The Genesis Plague (2010) by Michael Byrnes Page B

tactics, this modern war could last decades, perhaps generations. When Stokes had worked as a counter-terrorist operative, he’d seen little proof that anyone knew a viable long-term solution. One thing, however, was certain: in the end, only one side would remain standing.
    ‘It’s for the best,’ a soothing voice said from behind.
    Startled, Stokes spun around in his chair.
    There was no one in the room.
    When would He present Himself?
    ‘Yes, it is for the best,’ Stokes agreed. ‘Frank’s work was vital … but he didn’t understand the grand design to which we aspire.’
    ‘Few do, my son.’
    Stokes’s eyes darted back and forth, searching for an apparition. ‘They found the cave. You know that, of course. Will this jeopardize our work?’
    ‘Have faith. All is in accordance.’
    The voice came at him from every angle.
    ‘And when will I know that it has begun?’
    ‘It has already begun. Do you not see the signs?’
    There are no accidents, thought Stokes . ‘Yes, I see the signs. And the Rapture? When will it come.’
    No answer.
    Stokes scanned the room. He felt the presence dissipate. Gone.

9
BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS
    The snow was staging an encore as GSC Special Agent Thomas Flaherty turned his ‘95 Chrysler Concorde off Huntington Avenue on to Museum Road. Rounding the corner, the car caught ice and began to skid. Shit! His heart went into overdrive. Gripping the steering wheel, he compensated by tugging it hard to the right. Steer into the turn, he told himself. Finally, the tyres caught salt and asphalt and he eased to a stop. He took a moment to catch his breath. Luckily, there’d been no cars in the oncoming lane.
    ‘Okay. Get it together.’ He accelerated nice and slow. Damned snow, he thought.
    The promo banners hanging along the museum’s neoclassical cut-granite edifice were dusted with snow, but the words ‘Treasures from Mesopotamia, Sept. 21 - January 4’ were easy enough for him to make out.
    The last time he’d visited the Boston Museum of Fine Arts had been during an eleventh-grade field trip hosted by the Boston Latin School. Not exactly a bragging point. Nowadays it was tough to find time for culture. At least that was the excuse he was going with.
    When he steered to the kerb, his front right tyre thumped its way in and out of a pothole hard enough to make his teeth rattle. He rubbed the dashboard affectionately. ‘Sorry ‘bout that, sweetie,’ he told the old war horse. He put the transmission in park, cut the engine.
    From the centre console, he grabbed his BlackBerry, punched in the PIN code for his secure e-mail account, and accessed the urgent find-and-deliver order he’d received from Global Security Corporation’s Boston office. Only ten minutes ago, he’d received a terse phone call confirming that the museum was the asset’s current location.
    The woman’s profile was a bit lengthy, so he read aloud to himself to drive home the key points: ‘Brooke Thompson. Born and raised, Orlando, Florida. Thirty-three. No children. Single …’ He paused and looked back at the attractive photo, trying to reconcile the contradiction. ‘Hmm.’ Single? He could only assume that she came with an ex-husband, excessive emotional baggage, two cats and a worn copy of Twilight . Otherwise, the facts simply didn’t compute.
    The highly agreeable face, nonetheless, was easy enough to remember.
    He continued down the bulleted list. ‘PhD in palaeontology, Boston College … professor at same … Middle East antiquities curator, Boston Museum of Fine Arts … award, award, award … blah, blah, blah … lives in the Back Bay on Commonwealth Ave …’ Satisfied, he dropped the BlackBerry into his coat pocket.
    Bracing for the cold, he threw open the door on groaning hinges, swung his boots out into the slush, and got out from the car. The chill immediately cut into his bones. One of these days, he might remember to bring along some gloves, maybe a scarf too. If he wasn’t a