Jellyfish

By K.G. Lawrence

A crew of mannequins on a ship found adrift near the Farallon Islands, a crashed plane in Yosemite with more on board than is supposed to be there and an antique jewelry box that once held Dracula’s heart all point to an imminent triple-threat bioterrorism attack on multiple targets in San Francisco, including the President. Former disgruntled government agent Dr. Harvey Weinberg may be involved in creating the bioweapon, but as he says "I'm not mad, I'm just getting even". Jacqueline Duquesne and Inspector Scott Kozlowski become targets when they come into possession of Dracula's jewelry box and what it may contain. Jellyfish is the third book of the Proteus Group series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: K.G. Lawrence
• Release date: Feb 11, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311668745

K.G. Lawrence

With degrees in biology and psychology, I have always enjoyed writing both fiction and non-fiction. I spent several years at a research lab at Agriculture and Agri-food Canada, this has provided me with a background on food and strengthened my skills as a researcher. I have put my background in biology and my research experiences to good use in writing the Introduction to Ethnobotany, as well as my novels.

Book preview

Book 3 of the Proteus Group Series

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2016 K.G. Lawrence

Cover Design: S.L. Gillies

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Discover other titles in the Proteus Group Series by K.G. Lawrence:

Wear Something Red

Rembrandt be Damned

***

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Acknowledgements

To Sharon for everything you give to me.

To Frank, Alex, Ursula, Isabelle, Paul and Tiggr for everything they gave me.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 10

Chapter 20

Chapter 30

Chapter 40

Chapter 50

Chapter 60

Other Books by K.G. Lawrence

Wear Something Red

Rembrandt Be Damned

About the Author

Chapter 1

Vlad Drăculea was dead, but that was not the end of him.

Father Antonio Rossetti, a loyal servant of God and the Vatican for forty-one years, chaffed in the heavy white robe he was required to wear as he looked down at the pieces of wood on the table before him. Hewn from the mountain forest behind the monastery and constructed with lengths of thick, rough planks in accordance with exact directions provided by the codex, the table sat in the front chamber of the monastery. It would require the whole brotherhood to move it to any other location. It was, therefore, immovable because most of his brothers had been sent away, a precaution to prevent the complete annihilation of his order.

Rossetti finished his second glass of wine and looked to the entrance door. Father Bernardo Alessandro was late.

Held hostage by the Ottomans for most of his adolescence, tortured for his constant defiance of them, Vlad had grown into a hard, vile man, but no man had been more justified in his behavior. And he had been an effective soldier against the Turkish horde in the service of His Holiness. The time had come for the Holy Order of Loyal Pius Brothers to honor the agreement between House Drăculeşti and Pope Pius II.

At thirty-six, Alessandro was the youngest of them and had been a priest for less than a year. He was to bring it from the Piazza Santa Maria La Nova under escort of six soldiers of the Papal army assigned to the Catterdale de Santa Marie Assunta church. He should have arrived hours ago.

The hooded white robe, the red sash around the waist, bare feet and no hair anywhere on the body were the required vestments for this mix of holy and pagan consecrating ritual. They had also been required to adorn their flesh with symbols.

Father Rossetti looked down at Christ’s cross on the top of his right foot, the sacrifice on the path to God. He had forbidden the addition of the dagger to that image. On the left foot, each of the brothers had painted a date tree to symbolize their toil on earth. There were to be no symbols on their bare faces and heads.

The chalice for Christ’s blood was drawn on the back of his right hand. Looking at it caused his heart to thrash about like a bird trying to escape its cage. But there was no escape from this unholy ritual. The image of the box designed and constructed by Andrea Alonso for His Holiness—the box that now lay in pieces before him—was inscribed on the back of his left hand. He was required to carve symbols on each piece before putting the box back together.

Both hands trembled when he poured and drank his third glass of wine.

Younger, steadier members of the brotherhood were more capable with the chisels, but he was the head of the order. This part of the ceremony was exclusively his responsibility. If he failed, his order failed. The agreement would not be honored. Vlad would be betrayed again by those he served.

Tonight, though, even three glasses of wine couldn’t bring the tremors under control.

He picked up a chisel and grabbed the first piece of wood. The prescribed order in which the specific symbols for each piece were to be carved was listed on the vellum pages of the codex that lay beside his empty glass. Each page contained a vivid—garish—illustration of a symbol.

Two priests entered the chamber the moment he began his work. They stopped at the other end of the table.

Father Buonfiglio Napoli and Father Camillo Vincenzo had been reluctantly sent from the Vatican to assist with this detestable but obligatory ceremony.

Father Napoli, forty, a short, furtive man, whispered, Do we have to go through with this abhorrent . . .? A man of slight stature, Napoli presented a frail, stooped and insignificant character. How had he become involved in something like this?

Pay no attention to him, Vincenzo said. He has been complaining since we left Rome.

No two men could be such opposites. Father Vincenzo had been a soldier before coming to Christ. A head taller than any of them, his shoulders almost twice as wide as and far more muscular than the measly Napoli, Vincenzo was hard, direct, fierce, loyal, composed and resolute. Every move he made was deliberate and strong. Vincenzo had exhibited the steady hand to outline in ink each symbol on each section of the box that he was required to carve.

It was a pity Napoli was unable to draw upon some of Vincenzo’s strength for himself.

Of all his outstanding features, and that aura of strength about him—he might be able to move the table by himself—his eyes were the most disturbing. They penetrated and dissected and mocked every time they took hold of someone. Father Vincenzo gave all the appearance of someone preternaturally possessed of both this earth and some mysterious knowledge of the ages beyond what mortal man could comprehend.

Wondering again if Vincenzo was possibly an angel sent to see through to its end this obligation left to them by His Holiness Pope Pius II, Father Rossetti poured more wine into his glass, adjusted the two large candles to bring their flames closer, adjusted the reflective glass to better illuminate the pieces before him and continued with his work. His Holiness decreed that he may rest in the Piazza Santa Maria La Nova. But his heart must be returned to his homeland.

But, Father Rossetti, Napoli whispered, it is a dark ritual older than Christ himself. Napoli had barely raised his voice above a whisper from the moment he arrived. This man was a demon, Father. I would rather his heart were impaled for all to see the same way his victims were cruelly displayed to the world.

Vincenzo took hold of Napoli by the back of his neck. Look there, Father. Perhaps it will help you to remember what this man did for us. He turned Napoli toward the wall of skulls. Nameless heroes, the Vatican’s holy fallen warriors, rested in niches carved into the mountain stone that made up the rear wall of this lonely and vulnerable monastery.

Rossetti started on the fourth symbol. Carving had done what the wine couldn’t. His hands had become steadier with the wood, chisels and knifes in them. Another consideration passed through his mind and his beliefs. Was Vincenzo exerting some influence over him?

Father Napoli was only expressing the doubts Rossetti had experienced as well. The Drăculeşti Codex from Vlad’s homeland was written near the end of Christ’s life. It dictated what they must do to properly honor the agreement. It contained the symbols he was to carve onto the pieces of the box and identified which ones went where. The codex had been written by the first priests of Wallachia to accept the word of the one true God and the sacrament, and had then had folded this new enlightenment into their existing pagan beliefs.

How many generations of such distortions would it take to completely obliterate the Son of God’s original message, and in the process create an enduring and apocryphal legend for the brutal man they were attending to tonight? At best, he could only hope the correct man was remembered to have had love for all in his heart.

Once released from Vincenzo’s grasp, Napoli came to him mewling, We should not be doing this.

I am but a loyal servant of—

The doors to this old Franciscan monastery creaked and scraped and began to swing open before them. Twice, it stopped before opening completely to reveal the two wounded men at its threshold.

My God, what has happened? Vincenzo rushed to Father Alessandro and the wounded soldier holding him up.

Father Rossetti and Father Napoli remained at the table.

Alessandro clutched the leather sack under his right arm. His left was draped over the blood-covered soldier as they staggered together into the great hall.

Vincenzo took Alessandro from the soldier, who then fell to the stone floor holding his left side. Half of an arrow shaft protruded from the soldier’s lower chest.

Help him, he whispered to Father Napoli.

Napoli bowed and shook his head. We should abandon this folly. They will surely have followed them. We will all be killed.

Rossetti poured another glass of wine for himself. We must perform the ceremony before they get here, then. Do as I ask, Father, please. He drank the wine in one swallow and began assembling the box. The carvings weren’t complete, but they had no more time.

Napoli, a completely ineffectual man, staggered over to the soldier as if also wounded. One step away, he hesitated, convinced he would be struck down once he touched the man.

Father Vincenzo brought Father Alessandro to the opposite end of the table.

Rossetti remained where he was and pulled up the hood of his robe once the box was completely assembled. He then pulled out the key and opened the lid. Do you have it?

Alessandro nodded weakly and came along the edge of the table with Vincenzo’s help. He held up the leather sack with its round object inside. Blood seeped from a wound on his neck.

The Black Army’s Elite Guard of the Holy Crown of Hungary ambushed us. He does not want it returned to Wallachia. He proffered the sack to Father Rossetti.

Rossetti averted his eyes and made only the minutest nod of acceptance.

The aroma of honey wafted out of the sack when Alessandro placed it beside the box.

We must hurry, Alessandro said. They will be here soon. He sagged into Vincenzo’s arms.

Vincenzo set Alessandro down onto a chair and returned to Rossetti.

The box was simple enough, carved out of a block of Wallachian oak—Vlad’s favorite wood for making the stakes he impaled his victims on—and then intricately cut by Alonso into the segments of the puzzle he’d just completed. The hinges and lock were of brass. The curved lid was unadorned with jewels so as not to detract from the elegant carving of the winged dragon crouching atop it that also served as a handle.

A gift from Pope Pius II before His Holiness died, it had been used to deliver the ransom paid to free Vlad, had been emptied of Drăculea’s family heirlooms. Now it would hold for all time the darkest part of him.

Father Rossetti, Vincenzo said and tugged on his sleeve, let us be done with this and get it away from here as quickly as possible.

He glanced at Alessandro struggling to take his last few breaths. Father Napoli had remained where he was to pray while the soldier died on the floor at his feet. They were all going to die for this disgusting man.

Yes, let us do exactly that. He held his hand out to Father Vincenzo.

Vincenzo handed over the small leather pouch he had been commissioned to bring with him.

Rossetti opened it as Father Alessandro died and slid off his chair. Napoli had fallen to his knees before the dead soldier and was still praying over him.

Leave him, he said when Vincenzo started for their fallen brother. He didn’t look into the small pouch; he just turned it upside down, poured out the soil into the box and placed the other key into the brass lock once the pouch was empty. He didn’t raise his voice when he said to Napoli, Bring me your charge and we will finish this.

Unable to control his shivering, Napoli looked up from the soldier, his head shaking, his mouth opening wide to cry out his protests once more. Before he could, they heard the horses galloping into the monastery’s courtyard.

Hurry. He held out his hand to Napoli. It was trembling again.

Father Buonfiglio Napoli started crying. Please, Father Rossetti, we must flee.

Bring me your charge, you pathetic man.

Napoli rose to his feet and scurried back to the table. He handed over the amulet given to His Holiness by Vlad’s daughter.

Rossetti set the amulet into the box. Now the last of it. He glared at Napoli.

Shrinking back, Napoli struggled to push the large leather sack over to him.

Give it to me.

No, I can’t. Napoli covered his face and turned away. I won’t.

With a moue of distain on his face for his companion from Rome, Vincenzo took the heart from the sack and handed it to Rossetti.

Outside, monks screamed as they fell to the soldiers. They had no weapons or fighting skills. All they could do was put themselves between the attackers and the monastery doors.

He placed the heart into the box, grateful that he had been spared the need to recite any of those vile words, closed the lid and locked it. Take it.

But Father, you are supposed to return it. Vincenzo pulled out a sword from beneath his robe. Go, I will hold them off for as long as I can.

I have no doubt you could give me ample time, brother, but I am too old to make the journey. I will remain here. Take it now and leave. You must hurry.

He closed the codex and bound it with the two leather straps attached to it. He then handed it and the pouch that now contained the keys over to Vincenzo as well. You must complete the ritual before it is assigned to its place of keeping. Remember to return the keys to where they belong and keep them separate.

Brother Vincenzo placed the box, the pouch and the codex into the sack blessed to carry them. God be with you, Father Rossetti, I will not fail you.

It will not be me you fail, my dear brother. God be with us all.

Vincenzo crossed himself before fleeing through the hidden door at the back of the monastery to join the escort of six men waiting in the woods to the north.

When Napoli started after Vincenzo, Rossetti called to him. "Come stand beside me, Father. We are in His hands now."

The last of his brother’s fading moans in the courtyard could barely be heard over Napoli’s whimpering as he squirmed over to him.

Three soldiers of Matthias Corvinus’ Black Army entered the monastery. To show their respect they had sheathed their swords.

The Captain made the sign of the cross and asked, Father, where is it?

It is gone. Father Rossetti put his arm around the small, shivering man beside him, took a firm hold of Napoli’s shoulder and fixed his gaze on the Captain’s eyes.

Those eyes would be no match for Vincenzo. The ritual would be completed, the agreement would be honored.

The three soldiers drew their swords.

His legend, and his curse, have begun, Rossetti thought, may God forgive us.

Chapter 2

 Jacqueline Yvette Duquesne entered her penthouse apartment in Vancouver’s West End just after midnight to find the message light on her phone blinking. Algernon had insisted she keep a landline. He was the only one who would use it to leave her a message.

Merde!

She took the time to put her suitcase in the bedroom, undress, relieve herself and get into her bathrobe before she returned to her phone and played the message.

Algernon Devries’ crackling voice said, "Jacqueline, ma chère fille, get your lovely ass down here to San Francisco as fast as you can. I’ve sent my jet to YVR to pick you up."

Algernon knew the International Air Transport Association codes for every major international airport in North America and Europe, and most of the ones in Asia.

Merde!

Algernon Devries had been her employer and her mentor, but he was no father figure. He was, in fact, quite the lascivious old creep at seventy-three. She had been with him for twelve years and had sampled—been a victim off, actually—his proclivity for sexual games involving audience participation. That one time had been enough to lead to an ultimatum of understanding between them of just what she would and would not do for him from that moment forward.

He had accepted her terms without reservation. I apologize for misinterpreting your enthusiasm for experiencing new adventures. I did not expect such reticence. Again, I am sorry for misreading you.

Algernon’s apologies, gracious on the surface, always hit like a major insult.

He had never before summoned her like this while she was already on assignment for him. He couldn’t suddenly be impatient to get the pistols; that wasn’t Algernon’s way. He preferred the anguish of anticipating her arrival and any new gift she was bringing to him. But even narcissistic Algernon Devries, with his perfect alabaster skin, knew that time was running out on him. He was becoming more impatient to fill his bucket before he kicked it.

The thing to do after a message like that was to just get her lovely ass to YVR as quickly as she could. She was already packed, but. . . .

She used her landline to call Algernon. He’d be up at this time of night because the man was part vampire and rarely went to bed before sunrise.

On the third ring, Algernon answered, Are you on your way?

"Ralentir, vous vieux fou." Slow down, you old fool.

Your accent gets sloppy when you’re tired. Are you on your way?

I just got in after fourteen hours in the air on one commercial flight after another because you needed your jet for something else. Je suis épuisé." I am exhausted.

Nonsense.

They weren’t where they were supposed to be. I had to go to Belgium, and there was only one pistol left. I’m still looking for the Chamberlain manuscript, but I have information that indicates it might be in Leeds.

"Forget those. I need you here by morning. Get your firm little butt to the airport, ma chère fille."

I need some sleep.

Sleep on the plane. You will arrive at five-fifteen. There will be a taxi waiting for you. Being Saturday, there won’t be much traffic. It will take another forty-five minutes to get to my house at that time of morning.

Algernon always had to verbalize all the timing details even though she was every bit as adept at calculating things like that after years of weary travelling on his behalf. For Algernon, however, it was some part genius, some part autism and a big part obsessive-compulsive. He could no more keep quiet about such details going through his head than she could just stop breathing once and for all.

Algernon, what is it?

We acquired the amulet a few months ago and that led us to someone who knew . . . never mind that. I don’t want to talk about it over the phone. We’ve got it now; that’s all that matters.

We? Who else—

See you at six, do not be late. He hung up.

Merde! Merde! Merde!

Working for Algernon had made her wealthy. He’d left her to her own methods to accomplish what he asked of her, but his one inviolate rule was that she came immediately when he summoned her. He was even sending his jet for her.

This last assignment had taken her to her birthplace, Montreal, then to Reykjavik, Riga and Belgrade before ending up outside Bastogne on the Ardennes Plateau to acquire one of Algernon’s priorities for the past three years. It was late November. The clothes in her suitcase were for the snowstorms she’d encountered in Europe. Algernon’s jet would just have to wait.

She showered and then put on clothes he would certainly notice. Then she removed her winter clothes from the suitcase and replaced them with more appropriate wear for November in San Francisco. There wasn’t that much difference between what came out and what went in.

She also removed the one pistol she had purchased. The pair had belonged to some obscure member of the aristocracy at the time of the French revolution. The aristocrat was actually from Spain, one Manuel de la Rosa, who had killed seven men in duels with them and then had used them to unsuccessfully defend his family during a robbery by the revolutionary rabble in Paris. She had failed to find Clive Chamberlain’s original 1668 manuscript about the true age of dragons in England, rumored to have been commissioned by—that idiot, Algernon told her—King Charles II.

Packed and closed, she took her suitcase back down to the lobby to wait for the cab. She boarded the Gulfstream G450 at 1:48 am.

She was grateful for the adventures and for the wealth that twelve years with Algernon had brought her. She would help find the manuscript if Leeds provided anything she could work with. She would see what it was that excited him so much, but she was finished with all these treasure hunts. She would tell him exactly that the moment she entered his mansion. And this time, she would make him listen to her.

Chapter 3

As Jacqueline Duquesne was taking off from YVR in Algernon Devries’ Gulfstream G450, Special Agent Brian Laskey was parking his black Ford Expedition in the parking lot of the San Francisco Coast Guard Unit’s Seizure Pier. His field office had received a call about the Coast Guard bringing in the MV Viaje Costero—Costal Journey—a thirty-meter cargo ship out of Tijuana found drifting near the Farallon Islands with a dead crew aboard. As strange as that was, it was what condition they found the crew in that was even stranger.

The caller had provided no details over the phone other than to say, You won’t believe it even after you see it.

He wasn’t going to find out what that was any time soon, however. When he got to the gate, it was closed and locked, with two extra wraps of locked chains around it and two Army guards posted at it. Four army vehicles were parked on the other side of the gate.

He approached with his FBI badge out. I was called in about a ship full of dead people.

The Viaje Costero was being sealed with plastic sheets over every opening. A base of operations was being set up by army personnel.

The guard on his left, a sergeant, said, "You can’t go in, Sir. Both the ship and the pier have been quarantined. No one is admitted.

What happened?

Unable to keep the tremor out of his voice, the sergeant replied, USAMRIID is in there now, Sir.

How did they get here so fast?

It is my understanding Colonel Thorpe was already in Frisco, Sir.

Can I talk to Colonel Thorpe? I have to tell my boss something.

The sergeant looked through the chain link fence at the activity taking place on the other side as he talked quietly into his radio. After receiving a response, he said, Just wait here, Sir.

You have children, don’t you, Sergeant?

He nodded. With the temperature near freezing, sweat still ran down from both temples. I do, yes, two boys.

They look like they know what they’re doing in there.

The sergeant looked again and wiped his brow. I hope so, Sir.

A person in a hazmat suit emerged from a tent that had plastic corridors running from it up the gangplank to the cargo ship as well as to three other tents. In a matter of seconds, the woman had her helmet off. She gave instructions to two other members of the team, patted the closest one on the back and then started walking toward the gate. Her strides were strong and quick. Her brindle hair hung straight down to just above her shoulders.

The two guards saluted her. She saluted back.

He raised his hand and showed his badge. Special Agent, Brian Laskey. We got a call about a ghost ship.

Colonel Cynthia Thorpe. It’s a ghost ship all right, but it’s also much more. Her clear, confident eyes were dark brown. Her nose was thin with small nostrils below a slight upturn at the end. The hazmat suit made any observations about her physique impossible.

More than what?

It appears there was a toxic spill of an unknown substance on board. When the Coast Guard crew entered the control deck, they found a grey powder on the floor and all over the crew’s clothes.

How are they?

None of them are showing any signs of infection or exposure to toxin poisoning, but we will keep them in quarantine and under observation for the next while.

You were already in San Francisco?

I’m here for a NATO conference on respirable toxins. My CO relayed the call to me when it came in.

What happened?

The Coast Guard got a call from a US Fish and Wildlife Services research team on Southeast Farallon Island after they spotted the Viaje Costero drifting four miles to the south. When they went to investigate, they found seven of the crew dead. They appear to have either come down with something or been overcome by something. Three other crewmembers are missing.

Behind her, other members of the USAMRIID team, also in hazmat suits, were bringing body bags out through the sealed plastic corridors. What happens now?

I’m sending everything to our new level four biosafety lab at the Rocky Mountain Laboratories facility in Hamilton, Montana. A team from Fort Detrick is already on the way. I’ve talked to Dr. Vincent Needham at RML. He thinks he knows what might have turned the crew into mannequins.

Mannequins?

Their skin is stretched all tight and smooth. It looks like mannequin skin . . . plastic and with no variation in color tone. Every pore appears to have been plugged and covered over. All their hair is gone. We found it mixed in with that grey powder. She shook her head. I’ve never seen or heard of anything like this before.

Was it an attack?

She shrugged. It could have been. If it was, it was a concerted attack by more than one person. The crew was strewn all over the ship.

Why attack a cargo ship out of Tijuana? Were those three missing crewmembers part of the attack?

That is your job, Special Agent Laskey. From what they tell me, the Viaje Costero was converted from a single hold to a dual hold cargo ship with a capacity of four-seventy-five DWT, dead weight tonnage. It also has six cabins for passengers. We don’t know if they had passengers on this voyage or if some of the crew were using the cabins.

This could go right past me if you guys are involved. What’s the cargo?

I haven’t had time to go through the hold or the manifest yet, but we did find aerosol dispensers near the crew, the kind used to spray perfume.

Is that how they were attacked? Can anyone actually do something like that?

It’s certainly possible. It would be cumbersome if it’s a respirable toxin to do it that way because you would have to get very close to your target to deliver it, which would put you at risk as well unless you’d been inoculated against it or were wearing protective gear. If you were wearing protection, I would think your targets might see you coming and get suspicious.

Where are the attackers now? How did they get off the ship? Was the attack part of a bigger plan to have the ship brought in to a populated area? Is there more of that stuff or something else on board that poses a threat?

I’m here to contain and investigate whatever happened on the Viaje Costero from the perspective of a possible new toxin spill or intentional weaponized use of such a thing. She raised her headgear to put it back on.

I can’t go away emptyhanded.

That can’t be helped until we are sure there is no longer any danger. Any evidence that can assist in your part of this investigation will be sent on as soon as possible, I promise. She put her headgear back on. Her muffled voice sounded like it was coming from a breathless young girl. Give your card to the sergeant. I left one of mine for you with him. My contact number at the conference is written on the back. My mobile number is on the front.

Aren’t you going to Hamilton with the . . . ?

I’m the head of the American delegation to the conference. I have to be here. She pointed to the other people in hazmat suits. If this is a bioterrorism threat, we will be the first responders.

It’s a good thing you’re here.

"If this is a bioterrorism threat, already being here could be irrelevant." She returned to the Viaje Costero and helped her crew bring out more body bags.

Chapter 4

Being summoned to Timothy Bartholomew Chase’s home on the Potomac near CIA headquarters in Langley at 3:30 am was nothing unusual. Frank Gillett was used to being summoned at any time for his assignments. That’s the way he’d operated for the past five years under Chase’s covert directions. The unusual part was how easily Chase had been able to contact him. His assignments took him all over the world. The usual way they communicated was via specified contact points that he checked with in accordance with a prescribed schedule. Chase had simply called him this time.

It could just be that he was between assignments and Chase knew he had returned to his Central Park West apartment for a few days of rest. He put it out of his mind as he approached the two agents guarding the front door. After giving him a thorough looking over, the man to his right knocked on the door three times.

Chase rather than his aide, George Radner, opened the door. Come with me. He led them to his study and poured them each a glass of Elijah Craig 21 year old single barrel bourbon. There’s been a plane crash in the Sierra Nevada Mountains just west of Yosemite. I want you there as quickly as possible.

The hardwood floor creaked when Chase brought over his drink because Tubby Chase—though few dared call him Tubby to his face—was 6’5" tall and close to 350 pounds.

He took the glass of bourbon. "So? There’s been a plane crash. I usually don’t do anything after the plane crashes."

This isn’t like that. Chase finished his generous amount of bourbon in one swallow. "We have credible reports of a possible domestic terrorism threat. The plane crash could be linked to that. It could be linked to . . . them."

Was there someone who matters on board?

It was a cargo plane. NTSB has already sent a Go Team. I need you to insert yourself into their investigation. Gather all the intelligence you can and report back to me.

Why don’t you just get NTSB to report to you? You have the authority. He held out his glass for another drink. This isn’t what I normally do.

Normally, I would do just that, but this is one of those situations where we need to contain the flow of information while we determine what is going on.

Chase took Gillett’s glass and refilled it. He also refilled his own, but he just sipped the bourbon this time after he handed back Gillett’s glass.

He’s resurfaced and could be up to something that is linked to the crash.

Frank placed the glass on Chase’s massive desk. And what would that be?

Knowing what Harvey Weinberg is up to is like trying to figure out some origami puzzle. It’s impossible to determine how his thoughts are folding and in what directions they are going, whether they overlap with some insane motivation or just tuck in neatly with his own peculiar logic. But if he is behind it, it’s bound to be big and outlandish. You know how crazy that bastard is. Remember what he did to you and Hobbs.

I might not be your best choice for this assignment.

You look good, Frank. It’s hard to see the scars anymore. I can’t tell where the synthetic stuff covering the burns ends and your real skin begins. He took another sip of bourbon. Don’t be offended, but I’ve always been amazed at how they got that dark brown color of your skin so accurate.

He picked up his glass and finished his drink. How do you know Weinberg might be involved?

We suspect he’s working with them again, but we don’t know what it is. After another sip, he added, He got away.

Petit screwed up again, didn’t he? If you knew where he was, that’s when you should have called me in.

Petit didn’t screw up, his crew did.

What happened?

First of all, they arrived at the wrong place. They went to the main facility grounds, but Weinberg and his team weren’t there. They were at the annex two miles south of that.

Weren’t they properly briefed and prepared?

Chase just shrugged. Harvey left the four of them behind, no doubt to mock me. Two of them had plastic skin. They were incinerated on scene by clean up.

Weinberg was certainly capable of doing that to a person. His own skin was proof of Weinberg’s twisted genius.

The other two had their heads bashed in; no doubt another comment from Harvey.

Don’t send mindless automatons after him. When did all this take place?

Chase checked the screen of the tablet on his desk. A week ago; he was in Widow Creek.

That’s hilarious, Tim. What was he doing there?

He was working at Karyon Research using a new legend.

Have you told Rowe yet about your trip to Widow Creek just before the Crowley Farm Massacre?

It was a failed mission. There is nothing about it that would help her task force.

You really are full of it every second of every day, aren’t you? Why are you bringing me in now?

"You are not a mindless automaton and you have unfinished business with Harvey. This is our chance to get more information about who he’s working with. We might even identify a few of them on this one. Rowe’s task force has lost any momentum it had after the Remington Bakersfield Draper case. They’ve been floundering for over a year now. He finished his bourbon. And I thought you might like another opportunity to find out what happened to Maggie. Chase pointed to his glass. One more for the road?"

Frank shook his head. I should get going.

There is a jet waiting for you at Dulles. It will take you to McCarran in Vegas. A Cessna will take you from there to Mariposa-Yosemite. I’ve ordered a truck for you. You go in completely dark. You must not let anything or anyone stand in your way. Find out whatever it is Weinberg wants and recover it before he gets his hands on it. If you encounter Weinberg or any of his people, eliminate them. I’m not interested in finding out what his grand scheme is anymore. I just want him gone and those people stopped.

But I can beat any information I might want out of them first, right?

I can’t possible see what you do in the dark.

A moment after Chase was finished with him Frank heard the helicopter start up behind the house. A moment after that George Radner appeared at the door to the study.

This way, sir, Radner said in a deep baritone and led him through the house to the French doors at the back. He opened them for him.

Frank always wondered if Chase kept Radner as his ersatz valet and personal bodyguard because of his resemblance to Basil Rathbone. He’s very agitated tonight.

Yes, sir, he is. The ‘sir’ was a reflex response from years in the military, not graduation from butler school. Harvey has that effect on him.

He has that effect on everyone who knows him.

Be careful, sir. Radner closed the doors, locked them and drew the drapes as soon as Frank was outside.

Weinberg was putting Chase’s house in lockdown.

Frank caught glimpses of two armed guards patrolling the grounds as he made his way to the helo pad. He spotted two more patrolling near the shore of the Potomac as the helo lifted off.

Those people Chase hadn’t wanted to name belonged to the Proteus Group, a tangled mess of suspicion, supposition, theory and guesswork. The Crowley Farm Massacre of an FBI unit three years ago, the Colter Militia Incident in Dominion, Oregon two years ago and the Remington Bakersfield Draper case in NYC last year were the three highest profile occurrences to date of the Proteus Group at work.

They were a shadow syndicate and likely one of the most dangerous organizations they faced. They were patient and meticulous. They used independent cells to maintain their impenetrable anonymity. The few who had been caught offered very little value or revealing intelligence on who was running the show.

FBI Special Agent-in-Charge, Nyla Rowe had been baptised in the RBD case. She had probably been too inexperienced to go undercover then and the mistakes she’d made had almost ruined the whole operation. Since its resolution, however, she had been put in charge of the Proteus Group Task Force. It had the power to insert itself into any investigation or mission the Proteus Group might be involved with. That was the reason Chase wanted him dark on home soil.

He had met Rowe while working another case. He respected her. She was intelligent and growing professionally, but she had the most difficult job anyone in law enforcement or national security could have. Her task force had so far been unable to penetrate the barriers that protected the identities of the people running the show, but they had constructed a scenario of how the PG operated. They recruited from all levels of society. They worked with the disaffected and crazy, the Colter Militia Incident was a prime example of that. The people involved with any Proteus Group operation, high and low, weren’t aware of what role they were playing or who they were working for. Specific details were scarce.

The helo set down at Dulles.

Frank transferred from one flight to the next without any delay. Within two minutes of entering the Lear jet 75, he was heading for Las Vegas and his thoughts returned to the scarce details Rowe was sifting through to get to the heart of them.

One of the most dangerous to those details was Harvey Weinberg. Brilliant scientist and madman extraordinaire—a once in a millennia occurrence, according to him—Weinberg had often worked with the Proteus Group over the past ten years or more. He had done that as Chase’s main undercover operative to infiltrate PG’s earliest scientific research.

One of the most shocking details Rowe would be surprised to learn was that Chase had become aware of the Proteus Group, though none of its members, when it was just an inchoate force building inside the USA long before anyone else in security or law enforcement had. Weinberg had provided him with the intelligence. Chase had attempted and failed to prevent the Crowley Farm Massacre, the Proteus Group’s earliest largescale operation. He would likely