'You're obviously on drugs.'
Jack stared at him. 'Why?'
The man's face twisted into a snarl. 'Because he's a no-good Arab piece of shit!'
No act there. The naked rage in his eyes said he was speaking what he felt.
'But why this particular Arab?'
The face went slack. Not going there. Hiding something.
'An Arab's an Arab,' he said.
Jack couldn't buy that. Something else going on here. Very good possibility the Order was involved. And if that was the case, then Jack needed to be involved.
As he slapped the tape back over the guy's mouth, he began twisting and kicking and making frantic noises.
'What's that? Take off the tape?'
The guy nodded.
'Why? You're not telling me anything. I think we'll let you marinate awhile. Maybe you'll be feeling more loquacious in a few hours.'
As the guy made all sorts of protesting sounds, Jack slipped the sheet back over his face.
Needed to find a way to make him open up.
He'd come up with something.
17
'Christ, it's cold,' Russ said, hugging his arms around him as the wind off the water cut through his coat.
He was surprised he could feel cold at all after all he'd had to drink.
This Belgiovene guy was all right. This morning he'd explained all the intricacies of getting his parole modified to allow him back online. Cruel and unusual punishment, banning him from the Internet for ten years after his release. Russ didn't tell him he was already online under various identities. He'd be FUBAR without the Net, but the risk of discovery hung over him like the sword of Damocles. If word got back to his parole officer, some hard-ass judge could lock him up again. Yeah, it might be federal soft time, but time was time. Outsiders called them country clubs. Screw them. The two years he'd spent inside had sucked. Royally. He'd come this close to offing himself.
Belgiovene had dropped him off home and then picked him up later for dinner. They wound up at Peter Luger's in Williamsburg for the best porterhouse he'd ever had-and more wine than he usually drank in a month.
Then they'd come here, to the Chelsea Piers.
They weren't really piers anymore. Everything but. Huge warehouselike structures housed shops, restaurants, dining halls, tennis courts, nightclubs-anything that might entertain or distract anyone at any time.
Belgiovene said, 'As I told you, we're to meet the U.S. attorney outside here, and then we'll go up to the space we've rented for the next project.'
Russ stood at the water's edge and stared at the lights of New Jersey across the Hudson. What was he looking at? Hoboken? Jersey City? He knew they were over there somewhere, but they were just names. Who cared which was where? They were in Jersey.
'Do we have to meet him right on the waterfront? There's gotta be a place that's out of the wind. I mean, like, is all this secrecy necessary?'
'It was his request. It's a touchy thing, messing with a federal judge's ruling. We should accommodate him, don't you think?'
'I suppose.'
Belgiovene pointed down at the rippling surface of the river. 'Look. Lights underwater.'
Russ didn't see anything, so he leaned forward. He felt a hand press against his back and then he was falling. He hit the water and went under.
Cold-colder than any cold he could ever imagine. Colder than interstellar space.
He fought to the surface and saw Belgiovene standing above him, watching.
'Help! Help me!'
The guy did nothing. Just stared.
Panic lanced through him. What was going on here? Was he crazy?
Well, Russ would show him. He could swim. He'd been a pretty damn good swimmer in his day.
But his clothes were dragging him down. And the cold was paralyzing his muscles. He sank and clawed back to the surface. After gulping air, he tried to shed his coat but went down again as he struggled with it. This time, despite his best effort, despite the panic adrenaline coursing through his arteries, he couldn't make it back to the surface. His arms felt like lead. Legs too. Wouldn't respond.
A great lethargy came over him, and with it, a strange sort of peace. His oxygen-starved brain kept asking the same question, over and over.
Why?
With a sob he exhaled what he knew was his last breath.
18
'Are we ready?'
Ernst dropped his glass of water. It shattered in the sink. He turned, knowing who he would find. He knew that voice. But the kitchen was empty. He stepped into the living room/dining room area of his apartment.
The One stood in the far corner. He looked relaxed, his hands loosely clasped before him.
Ernst felt sweat break out all over his body. These unannounced appearances always rattled him. The man- well, he was something more than a man-had an unsettling ability to enter and leave rooms without warning, without a sound.
'Yes, sir. We are.'
The One clasped his hands behind him and began to wander the living room at a leisurely pace… like a shark in a tank. He was dressed in his usual dark business suit. He had adopted his current, somewhat Hispanic appearance last summer: slim frame, soft features, darkened skin tones, mustache. He had never honored Ernst with an explanation, probably never would. Whatever the reason, he'd maintained the look. He stopped pacing and fixed Ernst with his abysmally dark eyes.
'Will it work?'
The dreaded question.
'I believe it will bring down the Internet.'
'And that will extinguish the Lady?'
'The lore says she must be slain three times. The first death was accomplished by another hand.'
The One's eyes gleamed. 'Yes. That upstart mutant in Florida unknowingly aided us. She might have proven to be an asset, but she was impossible to control.'
Ernst knew little of this, had gleaned only bits from passing references to the incident. Now was not the time to ask for more.
'I understand those circumstances were unique. Since they were not reproducible, we turned to the Fhinntmanchca.'
'Yes. But that failed.'
Ernst wanted to shout that it didn't fail-not completely-but held his tongue.
'Only because the noosphere was too strong.'
'Will this succeed?'
'Yes, I believe so, yes.'
