Armen Gharabegian - Protocol 7

She began to hear the echo of the chanting, even through the fabric that covered her ears. It grew louder as she moved down one last, straight corridor.

The hands disappeared the instant she passed into the ceremonial hall. She was alone now, blind and half-deaf. Now she could rely only on her memory and training: thirteen steps forward, turn to the right, two steps forward and one to the side. And on. And on. She had been taught this sequence long ago. She did not falter; she never had.

The humming vibrations of the chants grew louder as she moved through the sequence. The air felt colder than ever, but familiar, almost welcome. She could feel the chilled puddles of water under her feet. She was closer to the sacred space now. Much closer, once again in a room with others-others with whom she had communicated for years but never seen.

There was no society on Earth as obscure, as secretive, or as ancient as this. The ancient rite she was practicing at this moment had been practiced in just such a way, in just such a place, for millennia-for as long as there have been humans to perform it. They were here for a reason. They persisted to protect one of the most powerful secrets of all time, a secret passed down from generation to generation by a carefully chosen few.

She was privileged-blessed-to be the bearer of that secret.

She completed the sequence of steps, confident in her movement. She sank to her knees, still blinded, and put out her hands, fingers outstretched, palms down. She could feel intense cold radiating just below them.

The block of ice, she told herself. As always. In place.

She lowered her hands slowly and carefully and touched the frigid surface of the block. Unsurprised, fully prepared, she moved her hands down the block-top to bottom, left to right. There were forms carved in the ice in a language lost for millennia: her instructions, her new assignment. She would have time to read it only once before the block melted away, leaving nothing but cold water in its place.

For one instant, she felt a wild, nearly uncontrollable impulse to snatch the blindfold from her eyes, to look into the room, into the faces of her masters for the first time.

But that was not an option. It never was. She was the society’s instrument, its tool, and she would now be its weapon. And weapons did not make their own choices. They simply did what they were designed to do.

As she absorbed the instructions, as the ice melted beneath her trembling fingers, she knew how difficult this would be. It was, almost certainly, the last assignment she would be given. When the ritual was performed in this place again, as it certainly would be, there would be a new woman, a new acolyte, in her place.

She did not object. She did not speak.

There was an obscure marking on the back of her neck-the same one that all the members had-an ancient symbol tattooed on her when she was a young child. The geometric shape meant “the unspoken word” in a language that was nearly forgotten, and it was an indelible reminder of the First Rule: Never Speak of This.

She never did.

The last indentations in the ice melted away. The message had been delivered. She had read and understood. She was shivering slightly, from cold and revelation, as she stood, turned, and performed the memorized steps exactly in reverse, still sightless. Soon she found herself standing at the door, where a new set of hands touched her, drew her forward, and led her away from the Place of Silence.

Two hours later she boarded the same jet that brought her to Malta and returned to London. There were three men on the aircraft with her this time, but they did not speak to her. They didn’t even look directly at her as she entered the cabin. They were stern and fierce looking, as if they were her bodyguards. All were of ethnic decent, Mediterranean, with strong, dark features. The plane had not been in flight for more than thirty minutes before one of the three men held his hand over his ear, listening to the incoming message.

Two minutes later he spoke to the woman. “Seems our source has located the team. We’re not sure what’s been leaked, but I’m on top of it.”

“Careful,” the woman said, “We don’t want to blow the plan. I need to rendezvous inconspicuously. Need to know exactly where to meet.”

“We’re on it,” the man said. He spoke into the collar of his black suit as the other two watched, stoic like statues but dangerous looking. “Extract info-that is all,” he said. “No one remembers, and no one gets hurt.” He disconnected by tapping his collar.

The woman spent the trip staring out the window as Western Europe passed silently beneath her.

This, she knew, would be no ordinary mission.

Samantha's Flat

The stranger entered Samantha’s building using a simple lock pick, a close variation on a design that had been used by burglars for centuries. He did it absolutely silently, without so much as the skirl of metal on metal. A separate device in his pocket, no larger than a golf ball, automatically countered the security systems that should have alerted her of an intruder. No lights flashed; no alarms sounded.

He slipped up to the third floor like a shadow.

Samantha had been exhausted by everything that had happened the day before. First the phone calls from her friends, then that incredible conversation at the Stanton, and finally the dinner at Ryan’s. It had drained her completely. She had actually dozed off still fully clothed, toothbrush in hand.

She didn’t even flinch as the stranger opened the door to her flat and slipped inside, closing it silently and securely behind him.

He moved swiftly and with deadly purpose. Within seconds, he was standing over her bed, where she lay in a deep sleep. He smiled with utter confidence as his gloved hand reached into the pocket of his jacket and withdrew a square white cloth folded double. It was already soaked with a foul-smelling liquid.

The stranger snapped it over her mouth so swiftly, so securely, she scarcely had time to react. Her first panic-stricken intake of breath pulled the foul smell into her lungs. It was already too late.

Samantha tried to resist, but the strength of his hand was simply too much. In the space of five heartbeats she fell back onto the bedcovers, unconscious. A moment later the stranger pulled a circular bit of plastic from his pocket-a medication induction patch, standard issue in every hospital across Europe-and slapped it onto the side of her neck.

Samantha would be ready to answer any question he asked within five minutes.

He would be gone in ten.

Simon's Apartment

Simon was so exhausted he almost fell asleep in Jonathan’s car on the way back to his flat, and he had to rouse himself as Jonathan pulled into his driveway and let him out.

“Tomorrow,” he said, and Jonathan agreed, clearly as beat as Simon himself. His old friend had backed the car down the driveway and off into the night before Simon had made it to the entrance.

He took a moment to breathe in the clean, cool pre-dawn air. The rain had passed, at least for the moment, and though he was weary beyond belief, he felt strangely calm.

It had been a good meeting. Now he had a plan, crazy as it was. And a team of people he could trust. And…

And there was something wrong here.

The first hint came as he entered the lobby of his apartment. The regular greeting at the door was silent, which was highly unusual. The attendant was not there. He looked around as he started to walk upstairs, but nothing else seemed out of the ordinary until he reached his own front door.

There was light shining around its edges-far too much light.