. It comes with an increasing risk of exposure if we run it for too long, but today’s Saturday. If we activate the script tonight we can keep the whole city tight until Sunday evening, and maybe even Monday afternoon before the Feds start questioning the story they’re getting from their local offices. That should buy time for the main event at the New Life campus…”

“Do what you will; I wash my hands of it,” Schiller says dismissively. “What of the Hazard woman and her associates?”

“There are two angles to that. Firstly, we’re trying to establish what she knows.”
Too much for comfort, that’s for sure,
Alex thinks.
She
had
to take a short cut through the Lost Lambs ward…
“And we’re looking for where she went. We’ve got a warrant out for her on charges of aggravated assault and grand theft auto, thanks to the nurse she beat up—also firearms theft, because Nurse Stanhope had a pistol in her glove compartment. That’s going to get the attention of the State Patrol and every local PD in the region, and Sam Erikson is trying to get her on the TSA no-fly list.”

Holt harrumphs. “Can you do any more? Charge her with murder or something?”

Alex shakes his head. “Why bother? These are
real
felonies, they’re watertight enough to stand up in court. As long as the judge and jury and attorneys are all churched, nothing will leak; it’s always better not to lie, isn’t it? Besides, after tomorrow’s service and the Harrowing there won’t be much she can do. We’ll reel her in soon enough. What I’m more worried about are her associates, the McTavish man and her controller—”

“Controller?” Schiller straightens in his chair. He’s taken a bite out of his pastry and some color is returning to his cheeks. “The British spy in Denver, right?”

“I haven’t heard from Gordon and Lyons. They were supposed to bring him in four hours ago and they haven’t reported back. They’re not answering their cellphones.”

“Really?” Schiller’s expression is unreadable. “Gordon and Lyons. Hmm. I would have considered them to be reliable…” He takes a sip of coffee. “Be patient.” He glances at Alex sharply. “And what of the other man? McTavish?”

Alex swallows. “That’s the bad news. Stew went to take care of McTavish himself, with a posse: Benson, O’Brien, and Sergeant Yates. Stew’s called in. They tracked McTavish to a safe house. O’Brien and Benson took the front and—just
vanished
. McTavish exited in a hurry and got away from the deputy. Shots were exchanged. O’Brien and Benson are missing, there were no bodies—”

Schiller puts down his coffee mug and leans forward, his expression intent. “First, the presence in the arena in London—a fellow elect. I could
feel
him out there, watching me. Then this sudden interest from this British agency, and now the Operational Phenomenology people in DC. And an attempt to infiltrate the Omega Course.” He clears his throat. “Do you have a picture of this McTavish?”

“Sir…” Alex fumbles with his file for a few seconds. “This is the best I—”

He trails off. Schiller stares at the grainy picture, his expression unreadable. “That’s him. The elder in the audience. Back row. I could
feel
him. I was right to bring forward Operation Multitude and order the wards of sanctuary emplaced, it would seem. We are under attack. Hmm. Unless, of course, he is drawn to the Mother Church he deserted…”

“Sir?”

Schiller puts his palms together before his face in a gesture of prayer. “Almighty Jesus, I beseech you, share your divine wisdom with me…” He closes his eyes, breathes slowly, then presently lowers his hands and looks at Alex. “Stewart underestimated McTavish. O’Brien is dead. Benson is unconscious. They are both some distance away, perhaps in Denver. I will tell you where they are when Benson regains awareness.

“Meanwhile, Hazard and her employer are definitely in Denver, in a motel. I know this much by the blessing of Lord Jesus Christ. I can’t narrow it down further without the witch feeling God’s hot breath on the back of her neck, but our Lord will lead them into our nets by and by.” He blinks heavily. “Bring McTavish to me for a visit, Alex. The others you may kill if it’s possible to do so without scaring off McTavish, but he the Lord has a use for.” Alex is already standing to leave as he hears Schiller continue: “Everyone go, except sisters Roseanne and Julie. We must pray together now…”

*     *     *

LATER, AGONIZED AND PURIFIED, SCHILLER RETREATS TO HIS
private chapel to seek guidance through solitary prayer.

The chapel is a small basement room, accessible via a bare, concrete stairwell branching from the corridor connecting his public office and his private apartments. Dominated by dark oak paneling, crumbling with age—bought from a seventeenth-century church in faraway Scotland that was being renovated—and featuring bare flagstones by way of a floor, the room is dominated by an altar and a featureless, man-sized stainless steel cross bolted to the wall behind the altar.

There is a bible on the altar—a huge, leather-bound affair, its cover studded with clasps and padlocks—and a stone chalice.

It is before these items that Raymond Schiller kneels, eyes closed and hands clasped in fervent prayer. He prays with his whole body, quivering and brimming with faith.

“Lord, hear thy loyal servant.” The words leak out through clenched teeth, more of a subvocalized whimper of desire than a verbal declaration: “For though I am but a weak vessel of flesh, damned to eternal torment for my sins, my sole desire is to serve the temple of righteousness and to raise the ancient of days. Lord, hear thy loyal servant. For though it says, ‘and in those days the destitute shall go forth and carry off their children, and they shall abandon them, so that their children shall perish through them: yea, they shall abandon their children that are still sucklings, and not return to them,’ I have brought mothers to the motherless and children to the barren, to be fruitful and multiply in service to thy will.

“Lord, hear thy loyal servant…”

Abruptly, Raymond’s chapel isn’t so small anymore.

The floor is still flagged with slabs of limestone as broad as a man’s arm is long, and the altar waits before him. But the walls have receded into the distance and faded to the color of time-bleached bone, and the ceiling overhead is open to the starry night. Alien constellations sparkle pitilessly against a backdrop of whorls and wisps of blue and green gas, the decaying tissues of a stellar corpse hidden from view by the horizon. Closer, a dusting of silvery specks flicker and flare as they drift across the vault of the sky—the skeletal remains of vast orbital factories, although Schiller is unaware of this.

If Schiller were to rise and walk to the walls, he would find a doorway in the center of each one. And if he were to venture beyond one of the portals, he would find himself leaving a temple atop a step pyramid towering above a desert plateau that stretches towards the distant, parched mountains in every direction that the eye can see.