throwing a fit in school because somebody stole her notebook. She was humming up a storm. I relaxed the way you do when your only choice is to go over the oncoming waterfall.
A moment later, the angel statue with the folded wings unfolded them and took to the air; the one who’d started out unfolded was already flapping hard around the suite, scattering papers and loose jackets and scaring the shit out of everybody. Saints floated out of the stained-glass windows and the fountains round the edge of the room shot straight into the air, showering the whole scattering bunch.
I flunked science but there’s a limit. I reached out my hand, groping for the spot where the statues had stood a few moments earlier. My hand touched marble and, all at once, without drama or fanfare, the statues were there again. Or there still, I guess. I removed my hand and they disappeared. Kate had a smirk on her face.
“This way!” she said, pointing at a granite staircase under another of the arches. I started after her and then stopped dead in my tracks. She whirled, questioning but it was too late. With all the craziness, I couldn’t move.
One drone remained stubbornly in place, brow furrowed under his sandy hair, furiously sending out his message. All I had to do was knock over his chair, kick his ass and get the hell out.
But, five feet away from him, it hit me, full-strength, full-on: the screaming, the shots going off, the tumult of bodies in every direction, trying to get the gun away from-? And the music, the Holst, but not the Holst outside, the same piece but a minute advanced, a hundred bars ahead.
I staggered like a sailor in a squall as the complete suggestion hit me, all four channels feverishly relayed by the man seated in front of me, the man who hadn’t faltered, the mindshare buddy I’d channeled in the hallway outside the bomber’s apartment and at the airport. The man whose wavelength I shared.
“We’ve got to get to Max!” I yelled. “I know the plan!”
We dove down the stairwell and rushed headlong across the corridor below, past a succession of storage rooms and offices. We could hear shouting and footsteps behind us but we weren’t waiting for company.
At the far end, Kate threw open a door and then another and we were outside in the lovely oppressive night air. She put her fingers to the lock and waited. Nothing. She grimaced, shook them in the air and finally rubbed enough to get a spark. She fused the lock shut just as the guards reached it. We ran the high concrete skirt of the island, tearing reckless toward the prow and the sound of the raging orchestra.
And then it was pouring, just like in Lowery’s image, the rain coming down in buckets. As we neared the prow, the whole scene opened up like a pageant in front of us-spotlights glaring on the dome where the leaders sat like mannequins, facing the open-sided tent covering the orchestra. The Holst was pounding away, strings bowing furiously and horns blaring, a huge wall of sound. I knew the piece-we had a minute, maybe less, before the cue.
Three guards rushed us in formation. Kate threw two into the river with a flick of the wrist. The third pulled a gun, then howled and dropped it. The weapon glowed hitting the ground, setting the grass all round to burning.
Singh sat in the middle of the dome, everyone’s primary safety concern but not really a proper member of the G8. I’d seen enough on TV to know her usual self-possession; the conflict on her face now was chilling. She was fighting herself-fighting what her mind was telling her to do. She didn’t look like she’d be able to fight much longer.
Max and Tauber stood next to the tent; I veered wildly toward them-several heads swiveled in percussion as I ran past.
A lightning bolt crackled past my ear. I turned to face it and it exploded-against an invisible shield. Kate ran up next to me. “Keep going,” she yelled, deflecting another blast with a swipe of her hand. On the far side of the island, Pietr Volkov stood close alongside the viewing box while Marat headed straight for us.
Less than thirty seconds to the cue. Volkov, near the dome, began to mutter and Singh rose like a marionette out of her chair. The French President turned to check on her but no one, characteristically, left their positions.
“Max!” I yelled. I was right on top of him now. He was frozen, his face full of fear. Considering the things I’d seen him do, that sent a chill up my back. He was fixated on Volkov, staring hard but clearly getting no voices, no answers, no clear idea of what was happening.
“Not now!” he yelled.
“We got it wrong!” I grabbed him by the shoulders. “She’s not the victim-she’s the assassin!”
My skull went hot and in a moment, he knew what I knew, what I’d read from the sandy-haired drone: the plan wasn’t to kill the messenger of hope-that wouldn’t be enough, there could always be another. It was to discredit the idea of hope, to show up the Emissary of Hope as a loon, a crackpot, someone who went crazy just on the verge of success.
Singh had carried her own gun into the enclosure-nobody was searching World Leaders on their way to a concert. She would kill as many in the dome as she could, until the guards brought her down or she killed herself, all in full view of the television cameras, the ambassador of peace become the instrument of violence, betrayer of all she’d stood for and all the hope she’d inspired. Her eyes grew large now, recognizing the swelling of the music cue.
I felt Max suck all this out of me. He wheeled toward the dome and the few seconds left before it was too late. Lightning bolts burst inches away against another Kate shield. She advanced on Marat now, throwing shields at him, blowing his own blasts back in his face, forcing him to retreat.
Volkov remained focused on Singh. If the drones were down, he could accomplish the mission on his own-at this range, she couldn’t resist. He repeated instructions and made tiny gestures and she moved in lockstep, pulling her bag open, grasping for the revolver inside.
Max seemed fixated, just taking in the scene, for far too long. But then, all at once, he began to speak, in a language I’d never heard-and Singh flinched again and withdrew her hand from the bag. Volkov saw this and upped his tempo. The two voices echoed and clashed inside my head, each growing louder, more insistent, with repetition, like each hoped somehow to drown the other out.
Seconds to the climax, the music cue, the moment for killing. The tempo was pounding, the music rising to crescendo.
Singh was taut, quivering back and forth, fighting to reconcile the competing orders in her head. Volkov grimaced, his face grim and determined. I could hear his voice ordering her with ferocious energy: Take the gun out, Fire away.
Max’s voice, on the other hand, actually faded now. I looked over with alarm and saw his face struggling, suffering, full of confusion. He was muttering to himself, his voice repeating his indecipherable phrases like a mantra but also babbling and arguing back and forth. At first, I thought we were lost, until I realized I wasn’t hearing Max’s voice at all-his lips were moving but what I heard in my head, in that unknown language, was Singh’s voice speaking. Her face and Max’s were synchronized, the same emotions, the same convulsions and confusion passing back and forth, from one to the other.
Volkov was ordering her around; Max had gotten inside her, taking over the load and helping her fight back. And now I saw his determination begin to creep onto her face.
A moment later, Volkov realized what was going on-did he read it from me? — and his stare went murderous. His attention narrowed to Max and Max responded, the two locked together, throwing every ounce of energy into competing suggestions and opposing methods, into beating the other, all the imperatives of a lifetime come together.
All at once Max threw his hands in front of him, defensively, like he was being pushed. His face was confused and desperate and I thought, Volkov’s hit him with something he can’t counter. But Volkov’s shoulder was up, pushing back at some unseen force, legs pumping hard just to keep him upright. He was every bit as shaken and off-kilter as Max. Whatever was happening, it was new territory for the two of them.
Until that moment, the five of us fighting were the only ones who knew what was going on. A moment later, the audience on both banks of the river gasped aloud, loud enough to be heard over the shrieking orchestra as the whole affair went public, as all assembled saw what no one could later explain, the sight replayed on video two million times after it was all over.
Two lines of energy were converging on Singh-one from Volkov, the other from Max, each hell-bent on overwhelming the other. Now, all at once, that force went visible.
A seam opened in the air, like a thick snake writhing in the night sky, throwing off the raindrops, slipping back and forth as the two men battled for control. It slithered above the orchestra tent and suddenly the music warped
