White (26 page)

Thomas leaned forward. “When you wake as Carlos, you will be disoriented. Confused. Distracted by what's happening to you. But you have to pay attention and come back with as much information as you can about the virus, Svensson, Fortier—anything and everything to do with their plans. Above all, the antivirus. Remember that.”

“Who are these people?”

Thomas waved a hand. “Forget that. The minute you're Carlos, you'll know who they are. But when you wake up back here, you may forget details you knew as Carlos. So concentrate on the antivirus. Are you clear?”

“The antivirus.”

“And while you're there, see if he knows who has the blank Book of History. One of his guards took it. Clear?”

“The blank Book of History.”

“Good. In addition, there are two primary pieces of information we need you to plant in Carlos's mind. Our objective is to turn him, but short of that we need him to believe two things.”

“Okay. I think I can handle two things.”

24

F
or a moment that stretched long into the next, Carlos lay in the attic. Far below was the basement from which Thomas (and Monique) had escaped only days ago, after telling Carlos that he was connected to another man beyond this world—the one who was bleeding from his neck. That was him, Johan.

Carlos touched his neck. Wet. He pulled his fingers back. Sweat, not blood.

Of course there's no blood,
Johan thought. That was thirteen months ago. But here in this world it was only a week ago.
I'm in the dream
that Thomas told me about! Does Carlos realize that I'm here?
Johan sat up.

Carlos knew immediately that something had changed, but he couldn't define that change. He felt unnerved. He was sweating. A distant voice warned him of danger, but he couldn't hear the voice. Intuition.

Or was it more? His mother's whispers of mysticism had come alive to him these last few weeks. Thomas Hunter had found a way to tap the unseen. He'd lain dead on the cot for two days before apparently throwing off the sheet and climbing the stairs to the main level. True, a doctor hadn't confirmed his death, as Fortier had pointed out. There were stranger examples of near death. But Carlos dismissed the Frenchman's agnostic analysis. Hunter had been dead.

He looked around the room. And now he was here?

No,
Johan thought.
It's not Carlos; it's me. And although I know his thoughts,
he doesn't necessarily know mine, at least not yet. Carlos isn't the one dreaming.
I am. It's just like Thomas said it would be.

Why Carlos? Because Carlos believed that there was a unique connection between them, although not enough belief to wake Carlos up to the fact that Johan was present, as in the case of Mikil and Kara.

And the man had a week-old cut on his neck to prove it. The same cut that Johan had received from Thomas thirteen months ago in the amphitheater when Justin had exposed him. Mind-bending. But real. As real as Thomas and Mikil had promised it would be.

He was in the histories at this very moment. How, he couldn't imagine—some kind of time warp or spatial distortion, whatever Mikil could possibly mean by that. More importantly, according to Thomas, he could affect history by depositing thoughts into Carlos's mind and by learning his intentions. Two things, Thomas had insisted. Convince him of these two things, learn what you can, and then get out.

Carlos had a sense of déjà vu. Something familiar resided in his mind, but he couldn't shake it loose to examine it properly. He stood and walked to the dresser. He mopped his face with a handkerchief. His breathing felt ragged and his face hot.

This is how you will feel when Fortier slips poison in your drink after he's
used you like an animal—sooner than you think.

The thought caught him off guard. Naturally, he had some reason to distrust Fortier. Hunter had suggested as much himself. The moment Carlos had the antivirus, he would take the necessary steps to protect himself. He'd already told Fortier that Hunter had claimed a coup would come on the heels of the virus. They couldn't possibly know that the coup would be orchestrated by Carlos himself. But he was powerless until he had the antivirus.

Now he was thinking that waiting so long might be a problem.

Why will Fortier let anyone even capable of a coup live long enough to conduct
it? You have a day, maybe two; then he will snuff you out.

A chill flashed down his spine as the thought worked its way into his mind, not because this simple suggestion was new or even surprising, but because he suddenly knew it was true. Fortier might even do away with Svensson. His grip on this newfound power would last only as long as opportunity to strike back eluded his many new enemies. Fortier would isolate himself for protection. He would burn his bridges behind him.

It was all just a theory, of course, but Carlos was suddenly sure he'd stumbled onto something he could no longer ignore.

A day's stubble darkened his chin. He splashed cologne in his hands and patted his cheeks. A shower would have been part of his normal morning routine. This wasn't a desert camp in Syria.

Another thought occurred to him: he had to meet Fortier. Now. Immediately.

Exactly why, he wasn't so sure.

Yes, he was sure. He had to test the man. Feel him out without sounding obvious. Fortier was leaving for the city this morning.

Carlos stepped to the closet, pulled a beige silk shirt off the hanger, and slipped into it. He lifted the radio from his dresser.

“Perimeter check.”

A slight pause. Static.

Then the guards in place around the compound started calling off their status. “One clear.” “Two clear.” “Three clear.” “Four clear” . . . The check ended at eleven.

Satisfied, Carlos checked his reflection one last time in the mirror and exited the loft. Three flights to the basement. Down the long hall. He entered the security code, heard the bolts disengage, and stepped into the large secure room.

A conference table ringed by ten white chairs sat on rich green carpet. The monitors along the south wall were fed by a dozen antennas, only one of which was located on this building. Most were many miles away. Fortier had spared no expense in cloaking the compound's signature. It no longer mattered—the facility was already compromised by Monique and now Thomas. This was Fortier's last visit.

No sign of the Frenchman.

An intercom behind Carlos came to life. “Carlos, please join me in the map room.”

He knew. He always knew.

And he might even take care of you now.

Carlos shrugged off the thought and walked to the third door on his left. Why did this Frenchman unnerve him so easily? He was simply one man, and he possessed half the killing skills Carlos did.

Which guard took the Book?

What on earth was that? What book? Had a guard taken the log book—if so, he couldn't remember being told about it.

He shook his head and stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. There were three others in the room besides Fortier. Military strategists. As Carlos understood it, they would all be gone today.

Fortier turned from a wall of maps that showed the exact location of each nuclear power's arsenal, inbound to France. Several had already off-loaded—the Chinese and the Russians were nearly intact on French soil now. The British and the Israelis had followed the United States' lead by offering their arsenals in exchange for the antivirus. There was to be a massive showdown on the Atlantic off France's coast. But the terms of the exchange only ensured that Fortier would get what he wanted.

The weapons.

“Please leave us,” Fortier said to the others.

They glanced at Carlos and left the room without comment.

“Carlos,” Fortier said, wearing a slight grin. He clasped his hands behind his back and faced the maps. “So close, yet so far.”

“I would say you have them in a corner, sir,” Carlos said.

“Perhaps. Have you ever known the Israelis to allow themselves into a corner?”

From the beginning, the destruction of Israel had been Carlos's primary concern. Fortier looked back.

“I don't think they are allowing anything, sir. They are being forced. And in a week it won't matter.”

“Because in a week we will wipe them out, regardless of what happens in this exchange,” Fortier said. “Is that what you mean?”

“Assuming that we take their weapons, yes.”

“And what if we don't take their weapons? What if they're bluffing?”

“Then we call their bluff and destroy them anyway. We have the weapons to do that.”

“We do. In fact, as of this moment we have the largest land-based arsenal in the world. Most of the United States' arsenal is on the ocean. But from a purely military perspective, our position is still weak.”

“You're forgetting the antivirus.”

“I'm setting the antivirus aside, and I'm saying that without it our position is strong, but not strong enough. The United States' submarine fleet alone could still do substantial damage. We're still setting up the tactical missiles from China. Russia has 160 intercontinental missiles under my command pointed at North America and their allies. On balance we are in the perfect position to finish the match in precisely the fashion we intended.”

“But you have reservations,” Carlos said.

Fortier paced and drew a deep breath. “I spent nine hours yesterday in conferences with the highest-level delegates for Russia, China, India, and Pakistan. They've all embraced our plans, eager to play their part in a changed world. There have been challenges, naturally, but in the end their response is better than I could have hoped for.”

Something bothered Carlos about the man's tone. Sweat glistened on his forehead; he seemed more circumspect than normal. Perhaps even nervous.

“But I don't trust the Americans,” Fortier said. “I don't trust the Israelis. I don't trust the Russians, and I don't trust the Chinese. In fact, I don't trust any of them. Do you?”

“I'm not sure you are required to trust them,” Carlos said.

“Trust is always required. One hidden weapon could take out half of Paris.”

“Then, no, I don't trust them.”

“Good.” Fortier lifted a large black book from the top of a file cabinet and slid it onto the table in front of Carlos. He'd never seen it.

“What is this?”

Fortier frowned. “This is the new plan,” he said.

This could be good and this could be bad—Carlos wasn't yet sure which. He reached for the book.

“Page one only,” Fortier said.

Carlos left the book on the table, lifted the cover, and turned the first page. A list of names ran down the page. His was the fourth down. Missirian, Carlos. The rest of the page contained at least another hundred names, listed as his own, surname first.

“I'm not sure I understand,” he said, looking up.