Before anyone could speak he flicked a glance sideways, taking in the spectacular view offered through the trees by the eternal falls, never changing, all enduring. In a way, he hoped his new secret order might go the same way. Conversely, thinking of the time when he grew too old to manage and lead it forward anymore, he already felt a pang of jealousy toward the nameless figure that might.
General Bill Stone of the US Army spoke up. “The ‘house on the hill’ scenario has played out. We have announced our presence in the United States. We have announced our resolute intentions and the gravity of our actions. We have an army — recruited around the world and being deployed as we speak, and,” he paused, “our first foray, the Pandora plague, is underway. We are starting to mobilize. Three sites have now been identified — London, Paris and Los Angeles—”
“Wait,” Nicholas Bell, owner of one of the world’s biggest construction companies, and least liked of the Pythians, interrupted the general. “I was the only one here that stood opposed to the ‘house’ operation. I’d like to know the true depths of what we wrought.”
General Stone hesitated, clearly unwilling to articulate and unused to being disrupted mid-flow. Tyler Webb stepped in smoothly.
“My friend, my friend,” he addressed Bell. “The Pythians do not discuss the trivialities of who lived and who died. Of how many. We set our path to ultimate power in motion and will not be deterred. The so-called innocents will die to facilitate our rise. That,” he spread his hands magnanimously, “is how it should be.”
Webb noticed that Bell looked a little sickened before he turned away, nodding amicably. His immediate thought was to bring the man closer, much closer. “Nicholas, why don’t you move to DC for a time? Bill is the architect of both the ‘house’ and Pandora projects. If you were closer to him you might be better able to affect the plans.”
His manipulation worked. Nicholas Bell, the rough multi-millionaire builder, nodded, seemingly appeased.
Immediately, one of his other minion-associates, Clifford Bay-Dale, the energy boss and the man nobody liked, raised his voice. “And my own project is next, I’m sure?”
Webb nodded slightly. “The lost kingdom sounds intriguing, my friend. We will table your presentation as soon as Pandora shows success.”
“What about my galleons?” Miranda Le Brun asked, the jaded oil-heiress finally showing a spark of interest.
“In good time.” Webb smiled. “Your enthusiasm for our battle suffuses me with delight. We will all have our day, to the cost of the poorer world, until the pinnacle of our desires can be found. It will all end, one day, with Le Comte de Saint Germain.”
The interest he saw in the eyes of his collaborators gave him a rush of almost sexual desire. They didn’t know the full plan yet. Only he, the great Tyler Webb and nano-weapon expert, knew that.
General Stone, he noticed, didn’t look at all pleased at the prospect of hosting the somewhat uncouth construction magnate in his home town. Not a single protest issued forth though, a testament to the general’s iron discipline and willingness to bow to the man in charge.
“How goes it with the second- and third-degree members?” Webb asked.
“Kendra Nelson,” Robert Norris, executive of SolDyn, said. “Is on board. A second-degree asset that, I have hopes, may be groomed one day to rise to first degree.”
Webb frowned. “We will never have more than six first-degree members.”
Norris also smiled. “I know.”
Webb took his meaning and fought hard to keep his mouth from broadening into a grin. Plans were afoot, layer upon layer; the intrigue and insider play was good.
“Alex Berdal,” Miranda said. “Third degree.”
“Zoe Sheers,” Bell added. “First degree.”
Webb urged himself to triple check that last offering. He nodded and added one more name to the list. “Lucas Monroe,” he said. “First degree. Primary.”
They all stared at him, perhaps wondering why his nomination should be the primary, perhaps wishing they were his equal, but only Nicholas Bell spoke up in that crass way of his.
“What friggin’ reason do you have to offer Monroe as a primary?”
Webb ignored the question so completely it surprised the entire room. “On to our final item of business.” He eyed the falls again, conjuring the image of a diverting evening planning some random unfortunate’s demise over a bottle of expensive brandy, a Sony laptop, a bevy of criminals and a wealth of technology, whilst sitting before the great floor-length window in his bedroom with the spectacular real-life cascade as his hanging picture, his muse. His latest stalking victim was a blond couple from Missouri, innocent, fresh, just starting out in life. His pleasure would be to personally destroy them.
“How comes the factory?”
Again Bill Stone answered, this being his project. “Prepared but not yet operational. Some of the more… sensitive… items and staff are taking a little, um, procuring.”
“By any means,” Webb told him. “Make it happen.”
“That is my maxim, sir. Our main obstacle is its obscure location. Greece isn’t the easiest place in the world to recruit from, no matter the means you use.”
“Understood. There is still time before we’re able to advance with the plague pits. But use your time well, Bill, for once we hit the ‘go’ button — nothing on earth should be able to stop us.”
“For now,” Bay-Dale sniggered, his visage and conduct like that of a sneaking rat, a cowardly bully. “Let us revel in the outcome of the ‘house’ project and what fear it has wrought among our enemies, our subjects and even among our associates.”
“The Pythians have arrived.” Webb lifted a glass of red wine, fully aware of its symbolic representation to his associates in the matter of how the villagers had been poisoned. “A toast.”
They drank.
They filed out.
“We will meet again very soon,” Webb told them in parting. “For the official launch of our first real project. Before we own this world and all its sins, we will set it alight.”
The converted nodded to him.
“A pyre for our pleasure.”
“To raise a new empire,” Stone said. “You must first burn the old one to the ground. History has taught us that.”
Webb placed a hand on the general’s solid shoulder. “The fires have already begun, my friend. And they are unstoppable.”
CHAPTER TWO
Matt Drake leaned forward and reached out a hand, tentatively, questioningly, wondering if he were about to die.
Komodo handed the soft, dumpy object to him.
Drake sniffed at it carefully. Mai rolled her eyes. “What? Do you think it’s about to explode?”
Drake looked non-committal. “Dunno, love. It’s a bacon sandwich made by an ex-Delta soldier, an American, in Washington DC, inside the Pentagon. How can anything good come of that?”
“Yorkshire ain’t the only place that makes a good sarnie,” Karin spoke up in defense of her beau. “T-vor here can make ‘em just as good. Go on. Try it.”
Drake laid the bread on the table, beside the local steak sauce and a proper bottle of HP. “It just… doesn’t feel right.”
“For God’s sake,” Dahl exclaimed. “Eat it or I’ll stuff the bloody thing down your throat.”
Drake felt his lips turn sharply upward. It was good to get the entire team back together, especially since they weren’t in any immediate danger or about to undertake a deadly operation. Lately, they had been hopping from one danger to the next. But now… two weeks had passed since the demise of his greatest nemesis. The gods had seen fit to reward their success with some much deserved downtime.
Still, shadows were never far from their hearts and minds. Mai remained distant, focused on some past terrible deed and occupied full-time with Grace’s welfare, as if she owed the young girl more than she could ever repay. Deep grieving mode returned to haunt them all at various parts of the day as they were reminded of loved ones they had recently lost. Indeed, Drake and everyone else experienced a form of guilt at not thinking of Ben Blake or Romero or Jonathon Gates in the passing of an entire afternoon. The life of a survivor was never an easy passage.