The Dragon Factory (39 page)

“I want to know what’s happening. And I want to be informed the minute that either Paris or Hecate has been killed. The minute, Otto.”

Otto nodded but didn’t respond. It was an unreasonable and irrational demand. A sure sign that it was time for a fresh set of pills. That would be tricky, because suggesting it while Cyrus was in this frame of mind was sure to spark a murderous rage. Though Otto was not physically afraid of Cyrus Jakoby, there was a very real danger to the plan. In the past few years Cyrus’s rages had resulted in damage to crucial equipment and the murder or maiming of key staff members, all of which impacted the smooth flow of production. That, in turn, harmed the launching of the Extinction Wave.

The upcoming date of September 1 had been selected during one of Cyrus’s whimsical phases and celebrated the discovery of the asteroid Juno by German astronomer Karl L. Harding. Cyrus insisted that the
asteroid had not been discovered prior to that date because it had not come into existence until God put it there as a sign. The previous date for the launch of the Wave had held far more personal significance for Otto—May 20, the anniversary of the beginning of construction of Auschwitz. Before that it had been April 30, the anniversary of Hitler’s suicide. Otto was determined to make the September 1 deadline, even if the astronomical connection meant less than nothing to him.

The second and third Extinction Waves were already lined up, and both would be ready well before their initial planning dates. If they stayed with this schedule, then the global release of ethnic-specific pathogens would reach critical saturation by May of the following year. The computer models predicted that by September of next year the death toll among the mud people would be closing in on 1 billion. In five years there would only be a billion people left alive on the planet, and unless they possessed some currently unknown immunity, none of the survivors would be black, Asian, or Hispanic. The thought of that gave Otto a sexual thrill far more intense than anything he ever got from a woman. The New Order was not only a perfect plan; it was also within their reach.

Unless Cyrus went too long without his pills.

Once they seized the Dragon Factory, Cyrus would likely calm down. He would have so many new toys to play with. But while the likelihood of accomplishing that goal was still fluid, then Cyrus’s moods would swing further out of balance.

Otto would have to think of something to get Cyrus to take his pills. If it came down to it, Otto could always hit him with a dart gun. It wouldn’t be the first time.

The Warehouse, Baltimore, Maryland

Sunday, August 29, 5:33
A.M.

Time Remaining on the Extinction Clock: 78 hours, 27 minutes

“Life unworthy of life,” Bug said slowly. “Man, that has an ugly feel to it.”

“It’s the core of Nazi eugenics,” Church said. “It refers to those people—or groups of people—who they believed had no right to live.”

“If these assholes have their way,” Bug said softly, “half the people at this table won’t make the cut. We’re not ‘master race’ material.”

“Is anyone?” asked Church. “The idea of a master race belonged to the Nazis . . . it was not and is not part of the cultural aspirations of the German people.”

“So that’s why Haeckel was corresponding with an asshole like Mengele,” Bug said, putting it together now. “They were all playing for the same team.”

“But how did his records ever make it out of Germany?” demanded Grace. “Wasn’t Haeckel considered a war criminal?”

“No,” said Church. “His involvement with the Nazi movement was never fully established even after the war. He was supposedly a dealer in medical instruments and even did work with the International Red Cross. He was sly enough to stay off the political radar, and it’s very likely that he fled the country when things started going bad for Germany. A lot of Nazis were able to read the writing on the wall. They were losing the war, but many of them were so dedicated—or perhaps fanatical—that they wanted to lay the groundwork for their research so that it could start up again somewhere else. Haeckel might have gone to South America or even come directly here.”

“How the hell could he swing that?” asked Bug. “No way a Nazi could just come waltzing into the U.S. during the war.”

Grace shook her head. “Don’t be naïve, Bug. There was active communication and even some under-the-radar commerce between Germany and some U.S. corporations during the war. Very low-key, but
definitely there. There are people who always have what they call a ‘big picture’ view that basically lets them justify anything because they know that wars end and countries usually kiss and make up. Nowadays you Yanks are chums with Germany, Russia, Japan, even Vietnam.”

“It can’t be that easy,” Bug said stubbornly.

“It’s not,” said Church, “but when there’s enough money on the table a way is always found. Heinrich Haeckel disappeared from the public before the end of the war. Either he never made it out of Germany and was among the nameless dead or he came here and set up under a different identity. I’d place my money on the latter. From the way things have played out, it’s likely he died here before passing along the records in his possession; otherwise the Cabal would have sought them out decades ago. My guess is that his nephew recently uncovered some reference to it among family papers and that started the race to Deep Iron.”

“I can see why Haeckel and his Nazi buds would want the records,” I said, “but who’s the other team? The guys I tussled with in Deep Iron?”

“Unknown. Possibly a splinter faction, or freelancers looking to steal the material and sell it on the black market. We don’t know enough yet to make a solid guess.”

“Was Gunnar a scientist, too?” Grace asked.

“No,” said Church. “He was muscle.”

“You thought you killed him,” I said, “but now he’s alive and well in Brazil, where he’s taking Rotary Club lunkheads on safaris for mythological animals.”

“Yeah,” said Bug, “how’s that stack up to a grave threat to humanity?”

“The unicorn,” I said, and Hu nodded agreement.

“Okay, I’m missing something, so spell it out for me.”

Church said, “Science has come a long way since the Cold War, and genetics is a booming field. However, there are limits to what can be discovered during modern research. International laws and watchdog organizations are moderately effective, and a master race research program would need a huge database, including a massive number of tissue samples and test subjects. That would be virtually impossible nowadays without the cooperation of an entire government.”

“Right,” Hu said. “The Nazis had the cooperation of an entire government during World War Two, and they had millions of test subjects. Everyone who passed through the camps. Those records you found probably include extensive information on ethnic background, gender, age, and many other variables. The boxes of index cards with brown fingerprints . . . those are blood samples. Thirty years ago DNA mapping wasn’t possible. The first DNA typing was accomplished in 1985 by Sir Alec Jeffreys at the University of Leicester in England. The Cabal had been torn down by then. What we stopped was a first step in gathering information that could be used when science caught up to the dreams of a master race.”

“Can we do DNA typing from dried blood?” Grace asked.

“Sure,” said Hu. “DNA typing has been done from Guthrie cards, which are widely collected at birth for newborn screening for genetic diseases and saved by many states. I read about a case where the paternity of a car accident victim was determined using blood from a seventeen-year-old Band-Aid.”

“So those cards and the records help them regain their info on bloodlines,” Grace said.

“Yes. Crafting a race of genetically perfect beings is the core ideal in eugenics,” said Hu, “but it isn’t quick. It’s extreme social Darwinism, which means that it’s a generational process. Quicker than natural evolution, but by no means quick. Unless, of course, you have access to genetic design capabilities that include transgenics. By remodeling DNA they could create more perfect humans in one or two generations.”

“Unicorns . . . ,” Bug prompted.

“Captain Ledger already sorted that out,” said Church. “It’s a moneymaking scheme not out of keeping with the Cabal mentality. Charge the superrich millions to hunt a trophy no one else can possibly have. It satisfies certain desires and it provides vast operating capital for a group like the Cabal. But more important, it demonstrates the advanced degree of genetic science they have at their disposal.”

“The bloodline information, the advanced science, the money,” I said. “It not only looks like the Cabal is back . . . but now they have a
real shot at accomplishing what it took a world war and forty years of the Cold War to try and stop.”

“Yes,” said Hu. “These maniacs may well have the science to accomplish both challenges implicit in the eugenics ideal.”

“Which are?” Bug asked.

“Not only do you have to make one race stronger,” Hu said. “You have to make the other races weaker.”

Grace gave us a bleak stare. “Or you have to remove them entirely.”

We sat in horrified silence for a long moment before Bug asked, “How do we stop it? We don’t even know who’s involved, or how far along they are, or—”

Before he could finish, the phone rang. Church answered, and even with his typical lack of emotion I could tell that it wasn’t good news.

Deep Iron Storage Facility

Sunday, August 29, 5:36
A.M.

Time Remaining on the Extinction Clock: 78 hours, 24 minutes E.S.T.

Lt. Jerry Spencer, head of the DMS forensic investigation division and former Washington police detective, sat on the edge of a desk in the main office of Deep Iron. He felt old and tired and used up. He held his cell phone in one hand and drummed the fingers of his other hand in slow beats on the plastic shell. His eyes were bloodshot from working the Deep Iron crime scene—which was really a collection of related crime scenes—for a dozen hours, and that had been on the heels of working the ambush scene in Wilmington. There was a call he had to make, but his heart had sunk so low in his chest that he didn’t think he could do it.

He sighed, rubbed his eyes, and punched in the numbers.

Mr. Church answered on the third ring.

Spencer said, “I found Jigsaw Team.”

He said it in a way that could only mean one thing.

Church’s voice was soft. “Tell me.”

The Warehouse, Baltimore, Maryland

Sunday, August 29, 5:37
A.M.

Time Remaining on the Extinction Clock: 78 hours, 23 minutes

Church set down his phone and placed it neatly on the table. Then he stood up and walked to the far end of the room and stood looking out at the choppy brown water of the harbor. His back was to us, and I could see his broad shoulders slump. We all looked at one another.

“That was Jerry Spencer,” Church said without turning. “They found Jigsaw.”

We waited, not asking, not wanting to hurry bad news.

“Spencer found sets of tire tracks out in the foothills. He figured the Russian team drove to within a mile and walked in, and he followed the tracks back into the hills and found their vehicles. The Russians had come in a couple of vans. But there were two DMS Hummers there, too. Spencer said it looked like both Hummers had been taken out with RPGs. Hack Peterson . . . his whole team. They never had a chance, probably never saw it coming. The vehicles had been sprayed down with fire extinguishers—probably so the smoke wouldn’t attract attention—and then covered with broken tree branches.”

“
Dios mio
,” murmured Rudy. Bug looked stricken, and even Dr. Hu had enough humanity to look upset.

Grace closed her eyes. Her hands lay on the tabletop and slowly constricted into white-knuckled fists. Hack Peterson was the last of the DMS agents who had worked for Church as long as Grace had. They were friends who had shared the line of battle fifty times. Without any bit of exaggeration it was fair to say that together they had saved America—and a big chunk of the world—from some of the most dangerous and vile threats it had ever faced. Hack was a genuine hero, and those were in damned short supply.

I took her hand. “I’m so sorry,” I said softly.

She raised her head. There were no tears, but her eyes were bright and glassy, her face flushed with all the emotion I knew she would not
release. Not here, not on the job. Maybe not at all. Like me, she was a warrior on the battlefield.

“God,” she murmured, “it’s never going to stop, is it? Are we going to go on and on fighting this sodding war until we kill everyone and everything? We’re a race of madmen!”

I squeezed her hand.

Church turned back to face us. His tinted glasses hid his eyes, but his mouth was a tight line and muscles bulged and flexed in the corners of his jaw. Just for a moment, and then his control fell back into place with a steel clang.

“Spencer said that he also discovered how the other team escaped. He followed the blood trail from the Haeckel unit. He said that there were two sets of spatters, one that fell from at least five feet, which is probably the one you stabbed in the mouth, Captain, and the other showed heavy blood loss that fell with less velocity from a lower point. Spencer figures it for a leg wound. They took an elevator up to the surface. Spencer figures in Haeckel’s bin you’d have been too far away to hear the hydraulics. Then they climbed up through the air vents to the roof and dropped down the side opposite where Brick was positioned. Spencer was able to follow the blood trail for half a mile to a side road, and from there tire tracks led away. He found two sets of footprints. Size twelve and size fourteen shoes. He’s doing the math on the impressions, but he estimates that the men were well in excess of two hundred pounds . . . probably closer to three.”