Mark of Evil (8 page)

Elizabeth Tanner cleared her throat and squirmed in her chair. Secretary Allenworth looked like he was about to detonate, and President Hewbright could see that. He’d known Rollie for a long time. Even before he’d been Jessica Tulrude’s former secretary of defense—the first time he had served a president in that position. That had ended when Tulrude forced him out after she fully understood his hawkish, pro-America views. Hewbright knew Rollie, and unlike Tulrude, he loved the man’s approach and knew that Rollie Allenworth would defend his presidency to the death. But right now he didn’t want or need that.

Hewbright raised a hand in Allenworth’s direction and smiled to keep him from taking the bait from Secretary Tyler. Then he turned to Tyler. “Actually, Terry,” he said, addressing his secretary of state, “bringing to pass biblical prophecy would be way above my pay grade.” A few of the group chuckled. “God is the only One who brings to pass what He has declared in His Word. The rest of us are just instruments—either willing or unwilling—in His grand plan.”

He folded his hands across his chest and tapped his thumbs together. “Gentleman and Madam Director,” he said, “I am asking that George Caulfield and Curt Levin work together to create a draft statement. The statement will explain why I believe the United States has in fact
not
joined the Global Alliance but remains a sovereign nation, a constitutional republic with sovereign borders and legitimate federal, state, and local laws that are not subservient to the Global Alliance of
nations. Nor will they ever be as long as I am chief executive of this country. Prepare that document. I will review it. I will make my own changes. And then I will decide when I will release it to the media and to the American public.”

Secretary Tyler leaned forward. “And the question that everyone in the international community is going to ask—”

“Yes,” Hewbright interrupted. “The question about whether President Hewbright will take up arms against these Global Alliance incursions in the south? And thus risk war with the rest of the civilized world?”

Tyler waited.

“I’m still working on that one,” Hewbright said. “But the rest of the world won’t have to wait very long to get my answer.”

When the Oval Office had cleared out and the president sat alone, he had another thought. It was about the persons he had not invited to the meeting. He had deliberately avoided including anyone from the Department of Justice or the FBI. There were too many persons of questionable loyalty and tainted credibility in those offices—holdovers from the Jessica Tulrude administration.

And then there was his vice president, Darrel Zandibar, whom he had also left out. That was a different story altogether.

He wondered just how long it was going to take before his enemies learned the details of the discussion that had just transpired inside the Oval Office. He was convinced it was not a matter of
if,
but
when
. And he also wondered about something else: whether he could discover the identity of the traitors in his midst in time to avert a cataclysm for America.

TEN

GOMA CITY, DEMOCRATIC REPUBLIC OF THE CONGO

In the twenty-five-thousand-seat indoor coliseum, the fight fans dripped with sweat in the sweltering Congo weather, even with the air-conditioning working. But no one seemed to mind. They were there to see a death match.

This was the biggest, most outrageous championship in the UEFM—Ultra-Extreme Fight Match—in the history of the sport. The center ring was walled in by bulletproof glass with two doors, one on each side for each competitor. A monstrous, cubical Jumbotron hovered high over the ring so the audience could see the close-ups of every blood splatter and hear the sound of every punch and whimper in the man-to-man combat. The high-sensitivity microphones
imbedded in the glass cage would pick up and then broadcast to the audience the actual sound of bones breaking. And in the typical fight, there would be plenty.

The gambling booths on the first floor were taking final bets. Billionaires, playboys, movie stars, and sports celebrities were in their box seats. And so was Alexander Colliquin, in his own private box, along with Mr. Martisse, his chief of security. In addition to the legalized brothels and marijuana emporiums Colliquin had helped establish in this country, as he had already done throughout Europe and Asia, he also supported these deadly UEFM fight matches. It was an effective way to get the war-torn Congo back on its feet economically after years of rebel strife and corrupt leadership.

The first contestant, Diego “The Monster” Sabiella, entered the coliseum to background music of one of Eddie Van Halen’s screaming guitar solos from the late seventies. He was given a polite ripple of cheers from the crowd. Despite his size, the six-foot-eight, 260-pound weightlifter and wrestler from Argentina was reported to move in the ring like a halfback. Sabiella went to his corner and started loosening up.

It would be difficult to understand why the oddsmakers rated him the underdog—unless, of course, one knew something about his opponent, Vlad “The Impaler” Malatov. A few sportswriters occasionally joked about Malatov’s custom of always wearing a mask in the ring. But of course no one would dare to laugh about that if Malatov was in the same room, or even in the same building.

A dull roar filled the auditorium as refreshment hawkers strolled up and down the aisles yelling out to the chattering fans. But the noise evaporated the very instant the house lights dimmed. The ring was illuminated with spots, and a light shone at the far end of the auditorium where Vlad Malatov would appear. There came the sound of kettledrums beating, first softly, then louder, until the percussive pounding of drums filled the entire coliseum.

Malatov, the six-foot-five, 235-pound Russian, now stood in the spotlight in the doorway, dressed in black trunks. He had a black ski mask covering his face except for two eyeholes and one for his mouth. His body was a chiseled slab of marble. The crowd exploded as Malatov slowly strutted down the raised walkway almost rhythmically, leading with one shoulder and then the other as he loosened his massive biceps while he walked slowly to the glass-enclosed ring.

Alexander Colliquin turned to his security chief and explained his other reasons for being there. “I wanted to see this,” he said, nodding his head toward Malatov. “I can tell a lot about a man by seeing how he functions under stress. When life and limb are at risk. You’ve compiled the dossier?”

“We have. But it took quite a bit of digging, Your Excellency. As a boy, Malatov was raised in America. Then migrated to the Russian Republic with his father when he was twelve. Studied international affairs before being recruited as a clandestine operator. First with the KGB just before the end of that agency, and then with its successor, the FSB—the Federal Security Bureau. He was assigned to counterterrorism and covert operations.”

“Why did he leave?”

“He was actually relieved of his position by Moscow.”

“Why was that?” Colliquin asked.

“I believe,” Mr. Martisse replied, “it was for excessive violence.”

Down below, the ringmaster entered. He grabbed the microphone that had been lowered into the ring and introduced the two fighters, then announced that the time for placing bets on the match had closed. He then scurried out of the ring and was replaced by the referee, who carried a taser gun strapped to his side.

Each fighter stood ready in his corner. Then came the bone-jarring sound of a horn blowing like a warning siren before a
blitzkrieg
, signaling the start of the match.

Sabiella charged aggressively into the center of the ring and started
dancing, but Malatov came out of his corner slowly, confidently, almost nonchalantly.

Mr. Martisse whispered to Colliquin, “In past matches, this Sabiella fellow has shown a ruthless ability to overpower his opponents with his size and his judo blows. Renders them helpless with his famous guillotine choke hold until they are lifeless. He has sent four of his opponents to the hospital.”

Malatov now circled around Sabiella, eyeing him, but his hands remained at his side. Mr. Martisse continued to narrate. “Malatov has only participated in nonsanctioned, unofficial UEFM matches at underground sites. So the rumors about him are formally unsubstantiated, except for some black-market sportswriters who claim to have witnessed his famous attack strike.”

“What kind of attack strike?”

Martisse, a veteran of special operations in the French military, hesitated. “Your Excellency, it is rather gruesome . . .”

On the mat, Sabiella moved to within striking distance of Malatov, reaching out and grabbing at the back of his neck. But Malatov was ready for him and with lightning speed struck Sabiella in the face, and then again and again. The huge Argentinean was stunned for a moment and stumbled slightly, but that was all that it took.

As Sabiella staggered back, Malatov grabbed him by the throat with his left hand and then positioned his other arm straight up in the air with his fingers aligned together like a human knife. His powerful arm hung poised like an industrial forge, ready to drop with deadly force and terrifying swiftness. As Malatov held his hand aloft, a hush fell over the thousands in the audience, as if they knew what was going to happen next, though still not quite believing it.

Then, in a blur of motion, Malatov swung his right hand into Sabiella’s chest with blinding speed, penetrating it and holding his hand there for an instant until the giant of a man collapsed backward, hit the ground, and did not move. While the referee rushed to Sabiella
and checked for a pulse—but shook his head,
no
—Malatov held his right hand up and brandished it to the crowd as if it were a deadly weapon. The crowd could see that Malatov’s striking hand was now red with his opponent’s blood. He had pierced the other man’s chest cavity with a single ferocious blow.

A physician entered the ring with a stethoscope and a towel and checked Sabiella himself, examining the gaping chest wound and attempting unsuccessfully to stop the flow of blood. Unable to render any aid to the man, the doctor covered Sabiella’s face with the towel.

The microphone was lowered and the ringmaster quickly hustled to the center of the ring, but Malatov held out a hand to stop him and instead took the microphone himself. He began to speak in perfect English without a trace of a Russian accent.

“Ladies and gentlemen, regarding the death of this man, I extend my condolences to his family. It is a pity he was not a worthy opponent.”

Malatov dropped the microphone and left it swinging back and forth as he strode out of the auditorium.

Colliquin turned to Mr. Martisse. “He sounds like a very well-spoken American rather than a Russian.”

Martisse nodded in agreement.

“Is his intention to become a full-time professional in this sport?” Colliquin asked.

“Oh no, not at all. The rumors that I have heard are that he participates in these matches . . .”

“Yes?”

Martisse finished his reply. “He participates in these fights merely for, well, personal entertainment.”

Colliquin smiled broadly. “And his other talents?”

“Several languages. Espionage, infiltration, advanced cyberwarfare and computer hacking, intelligence gathering . . .”

Colliquin rose. He had heard and seen enough. “Arrange a meeting with Mr. Malatov,” he said. “I want to meet him.”

ELEVEN

CRETE, GREECE

Ethan March had just finished an encrypted Allfone call from Quiet Partner, code name for Dr. Iban Adis, his secret contact inside a lab in New Babylon. During the call he had received more intel on Alexander Colliquin’s secret technology venture. The pieces were starting to take shape. According to Adis, New Babylon was in need of a massive amount of data computing power. There were several possible sites to set that up. One was in the United States. The more Ethan heard about it, the more nausea rushed over him. It was the sinking feeling that an inevitable terror was approaching, and quickly.

Now he was trying to clear his mind. Shake it off. He had fled Athens with the Alliance hot on his trail. But God had been good to him. Ethan had reached the island of Crete and was temporarily living
in the lap of luxury in the villa of a Remnant supporter. He wanted to catch his breath before the next call.

He glanced at his Allfone watch and knew that in a matter of minutes he would be getting an update from Pack McHenry, a former chief of clandestine operations with the CIA from years back. After Pack and his wife, Victoria, had left the Agency, they continued as independent contractors. Then America started skidding off the rails, and Josh Jordan started his Roundtable group in an effort to stop the train wreck. So Pack and Victoria started doing intelligence work for them. And now for Ethan and the Remnant.

Ethan still had a few minutes to relax before the call. From his position on a stone wall on the veranda, he had a great vista of the sparkling azure waters of the Mediterranean. He could also see the harbor of Agios Nikolaos down there too, full of fishing boats and old stone buildings and ringed with palm trees. The breeze blew through his hair, and for a few moments he was at rest, tranquil. He closed his eyes.