No Survivors (8 page)

The suite was right at the end of the corridor, by the emergency exit. As she passed it, Alix thought she heard footsteps. She opened the door a fraction and listened. Yes, there were definitely footsteps, several of them, coming up the stairs, still some flights below. She muttered a Russian expletive under her breath. The housekeeper must have reported her missing key. They were after her.

She glanced down the corridor. If there were men coming up the stairs, others would be using the elevator. She prayed she had enough time. Leaving the coat and bag by the door, she dashed back into the suite. A pair of French windows led from the sitting room to a balcony with views across the city. She flung the glass doors wide open, then ran to the bathroom, wrapped the key card in toilet paper to make it sink, and flushed that, too. Then she bolted to the door, leaving it open as she went.

The footsteps from the stairway were much louder now. They couldn’t be more than a floor below her.

Alix started walking toward the elevator. Along the way, she draped the laundry bag around the door handle of another room. The housekeeping staff would pick it up and clean everything inside, removing any trace of her identity.

When the elevator doors opened and the hotel security chief and his men stepped out, she was there to meet them. Every single one of those men saw a hot blonde casually leaning against the corridor wall with her hands behind her back and her tits poking out of a sexy corset. Not one of them saw a thief holding a coat. By the time the doors of the elevator had closed behind them, she had slipped by and was pressing the button for the ground floor.

 

 

 

Alix sauntered into the hotel bar. The men’s gazes warmed her like sunlight, making her blossom. The women’s eyes were a challenge she was ready to overcome. Her back was straighter, her head held more proudly, her walk just a twitch more flirtatious in her tightly cut skirt and teetering heels. She thought of the last time she’d done this and the night that had followed. Then she ordered a kir royale.

“Please charge it to Room one thirty-eight,” she told the barman as she took a stool by the counter. “The name is Schultz.”

She cast a practiced eye around the bar, looking for the best marks. A man sitting alone at a table, just across the room, caught her eye. His dark hair, slicked back across a tanned but balding crown, was just graying at the temples. His dark-blue suit was immaculate, his silk tie perfectly chosen to complement the sky-blue cotton shirt. The watch was a gold Mariner model, on a polished brown leather strap. He was, in short, the epitome of sophisticated, middle-aged European wealth. And he was looking at Alix with a smile playing around the corner of his mouth that suggested he knew exactly what she was up to. And he didn’t mind at all.

She pretended not to pay him any attention. But from the corner of her eye, she saw him summon a waiter and hand him a piece of paper. Half a minute later, a freshly sparkling glass of kir appeared beside her. Slipped beneath the glass was a note. It simply read,
Ponti, 446, 10 mins.
By the time she turned around to acknowledge the message, his table was empty. She was impressed. This man was as practiced as she was.

So now the deal was on the table. All she had to do was go upstairs and fulfill her side of a civilized, adult transaction. All her years of experience, and his own calm assessment of the situation, suggested that Ponti would prove an adept, experienced lover. He would not be grudging or ungenerous. If the night went well and he was a regular visitor to the city, he might very well suggest a more regular arrangement. Her financial security would be assured, and with it Carver’s treatment. As these arrangements went, it would be as good as she could possibly expect.

And that was what made her realize that she simply could not go through with it. She couldn’t fool herself anymore. Even more important, she couldn’t save Carver on those terms. She tried to imagine what he would think if he knew what she was doing. Would he tell her to go ahead?

The question was no sooner asked than answered.

She left the bar, picked up her coat from the cloakroom, and walked from the hotel, feeling utterly deflated.

All her newfound confidence had disappeared, leaving her even more bereft than before. She had tried to determine her own future, and save the man she loved, but her efforts had been futile. Her defeat was absolute.

T
he years since Waylon McCabe’s fall from the sky had treated him well. His image had been transformed by his religious conversion. Gone were the accusations of brutal business practices, political corruption, and environmental vandalism. Now McCabe was hailed as a philanthropist, donor to a billion-dollar charitable endowment, and a man of profound religious principles. In the official report, compiled by Canada’s Civil Aviation board, the crash had been classified as an accident. But McCabe didn’t believe that for one second. Someone had been out to get him, and they’d damn near succeeded.

If he had to put money on it, he’d bet it was that mechanic—LUNDIN was the name on his badge—coming into the airport lounge, practically begging him to get on that plane. He’d been up to Inuvik plenty of times, but he’d never seen that mechanic before. Probably never see him again, either, which was a pity.

He’d have liked to shake the man’s hand.

Recently, however, things had changed. Now he wasn’t feeling quite so charitable. A shadow had fallen over his life, casting him in a darkness that filled him with dread. Just thinking about it made his heart pound and his mind panic. He was glad of the distraction when he heard the knock on the door. By the time he opened it to greet Kurt Vermulen, McCabe was back in control, displaying no signs of unease, his usual, impregnable self once again.

He motioned Vermulen to sit down and poured him a whiskey. Then he served himself and relaxed into the chair opposite. As he sat, his trouser legs rode up to reveal the ornate leatherwork on his five-thousand-dollar custom-made black boots from Tex Robin of Abilene. His suit might come from some fancy tailor in New York City, but his boots were pure Texas.

“So, you think this al-Qaeda is a real threat?” McCabe asked, opening the conversation.

Vermulen nodded. “I think it constitutes a clear and present danger to the security of the United States and our allies, yes.”

McCabe had been born-again for five years now, but he had never stopped thinking like a businessman. He still saw the world in terms of transactions.

“So why don’t we sit down with them, figure out what they want, try to make a deal?” he asked.

“There is no deal to be made,” said Vermulen, with absolute certainty. “They aren’t interested in negotiations. You can’t reason with them, can’t appease them or change their minds. They know what they want and they won’t settle for anything less.”

“And that is . . . ?”

Vermulen had the list hardwired: “The removal of all U.S. troops from Saudi soil, the destruction of Israel, the toppling of all Middle Eastern governments with friendly ties to the West, and the setting up of a global Muslim state governed by Muslim religious law. They call it the Caliphate.”

“These people must have a leader,” said McCabe. “Who is he, what’s he like?”

“They call him the Sheikh.” Vermulen swirled the whiskey in his glass, contemplating the patterns of light shining through it as he collected his thoughts.

“When I knew him, back in Peshawar, he was about thirty, still a young man. He had dark hair, a thick beard. He was tall and very slim—very rich, too, a sophisticated, educated guy, with relatives who are living, right now, right here in the States. But he dressed in simple robes and barely ate anything: A loaf of unleavened bread, some yogurt, and a handful of rice—that was like a feast. His people knew that if they were going hungry, so was he. He’s an inspirational orator, a natural commander, strong and fearless in combat. I mean, I believe he’s evil, all right, but I’ve got to tell you, this is one impressive individual.”

McCabe’s face gave nothing away. Inside, though, he was exultant. His instinct had been right: Vermulen was describing the Antichrist. The prophecies were coming true. A path was lighting up before him, a route to salvation and immortality.

“Let me get this straight,” he said. “This Sheikh has a personal army. He can bend people to his will, he wants to destroy the Jews, he hates Christianity, and he aims to see the rule of Allah across the world. Is that what you’re saying?”

“That would be a fair summary. You see, to a devout Muslim, the earth is divided in two. First, there’s the Muslim world, where they can pursue their religion in safety and follow Islamic law. They call that
Dar al-Islam,
which means the House of Peace. The rest of the world, that’s
Dar al-Harb,
the House of War. And the radical, fundamentalist Islamic scholars maintain that those who live in the House of War have no right to live. In fact, it’s a religious duty to kill them. And what they mean by that is, kill us, Americans.”

“But you’ve tried to warn people . . .”

“As much as I can. I speak to contacts in Washington, the people I do business with every day. I just lay out the evidence, Mr. McCabe. Try to persuade them to see things the way I do.”

“It ain’t workin’, though, is it, General? You’re tryin’ to make your case, but you don’t have enough to convince the jury.”

Vermulen grimaced. “Seems like it.”

McCabe gave a sympathetic shrug, drawing Vermulen in, painting himself as the ally he needed.

“Well, I guess that’s their problem, ’cause you sure convinced me. I can feel that war comin’, and I want to help you raise the alarm. But you’d better think about how you’re gonna make folks come around to your point of view. I mean, if you can’t find the evidence you need, you’re gonna have to go right ahead and create some. Wouldn’t be the first time. Johnson did it with the Gulf of Tonkin, draggin’ us into Vietnam. Hell, I’m old enough to remember when Roosevelt did it at Pearl Harbor.”

“I don’t think that was anything other than enemy action.”

“Whatever you say, General, but plenty of folks say otherwise. Fact remains, you need a Pearl Harbor of your own, somethin’ spectacular, a moment of revelation that’s gonna make the whole world sit up and focus on the threat we face.”

McCabe was focusing the entire weight of his personality on Vermulen, bringing to bear all the persuasive, almost seductive powers of negotiation acquired over a lifetime of buying low, selling high, and always coming out on the right side of the deal.

“You know, General, you’ve got me thinkin’—heck, you’ve inspired me. We’re gonna do somethin’ great, you an’ me, and I’ll tell you when it’s gonna happen: Easter Sunday, the day we celebrate the conquest of evil and death. If you’re lookin’ for a time to strike back at the Antichrist, go ahead and name me a better one.”

McCabe did not wait for a reply before he went on.

“Let me see,” he said, pulling a slim black appointment book from a jacket pocket and flicking through its pages. “Here we go . . . this year, Easter’s April the twelfth, more’n two months away. So I suggest you think awhile on what I said. When you figure something out that can suit both our purposes, come and tell me about it. If I like what I hear, I’ll pay whatever it costs to make it happen.”

As he showed Vermulen to the door, McCabe said, “We’re gonna work well together, General, I can feel it. That Sheikh’s about to find out he ain’t the only dog in this fight.”

McCabe had said his final words with a grin, and ended them with a wheezing cackle, but as he closed the door behind Vermulen, his good humor vanished as if it had never been.

Alone in the room, with nothing and no one else there to distract him, the darkness fell on him again. His mind was filled with a secret terror as powerful as anything he had experienced as his plane fell from the Canadian sky.

Just a few weeks before, unable to shake the cough that had dogged him all winter, he had finally gone to see his doctor. Within hours he’d been referred to an oncologist at the M. D. Anderson Cancer Center in Houston. By the end of the week he’d got a second opinion, just to make sure, from the top man at Sloan-Kettering in New York.

Both said the same thing. McCabe had two inoperable tumors on his lungs. The cancer had also spread to his brain. The doctors weren’t certain, but they thought the cancer might have been caused by the chemicals he’d inhaled inside that burning plane. McCabe could see the bitter irony in that: His assassin had got him after all. He had only months to live, nine at the outside, but he’d be hospitalized in six. He was heading downhill toward a yawning grave. And so the fear that gripped McCabe’s heart and ate away at his mind was that he might pass before the great day came.

Of course, he believed in the resurrection of the body and the life everlasting. He reaffirmed that faith every week in church. But his faith was no defense when the thought of his own nonexistence gripped him in the darkest hours of the night. Despite the comforting words of the creed, he could not be certain of being woken from that last, great sleep. He wanted, more than anything else, to be alive, with his eyes wide open, on that great day when the Lord returned to His people. He longed to see the holocaust of which the Reverend Ezekiel Ray had spoken, when Christ would crush the grapes of wrath and the blood of His enemies would fill the valleys of Israel to the brim.

If that holocaust wasn’t going to happen of its own accord, well, Waylon McCabe was damn well going to make it happen, even if it cost him every last dime he had. And Lieutenant General Kurt Vermulen, whose passionate conviction and desperate need to be believed had left him hopelessly vulnerable to McCabe’s manipulation, was just the man to help him do it.