“My administration seeks peaceful solutions to the conflicts in the Middle East.”
“If this is so, why are your troops still occupying Iraq and Afghanistan? When will your military bases in the region be closed? Your new secretary of defense continues to ally himself with Georgian officials, pushing them to challenge our own nonaggression pacts with Abkhazia and South Ossetia. These actions send quite a different message.”
“Secretary DeBorn was chastised for his actions. Our plan is to continue to reduce our troops in Iraq, reaching our targeted goal of fifty thousand by next August. An act of war by Mr. Jannati would undermine these efforts, fuel a neoconservative agenda in both Washington and Tel Aviv, and force us to respond in kind.”
“And what of this plague that has killed off so many, including most of the Iranian delegation. Would this not be considered an act of war in Tehran?”
Eric Kogelo fought to maintain his focus through the headache and fever. “A half million Americans have died. Our largest city has been rendered unlivable. If this were an act of war, then America was the target. Let me again assure you, we shall investigate and bring to justice all those responsible for the plague. What we cannot do is allow these radical factions to succeed in pushing our nations into nuclear war. That is why all of us agreed to come to New York this week — to prevent another war.”
But the Russian was far from done. “Mr. President, in August of 2001, President Putin sent a Russian delegation to Washington, DC, to brief President Bush about an al-Qaeda plot to hijack commercial airliners and fly them into the World Trade Center. We were not the only nation issuing warnings. There were at least a dozen other intelligence agencies that sent warnings, including the Germans, who provided the dates of the attacks. Why were those warnings ignored? The reason became obvious to all — the Bush administration wanted the attacks to succeed so they could justify a second invasion of Iraq. Now here we are, a decade later, only this time the desired target is Iran. Mr. President, if you really want to avert a nuclear holocaust, do not ask us to issue threats against the Iranians. Instead, show the world you mean business by policing the radical elements within your own country that continue to undermine your efforts to bring about peace.”
Rubber bullets and tear gas had dispersed the homeless, a grenade tearing the steel security gate from its tracks. Major Downey stepped over broken glass and debris, entering the dark storefront. “They’re in here somewhere. Find them.”
The Rangers in black moved through the deserted pizzeria, tossing aside checkerboard-clothed tables and ransacking closets and cabinets, searching every square foot of space that could conceivably hide two grown men.
“Sir, someone was in the kitchen making sandwiches. Looks like they’re gone.”
“The homeless weren’t guarding sandwiches. Search the apartments upstairs.”
Two Rangers exited the walk-in refrigerator, pushing gruffly past David Kantor. The medic entered the warm enclave, the beam of his flashlight revealing containers of pizza dough and grated cheese. He sat down on a crate of tomatoes, his body weary, his nerves on edge. Got to find a way to separate myself from the group and get to Gavi’s school.
He heard the cat meowing somewhere in the darkness, but could not locate it. Saw the crate-shaped wet stain. Tapped on the floorboards with the butt end of his assault rifle. The sound was hollow. He checked the kitchen. Heard the Rangers in the apartment upstairs.
Returning to the wet mark, David stomped on the floorboards with his boot—
— caving in the trapdoor.
Three stories beneath a dying city, through a maintenance shaft bored fifty years ago, the fluttering illumination of Paolo’s lantern was all that kept the claustrophobia at bay. Light danced on concrete walls riddled with pipes and graffiti. Shoes scuffed cement against a backdrop of dripping water that nourished unseen puddles cloaked in perpetual darkness. Francesca squeezed her husband’s free hand, her mind burdened with fear, her lower back and shoulders by the unborn child that might never be.
After ten minutes, the shaft intersected the Eighth Avenue subway line. Rails cold and traffic-free made for new obstacles in the shifting light, along with the dead rats. The vermin were everywhere, black clumps of wet fur. Sharp teeth beneath pink noses lathered in blood.
Francesca crossed herself. “Paolo, maybe you should give me the vaccine.”
Paolo turned to Virgil, uncertain. “What do you think?”
“It’s your decision, son. Perhaps you should pray on it.”
Patrick scoffed. “After the story you told me about Auschwitz, how can you possibly suggest prayer?”
“I simply said prayer might help Paolo find the answer. It’s their child. They need to decide, not you.”
“And if God ignores them, like he ignored you? Like He ignored six million of your people during the Holocaust?”
“I never said the Creator ignored our prayers. I said His answer was no.”
“Apparently, He’s still saying no. Think any of those families stranded in their cars on the parkway were praying tonight when the plague took them? Or those people dying on the street?”
“God is not a verb, Patrick. We must be the action. Prayer was never intended to be a request or plea. It is a technology that allows communication into the higher spiritual dimensions, helping to transform the human ego into a more selfless vessel to accept the Light. The Light is the—”
“We don’t have time for the whole Light dissertation. Francesca, take the damn vaccine.”
“Not yet.” Paolo turned, the lantern’s light swimming in Patrick’s eyes. “I think Virgil’s right. In times like these, we must have faith.”
“You know what faith is, Paolo? Faith is nothing more than belief without evidence, a waste of time. The vaccine’s real.”
“Faith is also real,” Virgil retorted. “Or perhaps we are wasting our time trying to find your wife and daughter.”
A sickening rush of anxiety dropped Shep’s blood pressure. “That’s different. You said you spoke with her.”
“Yes, but that was long before so many people got sick. For all we know, she may be dead. Maybe we should head straight for the boat.”
“Bea is not dead.”
“And you know this how?”
Patrick struggled in his skin to remain calm. “Pray your damn prayer, Paolo.”
“O Lord, You have made us for Yourself, and our hearts are restless until they rest in You…”
The sensation felt like ice water running down his spine. Shep turned around slowly, his eyes focused on the maintenance shaft. Peering at him from the darkness was the Grim Reaper. Arms raised, scythe frozen in mid-swing. Hooded skull and empty eye sockets aimed at Paolo, the devout man’s words were clearly agitating the supernal being.
“—grant us the grace to desire You with our whole heart, that so desiring You, we may seek and find You, and so finding You, we may love You and share equitably with our neighbors—”
The Reaper screamed in silence, melting back into the shadows of the underground passage.
“—through Christ Jesus we pray this. Amen.”
Shep wiped beads of cold sweat from his forehead, his right hand shaking. “Amen.”
She was dragged from her nightmare by her hair, the pain forcing Gavi Kantor from her drug-induced stupor and onto her feet. Using her hair as a leash, a wiry man drenched in aftershave pulled her through a basement maze lit by candles. Past doorless bathrooms and into a hallway bordered by a dozen curtained stalls. The sour air reeked like old onions, the grunting sounds coming from these recesses more animal than human. In her delirium, she caught glimpses of male predators forcing naked girls to perform acts that caused her to scream.