The Nameless Dead (27 page)

As we approached the first pair of buildings, I saw a long spear wave above the roof and heard muffled commands.

We were expected.

R
udi Crane was in Hercules-1, the company Learjet, en route to New York’s La Guardia airport. He was working at his computer, running an eye over the balance sheets from the various divisions. He was gratified to see that activities in the Far East were coming in above projected earnings, while the Middle East was running at its usual excellent levels. Even domestic business was up, proving that some things really were recession-proof. Private security was expanding at a rate that surprised many, but not Crane. It had been obvious to him for years that an economic crash would increase the gap between rich and poor, giving Hercules a golden opportunity to ensure that customers felt safe in their gated communities, places of work and country clubs. Investments that he’d made years ago were now bearing fruit—for which, as always, the Lord was to be thanked.

Hitting the keys with two fingers—whoever would have thought that chief executives would need secretarial skills?—Crane brought up the company profile. Red dots across the globe showed Hercules facilities,
while there was a mixture of red and blue on the continental U.S.—the latter color marking operations that the company financed, but kept its involvement secret for various reasons. Texas had more of those than any other state because of favorable tax and firearms legislation. There was an underwater combat training unit near Galveston and an advanced cavalry section north of Lubbock—riding skills had proved to be very useful in parts of Russia and Africa—but the preacher’s attention was not focused on those blue dots. He clicked on another one and a drop-down menu appeared. The third line offered voice connection. The call was answered immediately and a clipped voice gave him an encouraging update. Praise be, everything was in hand.

‘Mr. Crane?’

He looked up and smiled at the ice-blonde stewardess. She was Ukrainian and he had chosen her himself from a lineup provided by the Hercules team in that country. Unfortunately, he could never recall her name.

‘Thank you, my dear.’ He took the glass of tomato juice and sipped experimentally. ‘Excellent. A touch less Tabasco the next time.’

The young woman bowed and stepped away.

Katya, Crane remembered. He must remember that when she came to his sleeping quarters later. In the meantime, he had to refresh his memory about the week to come. He was using the United Nations Conference on Climate Change to bring Hercules Solutions even more into the public eye, which meant a large amount of schmoozing with mercenary politicians and their hangers-on.
Schmoozing?
He banished the word from
his vocabulary. It sounded Jewish. Anyway, there would be plenty of opportunity to fly the company flag, not least because he had recently begun an initiative to make all Hercules facilities and vehicles as green as possible in countries and states where that was important—not Texas, of course. It was important to give clients all the help they could get when it came to deciding on which company to use. Not that he believed in climate change. The whole thing was obviously a conspiracy by left-leaning intellectuals to jam up the wheels of business. Besides, the Lord had everything in hand. With Armageddon fast approaching, those who deserved to be saved would be taken up to Heaven. For those who remained, the state of the planet would be the least of their worries.

Before he went to the well-appointed bedroom at the rear of the cabin, Rudi Crane dropped to his knees and gave thanks for the support his plans had received from the Good Lord. Recent developments had showed that he had been right to cut loose from Jack Thomson and his Nazi fantasies. It wasn’t necessary to believe in outdated ideologies, let alone debase oneself in impious devil worship. The traditions he had grown up covered things much more effectively, even if it was sometimes necessary to make exceptions: some of his best combat leaders were black; Hercules Solutions also used Jewish lawyers and accountants, and Asian bankers. Of course, none of them were candidates for the Rapture.

Crane got to his feet, holding on to the chair as the jet hit minor turbulence. When he’d been younger, he would have parted company with his lunch in such a situation, but he had trained his body to control itself.

‘Oh, Katya,’ he called.

Swallowing bile, the stewardess walked toward the preacher, her blouse already undone.

‘Got any ideas?’ I asked, as we approached the damaged building.

‘Weapons,’ Sara said, banging her staves together. ‘Concentrate on replacing these with anything that’s more lethal.’ Her forehead shone in the flickering light, but her face was set hard. ‘I’ll take the front. You see what’s round that corner.’

My mouth was dry, but my heart rate wasn’t excessively rapid. I was in some kind of zone, ready to fight to the end. I had to make this good—for Karen and our son, but also for my trainers, Dave and Quincy. I glanced at Sara. I should have been paying her back for their deaths, but that could wait. Without her, I had much less chance of getting to the far side of Hades. The last I saw, she was pointing the long staff like a lance and charging the shattered door.

There were two figures waiting for me at the side of the building. I applied the long staff to the first one’s rat head and hit the second with the short staff where I guessed his chin was under the demon mask. They dropped like stones. I went to the corner and looked round, pulling my head back rapidly as something came toward it at speed. I looked behind me and saw a wooden shaft quivering in the trunk of a withered tree. I ran to it and wrenched out the weapon. It had a wicked steel point like a javelin’s.

I replaced the smaller staff with the spear and went back to the corner, narrowly avoiding another missile.
I went after the thrower, sprinting round the corner with a loud roar. A large man wearing a peaked cap and fatigues stepped back, then dropped the spear he was holding and raised his hands when he saw me. His face was brown and he had a mustache.

‘Please, please,’ he gabbled. ‘They give us orders.’

I put the point of the spear at his throat. ‘Tell them to fall back and drop their weapons!’ I yelled, glaring at the men behind him.

The officer shouted out something in a language I didn’t understand, but it had the desired effect. The men let their javelins and hooked swords fall to the ground. There were several animal and insect heads already lying there.

‘Who are you?’ I demanded.

‘Major Mohammed Al-Haq,’ the officer said, straining back from the sharp tip. ‘Third Mountain Rangers Regiment, Pakistan Army.’

‘Oh, yeah?’ I looked through the hole in the wall, wondering what had happened to Sara. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Training,’ he said. ‘We arrive yesterday. Tonight take part in exercise to experience mentality of insurgents armed with outmoded weapons.’ He shook his head. ‘Very strange costumes. I do not approve.’

Sara appeared behind the soldiers, a spear in each hand and a scimitar in her belt.

‘They’re Pakistani,’ I said. ‘Being trained, he says.’

‘They need it,’ she said, brandishing her weapons at the cowed soldiers.

‘I hope you didn’t…’

‘Kill anyone? No, I don’t think so. There’ll be some sore heads and bellies. What’s next?’

I tried to look beyond a heap of earth. There were more damaged buildings dotted about broken ground.

‘If you will permit,’ the major said, raising a hand to the javelin at his throat. ‘I give you my word that we will not attack you.’

I glanced at Sara and she nodded, though she didn’t lower her weapons.

‘Why’s that?’

He gave a slack smile. ‘Because men defending next fortifications are from India. We would like to give them a beating.’

Jesus, what was this? International Crisis 101?

‘How are they armed?’ Sara asked.

‘This I do not know for sure,’ the major replied. ‘I guess same as us.’

‘All right,’ I said, wondering what kind of training establishment issued participants with lethal weapons. The points and edges were very sharp. ‘Try not to inflict any serious wounds.’

Sara looked at me as if I were a small child. ‘Okay, you take half of the men and go left again. I’ll take the center and the right.’ She gave the major a steely look. ‘Tell your men they can arm themselves again. If anyone tries to touch me, I’ll take his throat out.’ She made a rapid and extremely competent movement with one of her spears.

‘I come with you, yes?’ the officer said, stepping toward me.

I smiled at him. ‘Good idea.’ Then, when they were ready, I signaled the advance.

We were halfway across a pitted, evil-smelling no-man’s-land when the first shots rang out.

Violent Crime Director Sebastian looked out over the lights of central Washington. To his left, the Capitol building stood out like an oversize wedding cake, bright and icing-white.

‘Sit down, Peter,’ the Director said, closing a file. ‘Sorry to keep you.’

Sebastian did as he was told and looked across the desk at the wizened man who bore such a resemblance to Robert Redford that his nickname was ‘Sundance.’ He had been an admiral and, later, a Presidential adviser, before landing the job at the top of the Hoover Building.

‘Now, what’s the story with Sir Andrew Frogget?’ The Director still had a Southern drawl, though it was many years since he’d lived in South Carolina. ‘Was it a heart attack?’

‘It looks that way. The postmortem won’t be done till the morning.’

‘You told the Brits?’

Sebastian nodded. ‘The number two at their embassy. He said he would consult. I can’t say he sounded particularly animated.’

‘They don’t
do
animated, Peter.’ The Director steepled his fingers and looked over the points. ‘Did he ask why Sir Andrew was in custody?’

‘He asked if he was helping us with our inquiries.’

‘Probably some British joke. Routh Limited is a major player on the world scene, though. What
was
Frogget doing in custody?’

Sebastian felt the strength of his superior’s gaze. ‘He was caught with an underage hooker. I took the opportunity to squeeze him about Rothmann and Woodbridge Holdings.’

‘Did you now? Routh was involved, of course.’

‘It was Woodbridge’s main investment bank.’

‘Did he tell you anything?’

‘He gave us some names. We’re checking them out.’

‘Do you have a list?’

Sebastian handed over a printed page, which the Director scanned.

‘Some more big names here,’ he said, putting the sheet down. ‘You had better exercise caution.’

‘We will. I take it you approve the investigation?’

‘Oh, certainly. Good work.’ The Director looked at his computer screen and then back at Sebastian. ‘Was there anything else? I have to look over my speech to the UN Climate Change Conference…. I hope your unit is running energy-efficient vehicles.’

Surprised, Sebastian stood up, but swallowed the laugh he’d been about to let loose. It seemed the Director was serious.

‘Down!’ I yelled, diving to the soft ground. I looked to my right. Two of the Pakistanis were lying crumpled and motionless, the rest desperately taking cover. Spurts of earth were flying up as automatic weapons fire continued to rain down.

‘This is murder!’ the major screamed.

‘Keep them down!’ I yelled back. In the distance, I could see Sara crawling forward, having jettisoned one
of her spears. ‘When the fire turns on us, get them to crawl back.’

The Pakistani officer nodded, his cap at an angle.

I pulled myself forward by my elbows. Before I had gone five yards, bullets began to spit into the ground around me. At least that would give the Pakistanis a chance to retreat. Ahead of me was a broken-down cart that looked like it had survived the Civil War, though only just. I took cover behind it and watched as Sara dived into a trench that ran alongside the meandering river. Spouts of water flew up from it as the defenders tried to hit her.

I crawled to the front of the cart, hearing bullets thud into the wood. The original dashboard was hanging loose at the far side. I managed to put my shoulder to the near side and detach it completely. It was about five feet long and two feet wide, and would provide reasonable protection. Now I felt like a Homeric hero behind his shield. I stuck the sword I’d picked up into my belt and lifted the board; fortunately there was a length of wood in the center that served as a grip. Taking my spear in the other hand, I stood up and made for the two-story building. By the time I got there, the wooden panel was holed and splintered, but it had done its job. Apart from a new parting in my hair and a shallow furrow in my thigh, I was unhurt. But I was pissed off in a big way, and my feet hurt like a bastard. Someone was going to pay.

I pulled myself over the remains of a window frame and threw the spear at a man in a hawk’s head. It pinned him to a door at shoulder level, causing him to drop the Kalashnikov he’d raised at me. I ran forward and grabbed the weapon. He was groaning, but the wound
didn’t look mortal. There were ammunition clips in his pockets and I relieved him of those.

‘Who are you?’ I asked, as I tried to pull the door open.

‘Indian Army, Sixteenth Rifle Battalion,’ he gasped, trying to pull the spear out with his other hand.

‘I’d leave that where it is if I were you,’ I said, pulling his hand away. ‘How many are you?’

‘Forty plus two…three officers.’

Shit. We were seriously outnumbered. I heard bursts of fire beyond the door. After a few seconds, only one weapon was being fired. Then I heard Sara’s voice.

I managed to get the door open and raise the Kalashnikov as three men in turbans charged toward me. I gave them a blast in front of their feet.

‘Drop your weapons!’ I ordered, watching as rifles like mine hit the uneven floor. ‘Now turn round and go back the way you came.’

‘No, no!’ one of them gasped, his eyes wide. ‘She is a demon.’

He was right there, but I reckoned I could restrain Sara. I beckoned them forward.

Sara was in the next room, swinging a pair of Kalashnikovs at a crowd of cowering Indians. Beyond her, through the shattered wall, I could see other turbaned figures making their escape, the river reaching up to their thighs. There were several men lying motionless on the ground.