"Demi! Demi!" Marten commanded, trying to shake her from her stupor. He saw her eyelids flutter. "It's okay. Don't move!" he said quickly, then had the tin snips at the heavy strap that bound her throat to the Aldebaran cross. His face and hands glistening with sweat, the searing heat all but unbearable, he was trying not to breathe at all. "Don't move!" he exhaled and closed the snips. Nothing happened. He pressured the cutters again and this time the teeth caught and the material gave. Demi's head fell forward, then she recovered, and he saw her look at him in disbelief.
"Mr. Marten!" José shouted from somewhere on the far side of the flames. He looked up to see Luciana cross the front of the stage, heard her start to say something to the congregation.
Then he saw two monks coming right at him through the flames, one behind the other, machine pistols in their hands.
Boom! Boom!
Marten fired the Sig Sauer point blank. The first monk's face exploded and he slammed backward through the fog.
Boom! Boom!
Marten fired again. The second monk twisted away in the dark.
Marten heard the congregation scream as one.
"José! José!" he yelled, then cut the straps at Demi's wrists and feet. Her knees buckled as he pulled her from the cross. He got one hand under her waist trying to steady her. Then José was through the fire, his hair and groundskeeper's shirt burning.
Suddenly there was a burst of machine-pistol fire. A bullet nicked Marten's ear. A second seared his cheek. A half dozen more shot up the cross where Demi had just been.
Boom! Boom!
Marten fired blindly through the flames. The spit of the machine pistol continued. Rapid-fire hell coming through the flames.
Boom! Boom!
He fired again and the shooting stopped. He twisted around, shoving Demi at José.
"Go!" he yelled. "Go! Go! Go!"
He caught the briefest glimpse of José wrestling Demi through the flames to the stage behind them, then whirled to free Cristina. As he did, the innermost gas jets ignited, and he was suddenly standing in the center of a blazing inferno. He screamed out loud and made a wild reach with the cutters, trying to find the straps that bound her.
Then he froze.
Most of Cristina's head was gone, chewed up by machine pistol fire. In the next instant her great mane of jet-black hair burst into flame. For a millisecond Marten's eyes registered sheer horror. Then, his own hair on fire, his hands and face scorched, he turned and leapt out through the conflagration.
161
• 9:23 A.M.
The room was at the far end of a darkened hallway. Like the video and electrical rooms below, it was little more than a concrete bunker. Beck had gained access to it through two separate doors. The first was wooden and hand carved, and like other doors throughout the church required a security card used in conjunction with a code punched into an electronic keypad. The second, only feet away, was made of heavy-gauge steel and required another keypad code, which opened a singular slot above it and into which he slipped a special key Foxx had given him. Once inside he sat down in front of a six-foot-long control panel that looked like something out of NASA and incorporated a series of television monitors, switches, dials, and gauges that were like those in an industrial natural-gas-transmission plant, which was very nearly what this room was. That the power was out in the rest of the building was not evident here. Every light, monitor, switch, dial, and gauge operated perfectly, the entire system powered by Chinese-made heavy-duty polymer batteries.
Beck took a breath, then scrutinized the string of carefully labeled gauges in front of him.
Among them:
Pressure Transducer Cylinder Pressure Distortion
Centrifugal Surge and Pulsation Control
Piping Vibration Control
Piping Configuration Optimization
Leak Detection Control
Compressor Vibrations
Satisfied by their readings, he looked down and flipped five switches in succession. Then he took a second key, inserted it into an eyehole on the panel, and turned it. Immediately a half dozen gauges changed color from red to bright green. A digital timer started at sixty minutes. Beck ran it down to fifteen and stopped it. "One score and five," he breathed, "one score and five."
In a mechanical room in the tunnels far below a two thousand horsepower diesel engine was driving a gas, turbine-driven, centrifugal compressor. For the better part of two hours it had been pumping natural gas through massive twenty-inch pipelines and six-inch nozzles, charging the miles of old mining shafts, monorail transport tunnels, Foxx's laboratories, work areas, and holding cells with highly explosive, lethal fumes. The church itself was to have been the last charged, the filling to have begun once the hydraulic stage had been lowered to its hidden room below and the original floor was back in place, and when the services were over and the security forces had completed their sweep of the building and left.
Marten's presence changed that. In Foxx's absence, control fell to Beck as arranged by the Covenant's carefully designed rules for succession of power. While the Covenant's overall program fell this year to the U.S. in the revolving international chair of stewardship, the security of the Aragon project was, after Foxx's death, officially Beck's. Meaning its long-planned destruction was now fully in his hands.
Beck studied the gauges and monitors once more. Satisfied, he looked at the timer. Once started, it would activate the nozzles in the church's basement and the building would begin to fill with gas. In fifteen minutes it would rise to the level of the jets burning onstage. When it did the building and everything in it would explode. At the same time igniters in the tunnels would trigger, and a firestorm reaching as much as 2,500 degrees would roll through everything below. A "slow buildup of methane gas over the decades" the authorities would call it, and connect it to the explosion that the day before had rocked the ground beneath the monastery at Montserrat. It was an inferno the authorities would let burn itself out, and it would be weeks if not months before it did. In the end there would be nothing left but collapsed tunnels and a residue of super-heated dust.
Three decades earlier the membership had agreed on a far-reaching strategy for the Middle East and engaged a recently initiated member named Merriman Foxx to devise the plan for it. Three years later he had presented that plan to the membership. In it, and in precise terms, he outlined what needed to be done and where, how much it would cost and how long it would take, and what would happen to it afterward. They had agreed, and the project was put in motion. Two years after that the land had been bought and construction on what they termed "The Aragon Project" had begun. And now, twenty-five years later to the day, Beck, fully employing the authority invested in him, had taken control and moved up the hour.
"One score and five," he said once more, as if in final homage to that authority and to his own loyalty, then started the timer. Immediately he turned to a small computer beside it, slid a ThumbDrive from his pocket, and inserted it into the computer's USB port, then looked at the monitor just above it. A moment later a bar came up asking for a password. His fingers went to the keyboard, he typed in a password, then repeated it. A split second later he moved the cursor to Drive C: and clicked on, then dragged the entire contents to Drive A:. Ten seconds later he asked the computer for permission to remove the mass storage drive from the USB port. Permission was given, and he slipped the ThumbDrive from the machine and put it back in his pocket. The power outage had affected everything in the building but this room here and the backup battery supply for the master computer in the bunker below, where the Covenant's archive files were recorded and stored. Both machines were interconnected so no matter what might happen there the same information was always backed up here. It was just those files, that information, that Beck had safely copied onto the ThumbDrive.
Beck stood and took one last look around. Satisfied everything was in order, he left, securing the doors behind him. It was 9:25 A.M. At 9:40 precisely the rising gas
would reach the burning jets on the stage and the inferno would begin.
162
• 9:27 A.M.
His nerves on edge, machine pistol in hand, Hap hustled the president up the stairs and down the corridor toward the rear exit. They were already four minutes past the time he had allocated to Marten and José to get to the women and get them out, and he didn't like it. That he had the two hard drives from Foxx's master computers in his pants pocket was little solace. His sense was the same now as it had been when he'd cautioned the president at the beginning, that without entering the correct password before removing them they would be corrupted and therefore useless. Useless hard drives in exchange for the life of the president made no sense at all, but it had been done, and all they could do was move on. And they were.
Thirty feet down the corridor was the door leading out to the church's back parking lot where they had left the electric cart. Hap took out the BlackBerry he had preprogrammed with the text message he would send to Woody the moment he was free of the building and had a clear signal.
Ten feet more and he saw the president look up anxiously as they passed the stairway Marten and José would have used to get up to the church proper. It was dark and quiet and he knew what the president was thinking. That maybe they had rescued the women and were already outside waiting. But that, like the uncorrupted removal of the hard drives, was a pipe dream and he knew it. The situation in the upper church was far too complex for two men, or rather a man and a boy, to navigate successfully. By now he was certain both Marten and José were dead. The women too.
"Hap!" he heard the sharp cry of Marten's voice behind them. They whirled to see Marten and José appear at the bottom of the stairs with Demi between them. Her complexion was deadly white, her head slumped on her chest, her hair and scarlet dress burned and still smoldering. Seemingly half conscious, she sobbed uncontrollably.
"Marten, my God!" The president turned and was heading toward them. Hap caught him and turned him back.
"Dammit! No! Mr. President, we're going! Now!"
"The other girl?" The president's eyes were still on Marten.
Marten shook his head as he moved them forward. His hair was singed, his face and hands burned and blackened. José was much the same.
Now they were at the door. Hap held them up, then opened it cautiously. A half second later he stepped out alone, lifted the BlackBerry, and sent the rescue message to Woody.
163
• 9:30 A.M.
Hap turned to go back inside. His intention was to hold them all just inside the door for the six to eight minutes it would take for Woody to arrive with the chopper. He'd barely gone two paces when he heard the unmistakable sound of a helicopter starting up at the front of the church. Immediately came the high whine of a second helo firing up. He glanced at the door, then turned back and went up on the knoll he'd climbed when they first came in for a better view. Forty yards away he saw Marine Two and its identical companion helicopter, their doors open, in pre-preparation for take-off. Beyond them evening clothes-clad members of the New World Institute were streaming from the church and heading for the black buses. Spanish Secret Service were everywhere. He wished he knew what was going on in the church, if the gas jets had been shut off and the stage lowered away and out of sight in favor of the building's original floor. And what about the other woman, Cristina? From Marten's expression and shake of his head she had to be dead. What happened to her body? And what role would the monks play in this now? Were the church vans parked here at the back of the church theirs? Was that how they had arrived? If so, at any moment they would be coming down the stairs inside the church toward the door where the president and the others were huddled.
Suddenly he caught sight of Roley Sandoval, special agent in charge of the vice-presidential detail, leading a group of U.S. Secret Service agents hastily escorting Vice President Rogers, the secretaries of state and defense, and the rest of Rogers's elite entourage which now included Congresswoman Jane Dee Baker toward Marine Two.
Whatever had happened, whatever was going on, and if it hadn't been before, time now had suddenly become everything. The monks aside, the moment the helos left and the buses were loaded, the Spanish Secret Service would sweep the building and then secure it. It meant they had nowhere to hide until Woody arrived, except maybe among the trees that surrounded the parking area.
The doors closed on both helos. There was a deafening roar as Marine Two lifted off, gained altitude, then flew away, heading due south. Immediately the second Marine helo followed. In seconds both machines disappeared from view.
• 9:34 A.M.
Hap looked to the buses. People were already boarding them. How much longer would it be before the monks came down and the Spanish Secret Service went inside and began their sweep? He wanted to keep the president inside and out of sight but that was no longer an option. He had to get them out of the building and into the cover of the trees or risk a firefight with the monks or capture by the Spanish Secret Service or both.
Decision made, he was turning to go back inside when there was a thundering roar and a Spanish CNP helicopter passed overhead at treetop level. A half second later it reversed course and came back. Hap dove for the cover of a big tree and watched the CNP helo approach and then slow. Suddenly it stopped to hover directly over the parking lot. He could see the pilot looking down and talking first with his first officer and then animatedly into his headset. Seconds later the machine pulled up to two hundred feet and held there, hovering where it was.
Hap looked up and past it. Where the hell was Woody? Did he not get the message? Or had he gotten it and alerted the CNP and that's why the police chopper was there now? Behind him he could see the string of sleek black buses begin to pull away.
"Damn it," he breathed, "damn it." There was nothing he could do without exposing himself to the CNP chopper and by doing so give away the president's location. On the other hand, he couldn't wait until either the monks or the Spanish Secret Service reached the corridor where the president and the others hid.
He looked at his watch. It was nearly 9:35. Where the hell was Woody? Was he coming at all?
164
The timer Beck had set in the control room clicked down to an even five minutes.
Then to 4:59.
The gas had already filled the church's lower chambers and was quickly rising. It, like that in Foxx's dirty lab, was natural gas that was primarily methane but, by Foxx's design, did not have the organic chemical mercaptan added to give it odor. As a result anyone still inside the building would be wholly unaware that lethal fumes were present.
• 4:58
A CNP chopper lifted off from the resort's golf course, Captain Belinda Diaz riding shotgun in the copilot's seat. In seats behind her were six members of Bill Strait's U.S. Secret Service detail. Seconds later another CNP helo took off with a dozen more U.S. Secret Service agents aboard. At a hundred feet the Diaz helo spun left and flew toward the church. The second chopper followed.
"This is Captain Diaz," she said into her headset in Spanish. She was plugged into the broadcast frequency of every Spanish police unit and the security detail of the Spanish Secret Service. "Objectives believed to be at back entrance to La Iglesia de Santa Maria. CNP units seven through twelve respond. Secret Service on scene respond at will and with caution."
Machine pistol concealed under his shirt, Hap left the cover of the tree and walked slowly toward the church, glancing up once at the CNP helo hovering overhead, then pausing to pick up the rake José had used to clean the leaves from the flower beds and put it in the back of the electric cart.
"You, groundskeeper!" the helo's loudspeaker hailed in Spanish. "Police! Stop where you are!"
Hap's boldness had come from the sudden realization that he, like José, Marten, and the president, still wore the resort's groundskeeper uniforms. By now it was possible, if not probable, that the uniforms or the electric cart or both had been discovered missing from the maintena
nce buildings. If that were the case the CNP, and most probably Bill Strait and his hundreds of Secret Service and CIA operatives, knew about it and were frantically searching the resort's vast acreage for the cart and/or groundskeepers. If he was right, then he was purposely making it easy for them. He was also buying time. Hoping that at any second Woody would arrive in the attack helicopter and set it down in the parking lot. The action itself confusing everyone and giving them the seconds they needed to get aboard it.
Hap looked up, raised his hands, and then pointed toward the church door where the president and the others were. As quickly he lowered his hands and walked calmly to it. As he did he saw a half dozen police SUVs racing tailpipe to tailpipe up the hill toward the church.
In the control room Beck's manually set timer continued its countdown:
4:08
4:07
Hap entered the church quickly, expecting the president, Marten, José, and Demi, no matter her psychological state, to be ready to go right then. They weren't. José was on the floor, semiconscious, his shirt torn open, and Marten was over him, working on his chest; blood was everywhere. The president held a still-sobbing, near hysterical Demi several feet away, giving Marten room to work.
"What the hell?" Hap blurted.
"José was shot. Nobody realized it until he collapsed. Somewhere in the upper chest," the president said quickly.
"Mr. President, there is no time. The Spanish police are here. Their Secret Service people are around the corner. If Woody's coming he's going to be here at any second. We have to go out now!"
"We can't leave them."