Ghosts of War (8 page)

“My God, Abraham, do they have to be alive when you throw them in there?”

Abraham turned at the voice of Senator Isambard Banks, who was standing just a few feet away by the spurs of the machine. Abraham hadn't heard him come in. He was surprised the raptors hadn't started up, but he supposed they were used to the senator by now. Abraham smiled. “It likes them better that way,” he said, turning back to watch the creature devouring the young man, its multiple mouths burrowing deep into his flesh, drawing the blood out of him. Abraham watched the fluid course along the creature's translucent gullets, dark and red, pooling in its belly. “It's remarkable, isn't it?” he said to Banks, who had drifted over to stand beside him and was looking down, an expression of sheer disgust on his face. “So alien, so deadly. A living nightmare.”

“It's barbaric,” Banks replied stiffly before averting his eyes to focus on Abraham. “But it's effective. It's exactly what we need.”

Abraham grinned. “Yes, it most certainly is,” he agreed. He couldn't hide his euphoria at the thought of the part he was playing in the great scheme. His machine, his weapon, would go down in history. Future generations would remember his name. Abraham Took: the leper who had ensured the future of the American nation.

“How are the preparations?” Banks inquired. He looked up toward the rafters, eyeing the flock of raptors as they hopped about, chittering away, watching him intently from above. Abraham saw Banks open and close his fists in a nervous gesture. It was clear he was uncomfortable, even though he knew the raptors were incapable of harming him. That had been one of the conditions the senator had insisted upon when he'd funded their development: the raptors were to accept his command as equal to Abraham's own. It was a simple but effective security measure. Neither of them could order the raptors against the other. Nevertheless, Abraham smiled, enjoying the man's unease. He found people like Banks rarely liked to be reminded how dirty their hands really were.

“The machine is ready. Another day, two at the most, and it'll be fully installed in the transporter. But we still lack the necessary supplies to properly operate it.”

“The solution?” Banks asked, frowning.

Abraham nodded. “No matter how many of these idiots I test, none of them have the blood type I need.” He indicated the two women with a wave of his hand. They were watching him, wide-eyed and terrified.

Banks shuddered. “Can't you just synthesize some more from the batch you already have?”

Abraham resisted the urge to cuff the senator around the side of his head for his naïveté. “I've told you before, Senator, it's not that simple,” he said, through gritted teeth. “If I can get enough blood I can dilute it, slowly, to create a vat of the stuff. But I need the base material to do it.”

Banks exhaled slowly. He reached inside his coat for his cigar case and then stopped at a severe look from Abraham, who had told him before that there was to be no smoking inside his workshop. “Then you'll just have to step up the program, Abraham. More testing.”

Abraham frowned. “We're already snatching three, sometimes four people a day, Senator. It hasn't gone unnoticed. Have you seen the newspapers? It's all over the front pages. And one of my raptors returned damaged last night, as if it had been in a firefight. If we increase the frequency of the abductions, we risk exposing ourselves.”

Banks shook his head. “You let me worry about that, Abraham. I have the police in check. That transport is leaving for London in three days' time.”

“Three days!” Abraham almost spat the words. “That's impossible!”

Banks took a step forward, looming over the half-mechanical man. Above, the chattering of the raptors increased significantly in pitch. “Three days. Things are moving, Abraham. Events have dictated that we need to bring forward our plans. That vessel will be leaving whether you have the solution or not.”

“But that's lunacy!” Abraham nearly screamed in the senator's face. “You can't be serious! Those things won't stop, you know, once they run out of people to devour on that tiny island. Not unless we can control them, or destroy them. They'll come for us, too!”

“Then you'd better make sure you do as I say, Abraham, and increase the frequency of the testing. Get them all out there tonight, the whole flock of them.” Banks took a step back, straightening his back and pointing up at the raptors. He fixed Abraham with a firm stare. “Remember what you're doing here is in the interests of the nation. Remember that, Abraham. Whatever it takes.”

Abraham gave a curt nod. Whatever the senator said, it would be madness to unleash those things on the world without the proper measures in place to prevent them from rampaging all over the globe. Yet something about the look in Banks's eye told him the issue was not up for discussion.

It seemed his raptors were going to be very busy indeed.

Abraham watched the senator's back as the man crossed the warehouse floor and disappeared through the door. Sighing, he turned back to the creature, watching with a smile as it discarded the now-exsanguinated corpse of the man and slumped back against the wall, momentarily sated.

T
he party was in full swing.

Gabriel rocked back in his chair and watched a group of men and women cavorting on the lawn. It was cold, and their breaths fogged in the crisp evening air. He could overhear a little of their conversation, just snatches and fragments here and there: “Oh, John, you
do
say the most peculiar things…” and “What made him decide to throw a party
tonight
? Tonight of all nights!”

Gabriel couldn't help but laugh. It was as if they somehow felt obliged to be there, to flock to his never-ending party because, whatever else they chose to do,
not
being there was worse.

The house was buzzing with people, faces he hadn't seen for weeks. He didn't even know most of their names. This was
Gabriel's
life, not his. He felt detached from it, like a guest in his own existence.

He watched the partygoers as they moved unconsciously in circles through the house and grounds. They were all dressed up, sparkling dresses and sharp suits, peacock feathers and silk ties. They swanned around his property like they owned the place, draping themselves over the furniture, trying to make themselves look beautiful. Trying to find meaning, to prove their worth.

That was the thing that struck Gabriel most of all, as he sat there in his favorite armchair, smoking and observing; that it wasn't escape they were searching for. He'd always thought that was the reason they came, that they were looking for distraction, trying to find a way out of the mundane, an escape from their ordinary lives. But, he thought now, watching a couple kissing furtively in the shadows of an oak tree on the lawn, he'd been wrong. They weren't looking for distraction at all. They were trying to find their place in the world.

He thought he could understand that.

For all her talk, Ginny seemed content to hang back and observe the revelers just as he did. She'd traded pleasantries with people, of course, but now, with the party under way, she was perched on the arm of his chair, her hand on his shoulder, drinking gin and watching the party go on around her.

He wondered if this was what she'd intended. Was she disappointed? Perhaps she'd pushed for it because she'd thought it would make him happy. Or perhaps she was just searching for normality, too, like all the others. For
her
place in the world.

He didn't know where things were going with Ginny. He still didn't know why she'd come back, what she wanted from him. For now, though, he was content to let things unfold at whatever pace she needed them to. He would find out soon enough. He hoped that by then he might have made some sense out of his own conflicted feelings for the woman.

She'd certainly made an effort to doll herself up for the party tonight. He had to admit she looked stunning in her low-cut silvery dress and high heels. Whatever she lacked in grace she more than made up for in gumption.

Gabriel felt a tap on his shoulder and tore his gaze away from the window to see Henry standing beside him, a worried expression on his face. “What's wrong, Henry?” He had to shout to be heard over the music.

“A call on the holotube, sir. It's a policeman. He says it's urgent.”

Gabriel glanced at Ginny, whose face creased in concern. “Is everything all right?”

“I'm sure everything's fine,” Gabriel said, rising from his armchair. “Henry, where can I take the call?”

“In your bedroom, sir. I think it should be quiet enough up there for you to hear.” Henry motioned toward the door.

“I'll be back in a moment,” Gabriel said to Ginny, patting her reassuringly on the arm. She nodded, reaching for a cigarette.

As he'd expected, Gabriel found Donovan's face staring out at him from the mirrored cavity of the holotube terminal when he made his way up to his bedroom a few moments later. It was a bad signal, and the inspector's face shimmered and fractured as he leaned in close to the transmitter at the other end.

Gabriel lowered himself onto the edge of his bed so the other man could see him.

“Ah, Gabriel, you're there,” Donovan said in hushed tones, as if trying to avoid being overheard by someone off-camera.

“Is everything all right, Felix?” Gabriel prompted when Donovan didn't continue. It was unusual for the detective to risk calling him at home. Usually he left cryptic messages for Gabriel at his Manhattan apartment. Still, at least Gabriel would be able to assuage Henry's fears by telling him it was related to the mugging the other night, the one Henry had made him report to Donovan the prior day.

“We've found a body, Gabriel, down in Greenwich Village,” said Donovan.

“Left by the raptors?”

“No. In a run-down apartment building. I think it might be related to that…British problem we talked about. Can you meet me there?” Donovan glanced at something behind him. “Yeah, I'm on my way, Mullins,” he called to the sergeant.

Gabriel glanced at his watch. Nine-thirty p.m. “I can be there in a couple of hours.”

Donovan frowned in frustration. “No sooner?”

Gabriel shrugged. “I'm out at Long Island, Felix.”

“Okay, okay. Two hours. Look, here's the address. I'll get rid of everyone else.”

Gabriel scrawled the address on his cigarette packet, the only scrap of paper he had to hand. “I'm on my way,” he said, reaching for the switch that would cut the connection. Then, hesitating, he caught Donovan by the eye. “Be careful, Felix. This thing you're getting us mixed up in—you don't know how big it could be.”

Donovan nodded, and then the connection went dead.

Ginny was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs when he returned to the party a few moments later. She took a long draw on her cigarette and eyed him through the ensuing haze of smoke. For a moment he felt disconcerted; it seemed as though her eyes were disembodied, floating there in the hallway, watching him. “Do you have to go?” she said, and he couldn't read what she was thinking.

“Yes, I have to go.”

“Are you in trouble?”

Gabriel laughed. “No. No, Ginny, I'm not in trouble. Someone needs my help.”

She gave him a coquettish grin. “Can I come?”

Gabriel shook his head. “I don't think that's a good idea. It might be dangerous.”

Ginny stepped forward, pressing herself up against him. “I'm in the market for a little danger, Gabriel.”

“You're drunk, Ginny.”

She smiled. “Not drunk enough.” She grabbed him by the lapel of his jacket and leaned in, kissing him lightly on the lips. “You can't leave me here, Gabriel. You simply can't.”

Gabriel didn't know what to say. The party was still raging around them. Henry was nowhere to be seen.

“Where are we going?”

Gabriel sighed.
“I'm
going to Manhattan. Ginny, look, it wouldn't be fair…” He stopped short as she pushed him away, glowering at him. He could see the hurt in her eyes, and suddenly it brought it all back, all the lies and the tears and the mistakes he'd made. No, it really wouldn't be fair, not to do that to her again.

No lies. No secrets. He'd promised himself that. He owed it to her. She'd meant so much to him before, and he'd never told her. He'd allowed her to think he was just a drunken playboy, allowed himself to push her away, keeping the real Gabriel hidden beneath layers of secrets and lies, protective barriers. This time it would be different. This time he had to trust her. He took a deep breath and lowered his voice to a whisper. He realized he was trembling. “Have you heard of a man called ‘the Ghost,' Ginny?”

She nodded, unsure where this was heading. “Yes. The crime fighter. The vigilante. I've read about him in the
Globe.
But what's he got to do with it?”

Gabriel put his hand on her arm.

“Well, there's something I need to tell you….”

“One of the neighbors reported gunfire, so a couple of the boys from uniform came down to check it out. They were expecting to find some kids playing around with a handgun. They weren't expecting this.” Donovan said this as he led the Ghost along the hallway to the door of the apartment where the body had been discovered.

The apartment block was a dingy sort of place, probably inhabited by more rats than humans. What was more, it stank. The Ghost had to cover his mouth and nose as he picked his way along behind Donovan, trying not to step in any of the heaps of discarded trash that had gathered in the stairwells or lobbies. It didn't fit at all with his mental image of the sort of place a foreign spy would set up shop. He supposed that was precisely the point.

He'd left Ginny in the car, keeping watch on the door. He still wasn't entirely sure if he'd done the right thing telling her about his double life. She'd seemed to find the whole thing terribly exciting, bombarding him with questions in the car all the way to Manhattan. He'd tried to impress upon her the gravity of the situation, the need to maintain the secrecy of his separate identities—the risk he'd taken by letting her in on his secret.

He'd also explained to her why he'd done it. Why he'd felt the need to be honest with her about it, about who he really was. At this she'd gone quiet, serious, circumspect.

Later, she'd watched in awe as he'd stripped in his apartment on Fifth Avenue, running her fingers over his scars, silent as he'd donned his black trench coat and fastened his buckles, collecting weapons from his armory in the back. She'd helped him to strap his fléchette gun in place, watched as he'd loaded pistols and secreted knives in hidden sheaths all over his body.

When they'd returned to the car to drive down to Greenwich Village, to the address Donovan had given him on the holotube, something had changed between them. Some slight alteration in the way she was acting. He wasn't quite sure what it was, but she'd looked at him differently. He'd wondered if she was judging him, if by telling her the truth he'd made a terrible mistake. Had he simply caused the rift between them to widen? When he'd sat behind the wheel, she'd looked over at him as if she didn't recognize him anymore. It went deeper than the change in appearance, too. She seemed to be seeing him for the first time.

He hadn't known how to respond, so he'd started the engine and the car had hissed away from the curb, trails of soot belching from its exhaust funnels. The way she'd looked at him—it was as if she'd seen into the core of him. It was as if the lines between Gabriel and the Ghost were blurring, merging, and he didn't know who he was any longer. The two halves of his life had collided, and the resulting confusion had been too much to deal with. So he'd buried all thoughts of it while he focused on helping Donovan, and he'd told Ginny to wait in the car, despite her protests. He'd put her in enough danger simply by bringing her along. He'd never forgive himself if something happened to her.

Donovan had been waiting for him in the lobby. He'd shut the lights off and ushered the Ghost in quietly, trying to remain inconspicuous. Then he'd led the way to the dead man and the apartment, where, it seemed, the British spy had based all of his operations.

The corpse was lying in the hallway, just behind the door. He'd clearly been there for a while—a day, at least—and if the pool of sticky blood beneath him wasn't testament enough to the damage that had been inflicted upon him, the butt of the penknife jutting out of his left eye socket was.

The Ghost dropped to his haunches so he could take a closer look. The dead man had clearly been well built, and, judging by the thin white scar running along the line of his jaw, he hadn't been a stranger to violence. The man's left eye had putrefied and dribbled out of the socket, leaving a terrible, gaping hole, caked in blood around the handle of the knife. The knife itself was buried all the way to the hilt. The killer had struck with considerable force, driving the blade right through the eye and piercing the brain behind it, killing the man instantly.

It wasn't a precision killing. Of that much the Ghost was sure. It looked more like the dead man had disturbed someone who'd panicked and used whatever weapon they had available. The dead man had been the one who'd fired the shots, it seemed—he had powder burns around his right wrist, and his corpse was still clutching the handgun.

“Have you checked his pockets?” the Ghost asked Donovan, who was standing behind him, regarding the corpse through narrowed eyes.

“Not personally,” Donovan replied, “although the men who found him said they were empty.”

“Completely empty?” The Ghost dug into the man's jacket pockets. When he found nothing, he turned out the pockets of the man's pants, too. Donovan was right—they were completely devoid of any belongings.

“Either he was a pro, a killer sent out to find our man, or the British agent stripped his pockets after he killed him.” Donovan stepped back to give the Ghost room to stand.

“I suppose either is possible,” said the Ghost, but I'd wager he's a government agent. That would explain what he was doing here. He probably tracked the spy back here and tried to take him out.

He glanced around, taking in the rest of the apartment. It was functional, to say the least. It didn't look as if anyone had actually lived here, but rather used it as a safe house, a place to hide away anything suspicious that might otherwise endanger his position. From what he knew about this spy, he'd managed to successfully infiltrate some impressive New York political circles, and that would have brought with it a high risk of exposure. He probably kept another apartment somewhere in the city, too.

The Ghost walked through to the bedroom, where it was immediately clear there'd been a struggle. The bed was mussed up and there was a pockmark in the wall where a gunshot had blown away a fragment of plaster. On the floor by the side of the bed was a shotup holotube transmitter, still wired into a socket in the wall.

“I left everything as we found it,” Donovan said, framed in the doorway, watching the Ghost as he paced back and forth, taking it all in. “Looks like the spy was trying to make a call when he was disturbed.”

The Ghost nodded. “That adds more credence to my theory about the dead man,” he said. “If they were trying to get to him before he passed his information back to London, or wherever, they'd have had people trailing his every move. If the dead guy had picked up his trail and followed him here, found him in the middle of making a call…well, it seems like he soon put an end to that, possibly at the expense of his own life.”