“Otto and I-and a few very talented friends-have spent decades weaponizing ethnic-specific diseases. Ten years ago we cracked the science of turning inherited diseases like Tay-Sachs and sickle-cell anemia into communicable pathogens. Anyone with a genetic predisposition to those diseases would go into full-blown outbreak after even minimal exposure to the pathogen.”

“But there were no pathogens in the water!” Paris said.

“No. The pathogens are being released into lakes, streams, and reservoirs worldwide. The bottled water contains the gene for the disease. Drink a bottle of water… even brew a cup of tea with it… and specific ethnic groups and subgroups will develop the genetic disorder. Within a few weeks they will be vulnerable to infection from the pathogens in the regular drinking water. Or from exposure to anyone who has become infected. No one would think to look in the bottled water for the genes because no one can do gene therapy with bottled water.”

“No one except us,” said Otto. “Funny thing is… it wasn’t as hard as we thought.”

“But why?” demanded Hecate. “This is monstrous!”

“It’s God’s will,” said Cyrus. “It’s the beginning of a New Order that will purify the world by removing the polluted races. Blacks and Jews and Gypsies and-”

“Are you fucking crazy?” demanded Paris. “What kind of Nazi bullshit is this?”

Cyrus’s smile grew and grew. “Nazi. Now… the moron shows a spark of intelligence by choosing exactly the right word.”

Hecate looked confused. “Wait… you’re a Nazi? Since when?”

“Since always, my pet. Since the very beginning.”

“Since the beginning of what?”

“Since the beginning of Nationalsozialismus,” Cyrus said, letting his German accent seep through. “Since the beginning of National Socialism in Germany. For me personally, I first embraced the ideals while working in the reserve medical corps of the Fifth SS Panzergrenadier Division Wiking. But it wasn’t until I met Otto at Auschwitz that I discovered the full potential of the party ideals.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” snapped Paris. “That’s World War Two crap. You weren’t even born then…”

Otto and Cyrus laughed out loud. “Idiot boy,” said Cyrus, “I was older than you when I came to work at Auschwitz. I was older than you when I made a name for myself that the world will never forget.”

Paris shook his head, unable to grasp any of this.

“Father… you’re rambling,” said Hecate. “You were born in 1946.”

“No,” he said, wagging his finger back and forth, “Cyrus Jakoby was born in 1946. As were a dozen other cover names in six countries. But I was born in 1911.”

“That’s impossible!” said Paris.

Cyrus looked around. “We stand here in the midst of unicorns and flying dragons and you tell me antiaging gene therapy is impossible? Otto and I have been tampering with those genes for years. Granted there are…,” he gestured vaguely to his head, “… the occasional psychological side effects, but we’re managing those.”

“But… but…,” Hecate began. “If Cyrus Jakoby is an alias… then who are you?”

Otto said, “He’s a man you should be on your knees worshiping. Your father is the boldest, most innovative medical researcher of this or any generation.”

The Twins stared at him, and even Veder’s eyes flickered with genuine interest.

Cyrus touched his face. “Under all of this reconstructive surgery, beneath the changes I’ve made with gene therapy to change my hair color and eye color… beyond the façade,” he said, “I am the former Chief Medical Officer of the infirmary at Auschwitz-Birkenau. I am der weisse Engel-the ‘white angel’ that the Jews came to fear more than God or the Devil.”

He smiled a demon’s smile.

“I am Josef Mengele.”

Chapter One Hundred Eight

The Dragon Factory

Twenty minutes ago

The guard never heard a sound. He strolled back and forth along the footpath between the docks and the main building. He chewed peppermint gum and glanced now and again at the stars. Patrol duty was boring. Except for the night when the hit came in, the months of his service at the Dragon Factory were a huge ho-hum, and he’d been off-shift that night. The hit team had been taken out by a Stinger dog and one of the Berserkers.

The guard hated the Berserkers. Those ugly goons got all the perks. Everyone thought they were so cool. Fucking transgenic ape assholes.

He spit out his gum and began to turn to pace back to the dock.

He never heard a sound, never felt anything more than a quick burn across his throat when Grace Courtland came up behind him and slit his throat from ear to ear.

GRACE DROPPED THE corpse and two of her men dragged it into the bushes away from the light from the tiki-torches.

She ran like a dark breeze along the edge of the path. Grace sheathed her knife and drew a silenced.22, and as she rounded the corner she saw two guards-one bending forward to light his cigarette from the lighter held in the cupped hands of the second. Grace shot them both in the head, two shots each.

The path ended at the front of the building where two immense men stood guarding the tall glass doors. There was too much light from inside the building for a stealthy approach. Grace signaled to Redman, her second in command. She indicated the guards and gave a double twitch of her trigger finger. Redman waved another operative forward and they flattened out on either side of the path and flipped night vision over the scopes of their sniper rifles. Both rifles had sound suppressors. It would drop the foot-pounds of impact, but at this distance the loss of impact would be minimal.

Redman fired a split second before Fayed. Two shots, two kills. The big guards slammed against the glass doors and fell.

Grace Courtland smiled a cold killer’s smile and ran forward.

FIFTY YARDS BEHIND her another group of shadows broke away from the wall of darkness under the trees. They were heading to the far side of the compound and did not see Grace and Alpha Team take out the guards or enter the building. Even if he had, the team leader, a harsh-faced man named Boris Ivenko, would have thought that he was seeing one of the many teams of Spetsnaz that were invading the island from every side.

Chapter One Hundred Nine

In flight

Sixteen minutes ago

“Eight minutes to drop, Captain,” called the pilot.

About damn time, I thought.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Bunny nudge Top and then the two of them share a look. I must have had quite an expression on my face. I turned away and hoisted my poker face on.

There was a bing! in my earbud and then Church’s voice said, “Cowboy. Our spotters are seeing some activity around the island. Over two dozen small commercial fishing craft have closed on Dogfish Cay and launched boats.”

“What the hell? Don’t tell me the Navy’s jumped the gun on this.” “No,” he said. “They’re not ours.”

“Then who the hell are they?”

“Unknown at this time.”

“Russians?”

“Possible, but there are a lot of them. Early estimates put the number at over one hundred.”

“Christ. Any word from Grace? Do we have the trigger device?”

“She reported in just before I called you. She does not yet have the device. This situation is still fragile.”

Shit.

“Okay… keep all of the backup on standby. I’m seven minutes from my drop. I’ll get back to you with intel as soon as I’m on the ground.”