The Atlantis Plague (The Origin Mystery, #2)(39)

“He may have been.” Rukin took another pull on the cigarette. David sensed something changing. Is he changing his approach?

“He’s in southern Spain, leading the invasion. He deployed almost everyone. We’re running a skeleton crew. Our station chief, Colonel Garrott, got picked off two days ago. Stupid son of a bitch was making the rounds, visiting every guard tower, shaking hands like he’d been elected mayor of hell. Berber sniper got him with one shot. We assume the shooter was in the hills, that’s why we added the patrols. And the boomerangs on the perimeter. Now I need to know why you’re here.”

Yes, Rukin was giving him useless details, hoping David would reciprocate, tell his story, make a mistake. “I’m here for a job.”

“What—”

“It’s classified,” David said, turning to face Rukin. How long do I have? Maybe an hour before he finds out I’m a fake? At best, I can buy some time. “Call it in. If you have the clearance, they’ll tell you.”

“You know I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“The explosion.” Rukin read David’s face. “You don’t know?”

“Apparently not.”

“Someone exploded a sub-nuclear device at Immari HQ in Germany,” Rukin said. “Nobody’s calling anything in right now, especially covert ops verifications.”

David failed to hide his surprise. But… it was the opening he needed. “I’ve… been in transit, with no comms.”

“From?”

Now the test. “Recife,” David said.

Rukin leaned forward. “There’s no Clocktower station in Recife—”

“We were in startup when the analyst purge began. Then the plague hit. I barely got out. I’ve been on special assignment since.”

“Interesting. That’s a really interesting story, Colonel. Here’s the reality: if you don’t tell me who you are and why you’re here right now, I’ll have to hold you in a cell until I can verify your identity. It’s my ass if I don’t.”

David stared at him. “You’re right. It’s… operational secrecy. Old habit. Maybe I was a Clocktower operative for too long.” Then David gave the story he had been working on since he crossed the first gate. “I’m here to help secure this base. You know how important Ceuta is to the cause. My name is Alex Wells. If HQ is destroyed, there’s bound to be someone from special ops directorate that can verify me.”

Rukin scribbled some notes on a pad. “I’ll have to confine you to quarters under guard until then. You understand, Colonel.”

“I understand,” David said. I’ve bought some time. Would it be enough to get out of here? One goal dominated David’s mind: finding Kate. He needed information to do that. “I do have one… request. As I said, I’ve been in transit. I’d like to hear any updates you have. Anything unclassified, of course.”

Rukin sat back in the metal chair, seeming to relax for the first time. “The rumor is that Dorian Sloane has returned. Naturally he was arrested outside the Antarctica structure. But they say he carried a case. The morons in charge took that case back to HQ and it blew up the building. Darwinism at work, if you ask me.”

“What happened to Sloane?”

“That’s the strangest part. The story is that in interrogation, he killed a guard and ripped open Chairman Sanders’ throat. Then, get this, they kill him—double tap to the head, close range. An hour later, he walks out of the structure. A completely new body—with all his memories. Not a scratch on him.”

“Impossible…”

“And then some. The Immari are desperate to create this mythical story around him. It’s working. The rank and file worship him now. The end of days, Messiah, rapture rhetoric… here in Ceuta and every other place that flies the Immari flag. It’s nauseating.”

“You’re not a believer?”

“I believe the whole world is circling the drain and Immari International is the only piece of shit that floats.”

“Then… let’s hope it continues to float. Major, I’m a bit exhausted from my trip.”

“Sure.”

Rukin called two soldiers in and instructed them to escort David to quarters and arrange for round-the-clock guard.





Alexander Rukin stubbed out the cigarette and stared at the words on the page.

The door opened, and Captain Kamau, his second-in-command, entered.

The tall African spoke slowly in a deep voice. “You buy his story, sir?”

“Sure. It’s about as real as the Easter Bunny.” Rukin lit another cigarette and peered into the pack. Three left.

“Who is he?”

“No idea. He’s somebody though. A pro. Maybe one of ours, probably one of theirs.”

“You want me to call it in?”

“Please.” Rukin handed him the strip of paper. “And put him under heavy guard. Make sure he sees nothing more than what the Allies can already see from the air.”

“Yes, sir.” Kamau studied the ship of paper. “Colonel Alex Wells?”

Rukin nodded. “I’m not certain it’s a fake name, but it’s strangely similar to Arthur Wellesley.”