Immune (The Rho Agenda #2)(19)

He tugged. Damn the door was heavy, a blast door. God, it must have been a bitch getting the damn thing down here. It must have been lowered before the ceiling had been constructed.

Freddy edged inside, directing the flashlight beam at the ground before his feet. The cement floor looked cold, and indeed the chill in this room was worse than in the adjacent one. As it swept the room, the yellow beam of the flashlight revealed walls lined with red candles, a sink, a toilet, and a double bed. There was no other exit and only a six-inch airshaft in the ceiling provided ventilation.

Ahead, the sink looked filthy. As Freddy moved closer, the reason for the mess became clear. It and the floor around it were splattered with dried blood—lots of it.

Freddy swung the flashlight toward the bed. The blankets and sheets lay wadded at the end of the stained mattress. A set of chains and cuffs dangled from the steel frame. But it was the sight of the pillow and its pink pillowcase that brought moisture to his eyes. The pillowcase was covered with faint tearstains.

He moved back over to the sink, looking closely at the splatter pattern on the wall and on the floor. Strange that the blood trail did not extend more than a few feet from this spot. There was no sign that the sick bastard who had done this had bothered to clean it up.

Once again, Freddy began snapping pictures, pointing the camera by instinct as the bright flashing torched his night vision. Except for his own labored breathing, the only other sound to break the cellar’s stillness was the whine of the Nikon’s auto winder.

He changed film rolls twice. Then, deciding that he had recorded the scene from every angle, Freddy exited the room. As he readied his camera to capture the details of the weapons room, he froze.

There on the workbench beside the reloading press lay a journal, the corner of the book jutting out beyond the edge of the bench. Freddy knew he had been a bit distracted, but he was a reporter, a damn good one too. There was no doubt in his mind. That f*cking book had not been there ten minutes ago.





16


“Shut the door behind you.”

From his seat at the head of the table in the National Security Agency conference room, Vice President Gordon watched as the handful of NSA senior staffers filed out. They looked tired. Hell, it wasn’t all that long ago that George Gordon would have felt exhausted himself. The meeting hadn’t even started until ten p.m. Not that he felt bad about having them recalled from home for a late-evening session. That thought never even crossed the vice president’s mind.

He had called them back into the black glass structure nicknamed Crypto City because he had just received the picture of Jack Gregory and he needed to know whether that was the same person these people had seen meeting with Jonathan Riles. And even though the picture was terrible, having been taken at the church hospital in India where Gregory had almost died back in 1996, the staffers had still been able to recognize his face.

Having dismissed all of the NSA people, Gordon stared across the room at Garfield Kromly. The old CIA trainer had been the only person, other than the vice president’s driver and Secret Service team, to accompany him on this nighttime jaunt from D.C. up to Ft. Meade. Now the man sat as he had throughout the meeting, his face an unreadable mask as his eyes watched Gordon’s every move.

The vice president leaned back in his chair. “We’ve got our man.”

“I’ll want to pick the team,” Kromly said.

“Bullshit. The FBI will handle this by the book.”

“I don’t recommend that.”

Gordon smiled. “And I don’t care. You just take care of briefing the operations folks over at FBI headquarters. I want every member of Gregory’s team IDed before they move, and I want you to personally let me know when they’re ready.”

“And the president?”

“I’ll have the FBI director brief him. Like I said, by the book.”

“This one is going to get bloody.”

“That’s okay. We can handle a few dead rogue operatives.”

“That’s not what I meant. The press secretary better be ready to explain a lot of dead FBI agents.”

The vice president leaned forward once again. It was amazing how the CIA man could irritate him. “You just take care of your part. I’m sure the FBI special units can handle Gregory.” He started to rise and then stopped. “Why the Ripper?”

Kromly raised an eyebrow. “Pardon?”

“I want to know about Gregory’s nickname.”

“That night in 1996, Jack was attacked by a group of six men in an alley in Bombay. Jack killed them all, but he suffered some serious knife wounds. By the time he stumbled into the catholic missionary clinic, he had lost so much blood that he died on the operating table. At least that’s what the doctor thought.”

Kromly paused. “There was one old nurse who stayed behind to clean up before wheeling his body out. She was bending over him when Jack awakened. They say the shock of what she saw in his eyes as he came back from the dead drove her insane. After that she just kept repeating the same phrase over and over again.”

“Which was?”

“‘Dear Lord, the Ripper walks the earth.’”

Vice President Gordon laughed. “And you believe that?”

Kromly looked up at him. “No, sir. But you asked me how he got his nickname. The truth is, that isn’t even what the old woman said.”