The First Horseman

  Contents

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Also by John Case

  Title Page

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Epilogue

  Copyright

  About the Book

  In the Book of Revelations, the Four Horsemen herald the arrival of the Apocalypse. When the First Horseman thunders forth, pestilence will spread throughout the land. For the First Horseman is Plague... The Spanish Flu killed thirty million people worldwide in 1918. Now, with history threatening to repeat itself, a scientific expedition speeds toward a remote island in the Arctic Sea to recover strains of the lethal virus preserved under layers of ice. For Washington Post reporter Frank Daly, it is the story of a lifetime. But his plan to join the expedition is ruined by a ferocious storm that delays him. And when he meets up with the ship upon its return to port in Norway, it is clear that something has gone terribly wrong. Fear haunts the faces of the crew. No one will talk. And someone wants Daly to stop asking questions. But if there’s a wall around the facts, Daly will batter it down. Persistent and resourceful, he knows how to get answers when none are given. Yet the more he uncovers, the more dangerous the stakes become. Until at last he comes face-to-face with a shocking secret, pitching him into a harrowing race to prevent nothing less than... apocalypse.

  About the Author

  John Case is the pseudonym for the husband-and-wife writing team of Jim and Carolyn Hougan. They have written three other international bestsellers together, The Genesis Code, Trance State and The Eighth Day. They live in Virginia. Jim Hougan is an award-winning investigative journalist.

  Also by John Case

  The Genesis Code

  Trance State

  The Eighth Day

  Murder Artist

  The First Horseman

  John Case

  PLEDGE OF THE GERMAN GUNNERS

  ‘. . . and most of all, they shall not construct any poisoned globes, nor other sorts of pyrobolic inventions, in which he shall introduce no poison whatsoever, besides which, they shall never employ them for the ruin and destruction of men, because the first inventors of our art thought such actions as unjust among themselves as unworthy of a man of heart and a real soldier.’

  From: Siemienowicz, C., Grand Art d’Artillerie (1650), as quoted by Appfel, J.

  ‘Les projectiles toxiques en 1650,’

  March 1929, p. 234.

  PROLOGUE

  THE HUDSON VALLEY

  NOVEMBER 11, 1997

  TOMMY WAS NERVOUS. Susannah could tell, because she knew he liked to talk, and yet, he hadn’t said a word for fifty miles. Not that she could blame him. She was nervous, too. And excited. And scared.

  It was dusk when they got off the Taconic Parkway, switching on the headlights as they traveled through rolling farmland, a Ralph Lauren landscape where the houses were so perfect, you just knew they were owned by doctors and lawyers. They were ‘mini-estates,’ or enclaves with names like ‘Foxfield Meadows,’ and they didn’t really grow anything except, maybe, sun-dried tomatoes and arugula.

  As they passed the Omega Institute, Susannah wondered aloud – what’s that? And the driver, Tommy, made a sound like a duck – kwak-kwak-kwak! So both of them laughed (a little too loud), and Susannah thought, Some kind of New Age thingie.

  The thing was – what made her nervous was: the whole deal about the teeth, about pulling out the teeth. No matter how you looked at it, pulling out the teeth was creepy. It was like Nuremberg or something. So if they got caught, it wouldn’t just be murder, it would be . . . what? Charles Manson, or something.

  Not that she’d be the one to do it – she couldn’t hurt a fly. That was Vaughn’s job, the teeth and the fingers. And giving the injections. He had to do that, too, because he was the doctor. (And a good one, Tommy said. ‘Vaughn’s an “Old Blue,” aren’t ya, Vaughn?’ Whatever that was.)

  Still, you had to wonder why it was necessary to do the teeth. And the fingers. Why not just . . . dump them? Or, better yet, leave ’em where they lay.

  Susannah thought about it for a while, then shrugged to herself. Solange moves in strange ways, she thought, smiling at the in-joke. Sometimes he did things just to be theatrical. Make a splash. Shake ’em up.

  Not that it made any difference. They weren’t going to get caught. Everything had been rehearsed, from the knock on the door to the handcuffs, and there wasn’t anything they hadn’t thought through.

  Like the U-Haul. The U-Haul was Solange’s idea, and it was brilliant because, once they’d fixed it up, it gave Vaughn a sort of operating room in the back. So he could do what he had to do even while they were driving away.

  And it was inconspicuous, too. Because U-Hauls were everywhere. There wasn’t anywhere in America they didn’t belong. Not even here. Everybody used them,

  Her job was to get inside the house and, once there, make sure the Bergmans couldn’t get to their gun. So it was two jobs, really, and what made everyone think she could bring it off was the fact – she wasn’t bragging, really, it was just a fact of life – the fact that she was ‘cute.’ Cheerleader cute. And pregnant. Which made her kind of vulnerable-looking.

  And that made people trust her. Which was important. Because the Bergmans were totally paranoid – like someone was out to kill them. Susannah smiled at the thought. Talk about irony – hello?

  But mostly it was scary and horrible, and she wished that she wasn’t a part of it, except: it had to be done. She knew it had to be done because Solange said so, and Solange never lied. Ever.

  And it wasn’t going to be painful. Vaughn said they wouldn’t feel a thing. Just ‘a bee sting’ from the needle. And that would be that.

  Unless, of course, something went wrong. Like, if they had a Doberman or something. But, no: they didn’t have a dog, because if they did, Lenny would have mentioned it. Lenny was their son, and if there was a Doberman walking around, he’d have told them about it.

  Like Marty did with the gun. Not that Marty was related to them, but he was close. He’d said, I don’t think the old fuck knows how to use it, but he’s got a .38 Special that he keeps in the vestibule – in a little table, just under the telephone. I used to kid him about being ‘strapped,’ and he’d say, ‘What are you talking about, what strap? I don’t see any strap.’ And the thing is, he wasn’t kidding. I mean, like this guy is livin’ in another century.

  Even so . . . what if the needle broke off, or the woman started screaming? Everything would go real bad, fast. Like with Riff – when she was a kid, and the car hit him. And her father tried to put him down with the .22, but he was so nervous, he couldn’t find the heart. So . . . he just kept shooting.

  If that happened, or something like that, there’d be blood all over the place – and all over them. And the thing is, legally, what they were doing was murder. Which, for someone who’d been brought up Catholic, even if she didn’t practice anymore, was abou
t as bad as it gets.

  Because killing was wrong. She knew that. No ifs, ands, or buts. Killing someone was dead wrong –

  Unless . . .

  Unless you were a soldier. And that’s exactly what they were – she and Tommy and Vaughn, and the French guy in the back of the truck. They were soldiers. Knights, even. Just like in the Crusades.

  Susannah was thinking about the Secret War, Solange’s war, her war, when the turn signal began to click, and the truck turned down a two-lane country road, scattering a clutch of deer that were feeding on the verge.

  A battered U-Haul with Arizona tags, the truck trembled and shook as it rattled over the washboarded lane, slowing down at every letter box, then speeding up, then slowing down again as the driver hunted for the right address. Finally, the truck came to a stop beside a rusting mailbox:

  BERGMAN

  For a long moment Tommy stared at the silvery, stick-on letters, muttering to himself. Then he killed the headlights, backed up, shifted into Drive and, holding his breath, entered the long driveway.

  Susannah squirmed in her seat and took a deep breath. Exhaling, she made a sort of stuttering sound, then wet her lips with her tongue.

  The truck crunched slowly over the gravel toward the front porch of a white farmhouse. There, beneath a bower of old walnut trees, Tommy killed the engine, the passenger door opened, and Susannah climbed out.

  She was, as anyone could see, pretty, young, and pregnant, with huge brown eyes and ash-blond hair. She wore a yellow sun dress under a tattered, gray cardigan that was much too big, and which might well have been her father’s. With a Here goes glance at the driver, she took a deep breath and mounted the steps to the porch, glancing at the pots of mums on either side.

  Reaching the top of the steps, she hesitated, suddenly queasy and weak. For a long moment she swayed in front of the door. Finally, she knocked – ever so softly, secretly hoping that no one was home.

  There was no answer at first, but she could hear the television inside, and so she knocked again. Louder this time. And then again, almost banging on the screen door,

  Eventually, the inner door swung open, and a woman in her fifties peered out from behind the latched screen door. ‘Hello?’ She pronounced the word as if it were a question.

  ‘Hi!’ Susannah said, looking sheepish and beautiful.

  Martha Bergman’s eyes took in the pregnancy, then drifted to the U-Haul, where a wiry young man (the girl’s husband, she supposed) gave a little wave. The side of the truck was painted with the image of a senorita, a Spanish lady peering coyly over the top of her fan. U-Haul liked to do that, painting the trucks with scenes that suggested where they were from: cowboys and lobsters and skyscrapers. Martha figured that this truck must be from New Mexico, or someplace in the Southwest.

  ‘Can I help you?’ Martha asked.

  ‘I hope so,’ Susannah replied, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. ‘We’re really lost.’

  Martha’s face softened. ‘Where are you looking for?’

  The girl shook her head and shrugged. ‘That’s the problem. We lost the number. But I know it’s one of these houses – one of the houses on Boice Road.’

  Martha winced. ‘It’s a long road, dear.’

  ‘I was hoping – if I could use your phone . . . I could call my brother. He’s at the house now.’

  Martha’s face settled into a frown. Then her eyes fell to Susannah’s stomach and, suddenly reassured, she smiled, unhooked the latch to the screen door, and held it open. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Come on in. The telephone’s over there, on the little table.’

  ‘That’s so nice of you,’ Susannah said as she stepped into the vestibule. ‘And, wow – what a beautiful house!’ In fact, it was a lot like her parents’ house, with fake Bokharas on the hardwood floors and overstuffed furniture from the Pottery Barn.

  From the next room a man’s voice boomed out above the noise of the television. ‘Martha! What are you doing? You’re missing it!’

  ‘I’ll be right there.’

  ‘Who are you talking to?’ the man asked.

  ‘I’m letting a young woman use the phone,’ Martha answered, and, turning to Susannah, sighed hugely. ‘The Jets are playing,’ she explained.

  Susannah smiled knowingly and shook her head, as if to say, Men! – then crossed the room to the table where the phone was. ‘I’ll just be a second,’ she said, and picked up the receiver. Turning away from the older woman, she dialed the cell phone in the back of the truck and waited. There was a ticking noise for several seconds, a warbling sound, and –

  Cliiick! Yeah. It was Vaughn.

  ‘Hiiii!’ Susannah gushed, emoting for Mrs. Bergman’s benefit.

  You’re inside?

  ‘Yup!’ And then, just as they rehearsed, she launched into a spiel about how she was just around the corner, or thought she was, but they’d lost the number to the new house – and what was it, anyway?

  What about the gun?

  Susannah threw a smile over her shoulder as she talked and, almost idly, cracked open the drawer to the end table. Seeing the .38, she said, ‘Got it! No problem.’

  You’re sure?

  ‘Absolutely.’

  Be right in.

  She kept talking for a few seconds after Vaughn hung up, then replaced the receiver in its cradle, turned and leaned against the end table.

  ‘Well, that was easy,’ Mrs. Bergman remarked, though she felt a bit awkward that the girl remained where she was, standing in front of the telephone. ‘Which house is it?’ she asked.

  Susannah shrugged and, turning, opened the drawer and removed the .38. Seeing the older woman’s reaction, she put the gun behind her back and smiled. ‘It’s going to be okay,’ she said. ‘Really.’ She was thinking about Solange, and what he’d told them the night before: Try not to scare them too much. There’s no point in starting a panic. Not yet, anyway.

  It was then that Harry Bergman came in, scowling, a glass of wine in one hand and a newspaper in the other. A pair of reading glasses hung from his neck by a black cord. ‘There’s a truck in the yard,’ he announced, as if it were the most astonishing thing in the world. And then, double-taking on Susannah, ‘Hello?’

  ‘That’s just us,’ Susannah mumbled.

  Harry looked from the girl to his wife and back again. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked, tensing at the look on his wife’s face. No one said anything for a moment, and then a screech tore through the yard-like nails on a blackboard, followed by a crash of metal.

  Martha jumped.

  ‘What the hell –’ Harry said.

  ‘That’s just the truck,’ Susannah replied, trying to be reassuring. ‘It’s just the back door going up. It needs grease or something.’

  ‘Right,’ Harry said and, pivoting, took a step toward the little table next to Susannah.

  ‘Uh-uh,’ she muttered, and waved the Browning at him. ‘Better not.’

  Harry didn’t quite freeze – he more or less subsided into himself, and as he did, his wife stepped in front of him. ‘Just leave him alone. He’s not –’

  ‘Martha –’ Harry protested.

  ‘Take whatever you want.’

  ‘Well, thanks,’ Susannah said, ‘but . . . that’s not the point.’

  The Bergmans gave her a blank look, and she could have kicked herself. But then the screen door opened and Vaughn came in, carrying a sawed-off shotgun as if it were a briefcase – never pointing it, never needing to. The French dude was right behind him with a set of plastic restraints, the kind the police use when they’re making lots of arrests at the same time. Tommy was on the porch outside, keeping watch.

  ‘Okay, everybody listen up,’ Vaughn said. ‘You do what we tell you, we’ll be out of your hair in ten minutes. That’s a promise, okay?’

  Harry Bergman put his arm around his wife and nodded, not so much because he agreed, but because he was too frightened to say anything.

  Then the guy with the cuffs stepped beh
ind them, and with an improbable S’il vous plaît, gently removed Harry’s arm from his wife’s shoulders. Bringing the older man’s arms behind his back, the Frenchman looped the plastic cord around Harry’s wrists and pulled it tight. This done, he turned to the woman and did the same.

  ‘Great,’ Vaughn said, and turned to Susannah. ‘You know what to do, right?’

  Susannah nodded – quick little jerks of her head – and watched as the Bergmans were led outside. As they went through the door she heard Vaughn say, ‘By the way, I spoke to your son the other day. He sends his love.’

  You could hear them gasp.

  Then the screen door slammed and Mr. Bergman’s voice was in the air, scared and growling, like a small dog protecting his patch from a rottweiler: ‘What is this? Where are you taking us?’ And Vaughn’s voice, laid-back and matter-of-fact: ‘We’re just going to the truck. . . .’

  Well, yeah, Susannah thought and, with a shudder, took a handkerchief from her pocket and wiped the .38 clean. Then she put the gun back in the drawer and erased her fingerprints from the wood and the phone. What else? She was supposed to turn off the TV, and the lights, too, and close the front door behind her. It was supposed to look like they just –

  Suddenly, the air was split by a frightened, almost feral bark, a prehistoric gasp of unadulterated terror. Hearing it, the night fell silent and Susannah, shaken, found herself running from the house, pulled by the sheer, centripetal force of someone else’s fear.

  As she came off the porch, she saw Tommy. He was coming around from the back of the truck, walking fast, head down, mouth open, blinking wildly. ‘What happened?’

  Tommy just shook his head and got behind the wheel. ‘Don’t go back there,’ he said.

  But how could she not?

  Turning the corner, she saw the man – Mr. Bergman – on the ground, his body trembling as if it were in the grip of an unseen and powerful amperage. A few feet away the woman was on her stomach in the driveway, pinioned by the Frenchman, who had his hand on the back of her neck and his knee in the small of her back. For a second Susannah’s eyes locked with the woman’s, and it seemed as if the night shivered in the space between them. Then Vaughn stepped over the husband’s still twitching body and, squatting beside the wife, administered an injection to the back of her shoulder, piercing the thin cotton dress that she wore.