The 4 Phase Man (33 page)

“Brothers, I stand in opposition to the Council. I deny them their authority. They are not Corsican. They are not men. They are not human.

“For no human, no man,
no Corsican
, could possibly allow all these crimes against God and the Brotherhood to go unpunished. Join me and we will tear out the throats of the monsters who have raped our souls and the old men who are allowing it to continue.”

There were whispered conversations everywhere. Angry
discussions. Livid hushed tones. Then a chill went through the crowd.

Franco pulled off his shirt, picked up the dagger from his table, and made two deep diagonal cuts parallel to each other over his heart.

“I call for
the day of the plague.”
He held the bloody knife out to the crowd. “I call for you to join me in the day of the plague on
la Cina.”

The old man in the central chair jumped up, red-faced, furious, pounding on his table for attention.

“Franco,
scaricatore di porto. You
yourself have said that you cannot defeat these men! Have you suddenly been endowed with magical spirits? Would you lead these people into inevitable destruction?
Stronzo!”

“No,” Franco answered in a strong voice that rang off the rock. “I cannot lead them to their just revenge.”

“Chi,
allora?
Who, then? Or will you answer that only after more of our people have been led down the road to slaughter and ruin?
Chi, allora?”

Slowly Franco raised the knife toward the cliff behind the Council seats. Higher and higher he raised it as the crowd followed with their eyes and hearts and hopes.

“He
will,” was all he said in the dreadful silence.

And standing on top of that sheer cliff, the full moon behind him—as though he were a holy symbol on a consecrated Corsican shield—was a man, his bare chest still bleeding from the recent cuts of dedication.

“Dureté!” someone yelled out.

“Il Diavolo,” others—men who had known him—whispered as they crossed themselves.

“The day of the plague!” Xenos’s voice carried to the heart and soul of every man in the crowd.

Franco forced down a smile as he turned back to the assemblage. His voice was soft but strong, and carried to the farthest reaches of the amphitheater.
“Il giorno della peste.”

The crowd stirred as Fabrè stepped out of the audience, took the knife, and boldly cut his chest.
“Il giorno della
peste,”
he said with emphasis as he held the knife out to the crowd.

“Il giorno della peste.”
The crowd gasped as Vedette stepped forward, accepted the knife, and marked himself as a holy warrior.

“Il giorno della peste!”
Albina … and the die had been cast.

It took thirty minutes of shouts and proclamations before more than three hundred of the men had marked themselves for battle.

Amid it all, no one noticed the Council led quietly away.

Their
time was over.

The day of the plague
had begun.

It was almost enough to make her question her commitment to the cause.

Almost.

But then the coming payoff was so great, the possibilities so exciting, that she could probably put up with yet another day of madness, chaos, and debris.

Since Valerie’s disappearance, Barbara had been doing a balancing act—appearing the loyal staffer trying to put the best spin possible on her boss becoming a fugitive.

Working to undermine Valerie’s credibility wherever possible the rest of the time.

Running the office on her own, reporting irregularly to her next up in the Apple Blossom chain, had left her tired and irritable. She wasn’t sleeping, was eating sporadically, snapping at everyone she came in contact with.

But tonight was Friday—nothing loomed over the weekend that was urgent—and she hurried to her car in the House staff parking lot with high expectations.

Barring last-minute calls from staff, constituents, or spymasters, she would spend the weekend in Atlantic City, gambling with the constantly replenished account that was a small part of her reward.

As she picked her way through Dupont Circle traffic, she saw the White House rise up in front of her.
She smiled.

Everybody had a price, her mother had been fond of saying. And she thought that was about right. For the handsome traitor in the midst of his confirmation hearings, that price would soon be the presidency.

But that was too short-term a power for Barbara. Eight years, and then what? No.
Her price
held more permanence to it, more of a long-lasting high. A thing that she would wallow in, cover herself with, for the next few decades at least.

With the inauguration of President Jefferson DeWitt, Apple Blossom would end for the ambitious young woman.

As
Chrysanthemum
would begin.

Then, six short years later—after stints in the Treasury Department and Securities Exchange Commission—Barbara Krusiec would become a senior vice president at the World Bank. From there—with advance
inside
information on the major economic developments of a planet—it was a short step toward never having to have anyone replenish
any
accounts.

All for being willing to help here and there, now and then.

She smiled as she pulled out of traffic onto the large superhighway as she headed for a suburban shuttle airport.

It wasn’t treason—what she would do now or in the future—she felt. Treason required an initial allegiance to something. A thing Barbara had never experienced.

Born into the “noble poverty” of the South of the fifties, her mother had worked four jobs to provide for the three children without a father among them. Elaine Krusiec had taken her children regularly to the ramshackle church that promised redemption and salvation, but never explained why the minister had two cars and the congregation was starving.

Barbara ran away at twelve and immediately began reinventing herself. Bright and intuitive, she figured early
on who and how to manipulate—emotionally, intellectually, sexually (just another currency to the jaded young girl)—in order to get whatever she wanted.

Which was—primarily—to be someone else.

As she pulled into the exit lane before Rodney & McKean Regional Air Park, she had almost accomplished that. Just a few more days, and her future would be—inalterably—set.

A van pulled up alongside her town car, close to the boundary of his lane, but still legal. Normally Barbara would’ve honked or sped up or slowed down, but there was another van in front of her (slowing down, it seemed) and yet a third behind her.

Muttering the foulest expletive she could think of, she settled in to wait for the exit … as the side door of the van to her left slid open and a ski-masked man let loose with both barrels of his shotgun.

Her windshield and left rear window exploded in a spray of glass and smoke as she jerked the car hard over to the right. Crashing through the railing, she heard two more shots echo behind her as she careened down an embankment. Gripping the wheel with white knuckles, her head barely peeking through a jagged hole in the front glass, she struggled to control the car’s slide.

It came to a stop with a sick thud against four water-filled traffic barrels that had—thankfully—been placed at the bottom of the hill exactly where she’d skidded. They threw up a wash of soapy water, drenching car and driver.

Slowly Barbara checked to see if she was still alive. No broken bones, a slight cut on her left cheek, and with a life expectancy ten years less whatever it had been a few seconds before.

But she
was
alive.

She quickly climbed out of the car, looking back up the hill. The attack had happened at close to sixty miles an hour, so there’d been no chance for the gunman to turn and follow her down the hill, even if he’d been crazy enough to do that.

She was on a service road, chain-link-and barbed-wire-fenced industrial parks across from the embankment. No traffic, people, or phones.

Shaking her head, daubing at her bleeding cheek with a piece of tissue, she returned to her car, pulling out her purse and cell phone.

The battery indicated it was fine, the phone looked undamaged, but there was no sound—even static—on the device. She tried several more times, then gave up. Throwing her purse strap over her neck and shoulder, she headed down the service road.

Then froze.

As a van slowly appeared and accelerated toward her.

She saw the puff of smoke a moment before she heard the shot, but it didn’t matter. She was off and running at the sight of the vehicle.

There was no place to run to, though. The steep hill on one side, the dangerous fencing on the other, and the van behind. Her high heels flew away, her feet tore and ripped on the unimproved asphalt. Her heart seemed about to fly out of her chest as she heard the van get closer and a shot roar through the air around her.

Then, as if in response to her silent shouting prayers, she saw a thin hole torn through the fencing just ahead.

Dodging another shot from the van, she dived through, propelling herself into a maze of abandoned Dumpsters and Porta Pottis.

She hid in and among that putrescence for the next three hours. Never seeing two of the vans pull back to her car and load the lifesaving water barrels.

Or a flatbed almost immediately arrive and haul off her car as other men smoothed out the tracks of her car’s slide.

Or a man remove a cellular line disrupter from under a chicken bucket less than twenty feet from her car, and move it to near the spot in the fence she’d disappeared through.

Three hours after dark, still terrified, breathing heavily and unable to stand her own stench, Barbara climbed out of a
Dumpster. Carefully looking around at the deserted storage facility, she took a deep breath and headed for where she hoped the entrance would be. Ten minutes later she found it—using a nearby ladder to climb over the fence and jump onto the trunk of a conveniently parked car.

Which way to go? The street was well lit, light traffic, no people or businesses; just other warehouses or storage yards. Then she saw a van—maybe
the van
—slowly move through the intersection to her left.

She started off to her right.

The first three pay phones she got to were out of order. The fourth, in the back of a deserted gas station, worked. Her fear rapidly being overcome by her anger, she dialedthe 800 number from memory.

“Bayshore Imports, night desk, this is Lou.”

“Somebody tried to kill me,” she said in an angry whisper.

“Who is this?” the mystified voice said in a light tone. “Is this George down in Shipping?”

“Somebody tried to goddamn kill me and I want some help now!”

“Identify yourself,” the voice said suddenly in a cold whisper, “or the connection will be terminated.”

Barbara took a deep breath, trying desperately to remember a procedure she’d had no cause to use in eight years.

“This is Chrysanthemum,” she said with bile. “I’ve been hit.”

“Stand by, Chrysanthemum,” was the last thing she heard before the phone was ripped out of her hand.

The man with the receiver in his hand leered at her. “She’s a little dirty. But that’s a tight little body under that shit.”

Two more men moved in front of her.

“We could always take the clothes off her,” one said.

“Clean her up some before,” the other said.

The man behind her dropped the receiver, turned, kicking open the nearby bathroom door. “Bring her in here,” he ordered.

As the first man reached for her, Barbara ducked and took off at a dead run. A moment later all three men were after her.

She turned the corner, praying to find some help, or just a group of people standing around that would scare off the bastards gaining on her.

As she collided with a man in a cheap suit.

“Hey!” He peeled her off him.

She looked back, seeing that the men had stopped, were arguing among themselves, then turned and left. “Thank God!”

The man stepped back from her. “Are you okay? he asked as he viewed her with disdain.”

She tried to dust some of the filth off, to pull her hair back. “Uh, yeah. I’ve been in an accident. Sorry.”

The man shook his head. “What’d you do, hit a fertilizer truck?”

“Uh,” something like that. She looked around, suddenly seeing the open trunk of the car next to them. “I, uh, could really use a ride.”

The man looked suspicious. “Listen, I could call the police for you or something. But I don’t think it’d be right…”

“Listen, I just need to get out of this neighborhood, okay? It’s not safe, she said, looking back over her shoulder.”

The man seemed unsure, then nodded. “Of course. I’m sorry. I should know better, I guess.” He offered her his handkerchief. “The Lord says we must treat the most humble as the most exalted.”

He opened the passenger door for her, then moved to close the trunk. “And be charitable to the most wretched of his creations.”

“Thank you, uh, Mr….”

“Oliver. Oliver O’Neill.”

She hesitated before getting in the car. “You some kind of a minister, Mr. O’Neill?” The interior of the car was neat and tidy, a small crucifix hanging from the
rearview mirror. On it was an icon of Saint Margaret, the patron saint of lost, hopeless, and abandoned women.

Her only companion on many nights alone in a hungry past.

“Not exactly,” O’Neill said as he rummaged in the trunk before closing it. He handed her a book. “I sell study Bibles to religious schools.”

Exhaustion and instinct conquering her rampant fears—the vans and the men somewhere behind her—Barbara collapsed into the comfortable car.

“Where do you need to go?” O’Neill asked.

“Which way you headed?”

“Next stop is Saint Barnabas’s Academy in Georgetown.”

For the first time in hours, she breathed a relaxed breath and nodded, thinking of the safety of the Georgetown apartment.

“Works for me.”

They pulled away, Barbara never seeing a van pull up to the corner behind them to pick up the men who’d chased her.