Scenes from the Secret History (The Secret History of the World) (42 page)

And now here he was, chatting away as casually as could be.

Jack stared at him.  “Why have you been watching me?”

“Trying to decide the right time to connect with you.  Because it is time we joined forces.  Past time, I’d say.”

“Why didn’t you just knock on my door?  Why all the cat-and-mouse stuff?”

“I doubt very much you like people knowing the location of your door, let alone knocking on it.”

Jack had to admit he had that right.

“And besides,” Veilleur added, “you had more than enough on your plate at the time.”

Jack sighed as the events of the past few months swirled around him.  “True that. But–?”

"Let's walk, shall we?"

They crossed Central Park West and headed toward Columbus Avenue in silence. Though they’d just met, Jack found something about the old guy that he couldn't help liking and trusting.  On a very deep, very basic, very primitive level he didn't understand, he sensed a solidarity with Veilleur, a subliminal bond, as if they were kindred spirits.

But when and where had they met before?

"Want to tell me what's going on?"

Veilleur didn’t hesitate.  "The end of life as we know it."

Somehow, Jack wasn’t surprised.  He’d heard this before.  He felt an enormous weight descend on him.

“It’s coming, isn’t it.”

He nodded.  “Relentlessly moving our way.  But the key fact to remember is it hasn’t arrived yet.  Relentlessness does not confer inevitability.  Look at your run-in with the rakoshi.  What’s more relentless than a rakosh?  Yet you defeated a shipload of them.” 

Jack stopped and grabbed Veilleur's arm.

"Wait a sec.  Wait a sec.  What do you know about rakoshi?  And
how
do you know?"

"I'm sensitive to certain things.  I sensed their arrival.  But I was more acutely aware of the necklaces worn by Kusum Bahkti and his sister." 

Jack felt slightly numb.  The only other people who knew about the rakoshi and the necklaces were the two most important people in his world – Gia and Vicky – plus two others: Abe and…

"Did Kolabati send you?"

"No.  I wish I knew where she was.  We may have need of her before long, but we have other concerns right now.”

“‘We’?”

“Yes.  We.”

Jack stared at Veilleur.  “You’re him, aren’t you.  You’re the one Herta told me about.  You’re Glae–"

The old man raised a hand.  “I am Veilleur – Glenn Veilleur.  That is the only name I answer to now.  It is best it remains that way lest the other name is overheard.”

“Gotcha,” Jack said, though he didn’t.

So this was Glaeken, the Ally’s point man on Earth – or
former
point man, rather.  Jack had thought he’d be more impressive – taller, younger.

“We must speak of other things, Jack.  Many things.”

There
was an understatement.  But where?

Of course.

"You like beer?"

This way to the bloodbath…
By the Sword

July

Ground Zero

At this time – the late aughts – in addition to writing the main-line Jack novels, I was writing the Teen Trilogy as well… and falling in love with Weezy.  I couldn’t let her go, so I brought her back into Jack’s life.
  And since she’s an expert on the Secret History and the conspiracies that fuel it, she finds that what we think we know about the Trade Tower attacks may not be all here is to know.

If you’ve been reading in order, you will learn why Trejador and Drexler were so upset in 1993 when they heard of the first plot to bring down the towers.  The Secret History has slowly begun dominating the novels now.

Ground Zero

(
sample)

Surreal, he thought as he watched the twin Towers burn. 

His rented boat rocked gently on the waters of
New York harbor, a thousand feet off the Battery.  The morning sun blazed in a flawless cerulean sky.  But for the susurrus of the light breeze and the soft lapping of the waves against the hull, the world lay silent about him.

A beautiful, beautiful day…

…unless you were anywhere near those towers. 

He tried to imagine the Pandemonium in the streets around them – the klaxons, the sirens, the shouts, the confusion, the terror.  Not a hint of that here. The Towers belched black smoke like a couple of chimneys, but all in silence.

He checked his watch: nearly ten o’clock.  The plan was to allow an hour or so of chaos after the Arabs completed their mission.  By then, though fear and terror would still be running high, the initial panic would have subsided.  The situation would be considered horrific and tragic, but manageable.  The second jet had hit at 9:03, so the hour mark was almost upon him.  Time to initiate the second phase – the real reason for all this.

From a pocket of his windbreaker he pulled a pair of gray plastic boxes, each the size of a cigarette pack – one marked with an
S
for the South Tower, the other with an
N
for the north.  He put the
N
away for later.  After all, the South Tower was the important one, the reason for this enormous undertaking.

He extended an aerial from the
S
box, then slid up a little safety cover on its front panel, revealing a black button.  He took a breath and pressed the button, then watched and waited.

The vast majority would blame the collapse on the crazy Arabs who hijacked the planes and the Islamic extremists who funded them – the obvious choice.  A few would notice inconsistencies and point fingers elsewhere, blaming the government or Big Oil or some other powerful but faceless entity. 

No one, absolutely no one, would guess – or be allowed to guess – the truth behind the who and the why of this day.

Hmmm…who’s the guy in the boat? (hint: he’s someone you’ve known for a long time)

Find out here…
Ground Zero

…ends in August

THE TOUCH

Weird Walt has had the Dat-Tay-Vao too long.  It’s killing him.  Time to pass it on.  It came to America for a reason.  It knows it will be needed here.  It’s been waiting, and now its time is nearing…

THE TOUCH

(sample)

Alan was all set to spend a nice, quiet evening at home when the answering service patched through a call from Joe Barton, a longtime patient. He was coughing up blood. Alan told him to get right over to the emergency room and he'd meet him there.

Joe turned out to have a heavily consolidated lobar pneumonia. But because he was a smoker and there was the chance that something sinister might be lurking in the infiltrated area of lung, he scheduled him for a CT scan tomorrow.

As he approached the ER nursing desk, a voice called out from the corner gurney.

"You! Hey, you! You're the one!"

The overhead light in the corner was out. Alan squinted into the dimness. A disheveled old man in shapeless clothes lay there, ges
turing to him. Alan didn't recognize him, but threw him a friendly wave in passing.

"Who's in the corner cot?" he said to McClain when he reached the desk. "Anybody I know?"

"For your sake, I hope not," she said. "He's drunk as a skunk and doesn't smell much better. Doesn't even know his name."

“What's wrong with him?"

"Says he came here to die."

"That's encouraging."

McLain snorted. "Not on my shift, it ain't. Anyway, we've got lab and a chest X-ray cooking, and EKG is on the way."

"Who's on service?"

"Your old buddy, Alberts."

McClain was one of the few nurses still around who would re
member that Alan and Lou Alberts had been partners – how many years ago? Could it be seven years already since they'd split?

"I'm sure they'll get along fine together," he said with an evil grin.

McClain barked a laugh. "I'm sure!"

On his way back to say good night to Joe, the man in the corner cot called to him again.

"Hey, you! C'mere! S'time!"

Alan waved but kept walking. The man was in no distress, just drunk.

"Hey! S'time! C'mere.
Please!"

The note of desperation in that last word made Alan stop and turn toward the corner. The man was motioning him over.

"C'mere."

Alan walked to the side of the gurney, then backed up a step. It was the same bum who had banged on his car Tuesday night. And McClain hadn't been kidding. He was filthy and absolutely foul smelling. Yet even the stench from his pavement-colored clothes and shoeless feet couldn't quite cover the reek of cheap wine on the breath wheezing from his toothless mouth.

"What can I do for you?" Alan said.

"Take my hand." He held out a filthy paw with cracked skin and blackened, ragged fingernails.

"Gee, I don't know," Alan said, trying to keep the mood light. "We haven't even been introduced."

"Please take it."

Alan took a breath. Why hadn't he just walked on by like everybody else?

He shrugged and reached out his right hand. The poor guy did look like he was dying, and this seemed important to him. Besides, he'd had his hands in worse places.

As soon as his fingers neared the derelict's, the filthy hand leaped up and grabbed him in an iron grip. Pain blossomed in his fingers and palm, but from more than pressure. Light blazed around him as a jolt like high-voltage electricity coursed up his arm, convulsing his muscles, causing him to thrash uncontrollably like a fish on a hook. Dark spots flared in his vision, coalescing, blotting out the derelict, the emergency room, everything.

And then the grip was broken and he was reeling backward, off balance, his hands reaching for something, anything to keep him from falling. He felt fabric against his left hand, grabbed it, realizing it was a privacy curtain as he heard its fasteners snap free of the ceiling track under his weight. But at least it slowed his fall, lessening the blow to the back of his head as it struck the nearby utility table. His vision blurred, then cleared to reveal McClain's shocked expression as she leaned over him.

"What happened? You okay?"

Alan rubbed his right hand with his left. The electric shock sen
sation was gone, but the flesh still tingled all the way down to the bone.

"I think so. What the hell did he do to me?"

McClain glanced at the corner gurney. "Him?" She straightened up and gave the derelict a closer look. "Oh, shit!" She darted out toward the desk and came back pushing the crash cart.