C. Graham - The Solomon Effect

The man’s eyes widened, his splayed hands creeping into the air beside his head. “Who the fuck are you?”

Jax found the Glock in the holster at the small of the guy’s back and tossed it off the edge of the dock with a splash. “I’m the guy with the gun. Now move.” To October, he said, “Where’d you see the pathogen?”

“The stateroom.”

Jax prodded the security guard in the back with the Beretta. “Show us.”

“Which stateroom? There’s four.”

“Start with the master stateroom.”

They followed the guard to a cherry-paneled room with a king-sized bed, his and her walk-in closets, a 26-inch HD TV, and en suite his and her heads that gleamed with polished marble and gold-plated faucets. An aluminum case lay open on the bed. Empty.

“Sonofabitch,” said Jax. From the looks of the slot in the molded foam interior, the case had once cradled a cylinder just over a foot long and maybe six inches across.

He rested the Beretta’s muzzle against the security guard’s temple and pulled back the hammer with a click that echoed in the sudden stillness. “Who owns this boat?”

“Mr.-” The man’s voice broke. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Mr. Walker. James Nelson Walker.”

The name meant nothing to Jax. “Where is he now?”

“I don’t know!” The man’s voice rose in near hysteria. “He left maybe twenty minutes ago.”

“Jax,” said October softly.

He glanced at her. “What?” His gaze fell to the sheaf of blueprints she was unrolling. “What are those?”

“It says ‘Heating, Ventilation, and Air Conditioning System.’”

“Shit. It’s an HVAC plan. What building?”

“The Intercontinental.”

Jax swung back to the security guard. “Where’s that?” The man’s nose quivered. “Chopin Plaza. On the bay.

Right next to Bayfront Park.”

Jax shoved the guy into the nearest closet and turned the key. “Bring the plans,” Jax told October. “Let’s go.”

By now the sun was only a rosy memory on a darkening horizon. October took the Speedboat’s helm while Jax spread the HVAC plans out on the floorboards.

“Anything?” she asked as the Speedboat skimmed over the smooth black waters of the bay.

“Someone’s circled the section of the system that serves the grand ballroom,” he said, straightening. “I’d say that’s their target.” He snapped his penlight closed and punched in a call to Matt. “Ever hear of some fat cat named James Nelson Walker?”

“As a matter of fact, yes,” said Matt. “He’s the head of Walker Pharmaceuticals. I was just looking into him.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because he studied biochemistry at MIT when Kline was there. From what I can discover, he’s quite a closet bigot. He keeps it quiet for the sake of business.”

Jax squinted across the bay, to where the lights of the Manhattan-like skyscrapers twinkled out over the water. “Do me a favor, Matt: look on the Intercontinental website and see what function they’re holding in the grand ballroom tonight.”

After a minute, Matt said, “Oh, man.”

“What is it?”

“The hotel’s hosting the People of the Book Conference.”

“The what?”

“It’s a kind of religious peace conference. The idea is that all three of the big Western religions-Judaism, Christianity, and Islam-respect the same holy book-what Christians call the Old Testament-and share many of the same beliefs. So they’ve brought together rabbis, priests, and imams from all over the world to try to find a way to work for interracial and interreligious peace. Their grand banquet is tonight. In the ballroom.”

Turning the wheel hard, October slammed the side of the Speedboat into the U-shaped wooden walkway that curved out into the bay at Chopin Plaza and cut the engine.

“Hey,” shouted a dark, stocky bellboy, starting toward them. “You’re not allowed to tie up your boat there!”

“Catch.” Jax tossed him the bow line and grabbed October’s hand to haul her up onto the boardwalk. “It’s yours.”

They sprinted across the pavement and burst through the hotel’s massive glass entrance doors into a soaring space of tan marble turned to gold by the subtle gleam of light. A swashbuckling pirate in a black eye patch careened into them, said, “Excuse me,” and stepped back into an Arab in flowing bisht and a ghutra and igal. The Arab was real. The pirate wasn’t.

“What the hell?” said Jax, turning in a circle. The lobby teemed with curvaceous Little Bo Peeps and Naughty Nurses, Orthodox Jews with black slouch hats and curly ringlets, Klingons and Vulcans, caped vampires and hairy werewolves and Catholic priests in white collars and befuddled expressions.

October touched his arm and pointed to a discreet black sign with white letters that read, HIGHGATE HALLOWEEN CHARITY BALL, RM B12; PEOPLE OF THE BOOK BANQUET, GRAND BALLROOM. “Where’s the ballroom?” she shouted over the roar of voices and the splash of the fountain.

“We don’t want the ballroom,” he said, pushing though a coven of witches. “We want the floor above it. That’s where the HVAC unit is. According to the plans, the building’s entire system runs next to the service-elevator shaft. This way.”

They found the service elevator in a quiet hallway to their right. The indicator was stuck on the third floor, and it wasn’t moving.

“They’re probably holding it there,” said Jax, punching open the door to the nearby stairwell. “Come on.”

They raced up the bare concrete steps, the only sounds the clatter of their footfalls and the echoing rasp of their breath. At first, she kept pace with him. But as they were turning toward the second flight, he heard her let out a gasp as she hunched over to brace one hand against her knee. He slowed. “You okay?”

“Don’t wait for me! Keep going.”

He was maybe five seconds ahead of her when he slapped open the heavy firedoors on the third floor, his Beretta in his hand.

Rigged out in a Crusader costume with fake chain mail and a white surcoat marked by a giant red cross, General Gerald T. Boyd stood in the center of the hall, his hands on his hips, his attention focused on a closed gray door marked MAINTENANCE. A second man-younger, leaner, with a military buzzcut that clashed badly with his medieval squire’s costume-had one foot wedged in the partially open doors of the service elevator.

At Jax’s catapulted entrance, both men jerked around. The squire had a 9mm Glock half out of the holster hidden beneath his hauberk when Jax pumped two bullets into his chest.

The force of the impact knocked the squire back into the elevator. The doors slammed shut and the elevator whirled away with a ding.

“You bastard,” roared Boyd. Arms spread, he plowed into Jax and enveloped him in a deadly bear hug, just as October burst through the firedoor from the stairs.

With the General’s beefy arms squeezing the air out of his lungs, Jax wheezed, “The HVAC room. Quick.”

Arms pinned to his sides, lungs bursting, Jax pointed the Beretta’s muzzle vaguely in the direction of Boyd’s foot and pulled the trigger. He heard the bullet ricochet off the floor and smelled burned leather, cloth, and flesh. Boyd roared again and squeezed harder.

Jax pulled the trigger again and missed. The pressure on his lungs tightened. He could hear his ears ringing. His vision dimmed. He looked up into the General’s furious red face and knew a moment of disbelief. He was being crushed to death by a giant crazy general just feet away from where a mad scientist was unleashing a plague that could wipe out a good quarter of the world’s population.

Bending one knee, he braced his foot against the wall behind him and pushed. The General staggered back just enough to enable Jax to shift the angle of the Beretta’s barrel and fire again.