Brooke and Flaherty watched Stokes step over to the veil-covered display case in the room’s centre. ‘You see, it wasn’t only Lilith’s victims we discovered in that cave.’ Stokes pulled the veil away, revealing the most prized item in his collection, which was locked within a rectangular glass case. ‘It was Lilith herself.’
Mounted atop a cylindrical glass base inside the case was a translucent sphere, flat on top and bottom, and no bigger than a medicine ball. And frozen within it was a severed human head.
‘Exquisite, isn’t she?’ Stokes said, doting upon the severed head without utmost adoration. ”’Upon her forehead was a name written, Mystery, Babylon the Great, the Mother of Harlots and the Abominations of the Earth.”’ He smiled. ‘Revelation 17:5.’
Cold prickles shot down Brooke’s spine. Lilith’s ancient head was both beautiful and ghastly. Wisps of golden hair intermingled with blood swirls spun through the honey-coloured sphere which resembled glass. The flesh remained intact so that even now, millennia later, the refined face seemed locked in time, a snapshot of death that bore testament to a most brutal execution. The morbid lips remained in a taunting smile. But it was the punishing, inescapable stare of the eyes that was most frightful. Like staring at Medusa, Brooke imagined herself being turned into stone.
‘As you can see, she has been perfectly preserved,’ Stokes said. ‘After the executioners cut off her head, they immediately sealed it away, hoping that Lilith’s evil would be trapped for eternity. Obviously, they were wrong, because it wasn’t Lilith’s soul that had been the source of her malevolence. It was her DNA. And you can see how we got to it … where we drilled through the resin,’ Stokes explained, pointing to thin bore holes that extended through the resin like invisible straws, and penetrated through the skull’s soft crown. ‘All we had to do was extract the dormant virions and culture them.’
‘So if it’s so simple, why are you so concerned about the cave?’ Flaherty said.
‘Come now, Agent Flaherty,’ Stokes said, feigning disappointment. ‘A virus in a dish is useless. For a plague to have any effect, it must be spread - widely and rapidly. It needs a catalyst.’
Then Flaherty remembered Jason saying how sick Al-Zahrani had been when they pulled him out from the cave. ‘You infected Al-Zahrani, didn’t you? Is he your catalyst?’
‘He’s infected, yes. But I certainly can’t rely on him. He’s only one man, after all. Let’s think of him as an experiment.’
‘Lilith was only one woman,’ Brooke countered. ‘And think of what she did.’
‘This isn’t 4000 BC, Ms Thompson. Things work much differently nowadays.’
‘So then what
is
your plan, Stokes?’ Flaherty insisted. ‘Sounds to me like you’ve got nothing to lose now. Why not just tell us what’s inside that cave?’
Stokes enjoyed watching Flaherty stew the possibilities. He stepped up to the display case, pressed his hand against the glass, and stared at Lilith with deep reverence. ‘The inherent beauty of plague,’ he cryptically replied, ‘is that once it is introduced into a population, nature itself provides the most reliable and potent delivery system. It’s been that way since the beginning, just as God intended. Even the mightiest empires can’t stop nature.’
For a long moment, Flaherty ruminated on the phrase ‘delivery system’. ‘You aren’t seriously considering biological warfare,’ Flaherty said. ‘It violates every peace treaty. The United States can’t afford to—’
‘No missiles will be fired, I assure you, Agent Flaherty.’ Stokes’s breathing was getting shallower. ‘Once the infection begins, no one will be able to stop it. In under an hour this virus rips through cells … gets into the blood, the lymph nodes, you name it. In less than two hours, it strikes the lungs and becomes pneumonic.’
‘Nu-what?’ Flaherty said.
‘It becomes airborne. Someone can catch it just by breathing it in,’ Brooke said in horror.
‘Very good, Ms Thompson,’ Stokes said. ‘Suffice it to say, when all is said and done, an entire generation of Arabs will be wiped out … and any threat of Islamic fanaticism right along with them. And there will be zero accountability for the United States. It will be viewed as Allah’s divine retribution.’
‘That’s not true,’ Flaherty said. ‘Scientists will study the disease. They’ll see that—’
‘When scientists study the DNA of the virus, they’ll be unable to explain its origins. I promise you that. They will rule out the possibility of any scientist being able to engineer such a complex, exotic contagion. They’ll attribute the plague to a mutation bred in the backwaters of the Middle East. It’s been nearly a hundred years since Spanish Flu killed upwards of 50 million people - more casualties than all the soldiers and civilians in World War I. And as far as scientists are concerned, we’re long overdue for the next great pandemic. You saw how excited they were about swine flu. That was a joke compared to this. The scientific community will feel nothing but vindication.’
‘Why do this?’ Brooke challenged, abhorred by Stokes’s indifference. ‘What’s the point?’
‘The point? Come now, Ms Thompson,’ Stokes said. ‘I’ve fought these people for almost two decades. This is no ordinary enemy. They don’t wear uniforms. They don’t respect innocence. They hate civilization … and everything we stand for. Flying planes into buildings was only the beginning for them.’
‘Terrorism is a universal problem - not a Middle Eastern one,’ she pleaded.
‘Wars are fought one battle at a time, Ms Thompson. To spare the innocents, extreme measures are sometimes necessary. Your idealism is endearing, but fails to recognize the chilling reality we’re facing. We’ve reached the tipping point where only one side can inevitably survive. Call it Social Darwinism.’
‘You’re a real nut job, Stokes,’ Flaherty said. ‘I’m giving you one more chance to answer my question. What’s in the cave?’
‘I could tell you, but that would only ruin the surprise,’ Stokes replied wryly. ‘Besides, it’s too late for you or anyone else to do anything about it.’
‘I don’t have time to play games with you.’ Flaherty’s fuse had burned out. If there was something in the cave, Jason would need to be warned. He decided to cast diplomacy to the wind. He went for his gun. But Stokes anticipated the move and, to Flaherty’s surprise, managed to draw his own gun first. And to Flaherty’s horror, the pastor levelled the Glock at Brooke’s chest.
‘Don’t be upset, I’ve had lots more practice than you, Agent Flaherty,’ Stokes said. Another coughing fit struck, but the gun-slinger managed to keep his aim true. He covered his mouth with the crook of his arm and when he pulled it away, blood and bile covered his jacket sleeve. ‘Let’s not make this messy. I told you, I’m already a dead man. Don’t you see?’ He held out the gory sleeve. ‘I’ve got nothing to lose.’
‘You don’t look dead to me,’ Flaherty said.
‘Roselli managed to infect me with one of his lab experiments,’ Stokes said. ‘Some home-grown variety of anthrax, apparently. So if that’s the case, I won’t last another day. With that in mind, I’m determined to witness the results of all my hard work. And right about now, you’re making that very difficult for me. Give me your gun.’ He extended his free hand and motioned for it. ‘Be sensible and, unlike me, you’ll both live to see another day.’
Flaherty knew that despite Stokes’s hopeless condition, the former Special Ops commando was fully capable of pulling the trigger at least once before going down - no matter how well executed Flaherty’s shot might be. With Stokes unconcerned about confessing his heinous acts, Flaherty had to gamble that he’d keep his word. After all, though at the moment it seemed an abomination, Stokes was a servant of the Lord. ‘Fine,’ he said, lowering the gun and passing it to Stokes. ‘You win.’
Stokes pocketed Flaherty’s Beretta. ‘Now while I attend to business, you can make yourselves comfortable.’ Keeping the Glock on Brooke and his eyes on Flaherty, Stokes stepped backwards towards the door. When he’d crossed the threshold into his office, he lowered the gun and reached for the door handle. ‘Behave yourselves and I’ll have someone let you out after this is over.’
Then Flaherty and Brooke watched helplessly as Stokes pulled the door closed.
‘You’re sure these coordinates are right?’ Meat asked, checking his handheld GPS unit again. ‘I mean, this thing’s pretty accurate.’
Fist-sized stones that littered the unpaved road forced Jason to slow the pickup to a crawl. ‘Mack has yet to be wrong,’ he said.
‘But you said Mack is getting his information from the Israelis,’ Meat reminded him.
Twenty minutes ago, the satellite trace Jason had called in to Mack had pinpointed the square paint marker he’d scrawled on the hood of the truck Staff Sergeant Richards used to spirit Al-Zahrani away from the camp. The grid provided by Israeli Intelligence led them here, to a desolate region twenty-four kilometres south of Irbil, and less than a twenty-kilometre drive from the downed Blackhawk. The perfectly flat terrain provided long-range visibility over the wheat fields extending out in every direction. An occasional ramshackle structure poked up into the landscape.
But no sign of the hijacked pickup truck.
‘I don’t trust Israelis, especially Mossad,’ Meat said.
‘Come on Meat, there’s no reason to believe the information isn’t credible.’
‘Sure there is: no truck. That’s good enough reason for me.’ Meat groaned in frustration and punched the dashboard. ‘Shit, Google. We can’t go losing these Al-Qaeda fucks now! Not after what they’ve done!’
Jason felt equally frustrated. Losing Jam and Camel was a crushing defeat. He’d called Camp Eagle’s Nest and requested a rescue patrol to be dispatched to the crash site.
‘They must be on the move again,’ Jason guessed. ‘I’ll have Mack request another—’
‘Whoa … hang on,’ Meat said, craning his head to see something out the side window.
‘What is it?’
Meat waved his hand as if he was greeting someone. ‘Stop the truck.’
‘What the hell are you doing?’
‘See that shit box over there?’ he said, pointing out the window to a two-storey house constructed from cinderblocks, which glowed in milky moonlight.
‘What about it?’
Meat grinned deviously. ‘Seems someone is expecting us … or should I say their expecting the guys that
should
be riding in this truck.’
Jason stopped the truck and barely glimpsed an Arab man passing beneath the house’s bright porch light and disappearing around the building. ‘Who? That farmer?’
‘That’s no farmer. The guy was strapping an AK-47. Back it up. We’re going in.’
*
‘How do propose we do this?’ Meat asked Jason, flipping the safety off his Glock and cocking its slide bolt.
‘Fast,’ Jason simply replied. He rolled to a stop and let the truck idle twenty metres from the house. There appeared to be no one outside, but in the second-storey window, he saw two silhouettes moving like shadow puppets behind drawn shades.
‘You think they brought Al-Zahrani here?’ Meat asked. ‘This place is a dump.’
‘Exactly. It’s perfect.’
Meat’s eyes went wide. ‘Oh, hey … look over there.’ He pointed to a crude overhang attached to the side of the house. ‘There she is.’
Only a corner of the scratched-up bumper and a sliver of the sky-blue tailgate stuck out from beneath the camouflage netting that covered the stolen pickup. ‘Good eye,’ Jason said.
‘Get ready. There’s our host,’ Meat said, pointing with his chin to the side door. The Arab leaned out from the doorframe into the porch light. The AK-47 was slung over his right shoulder. He was moving his head side to side, trying to see inside the truck, but the greasy windshield was casting nasty reflections.
Meat grabbed for the door handle, but Jason gripped his arm. ‘Hold on. He can’t see us through the glare.’ Jason eased the truck forward and put it in park five metres from the house. ‘Sit tight. We’ll let him come to us.’
Looking deeply concerned, the Arab waved to them again in a hurrying motion.
‘Get your knife out, then wave him over to your side. Let’s see if he bites.’ Jason reached down and grabbed the AK-47 he’d stripped from the dead Al-Qaeda photographer.
Meat set down the Glock and unsnapped a K-bar knife from a sheath clipped to his belt. Then he stuck his arm out the window and made a summoning gesture.
The Arab scowled, didn’t budge. He looked back into the house, as if someone was beckoning him.
‘
Ta’ al huna
!’ Meat yelled in Arabic, and motioned again with more urgency. ‘Come on over here, stupid,’ he grumbled.
Finally the man broke away from the house and made his way to the truck with hands spread in confusion.
‘Put him down nice and quiet,’ Jason instructed.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll be tender.’
As the Arab drew close, Meat turned from view, pretending to get something from behind the seat.
The Arab cornered the truck’s front bumper and came to Meat’s window, saying in an agitated tone, ‘
Ista’ gil
?!
Esh cair fik
?’ He slammed his hands on the door and leaned in for a better view.
The Arab made eye contact with Jason and his haggard face blanched.
Meat wheeled, grabbed a fistful of the man’s tunic and tugged him close. In the next instant, he plunged the blade through the man’s Adam’s apple. He felt the tip of the knife clip bone. The Arab’s attempted scream was instantly reduced to a gurgling yelp. Blood spewed over Meat’s hand as he turned the blade like a doorknob, then sliced upward to the jaw and into the brain. The Arab’s eyes rolled back into his skull and Meat made sure to let the body drop to the ground out of view from anyone who might be watching from inside the house.